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“There will be a celebration soon,” he added. “For the Festival of Marzanna, of course, but also to honor some visiting dignitaries that we will be hosting from Liria. I plan to hold a grand ball in their honor to coincide with the spring festival.”
Arthur glanced at me, his gaze sweeping from head to toe, evidently taking in my dust-covered leathers and sweat-drenched hair. “You will dress appropriately while they are here. As befits the sister of a king. I expect you to attend the gala, despite your disinclination for crowds.”
“Of course. I was already planning to.” I knew Galahad was excited about the upcoming festival. The spring rites were in honor of Marzanna but they were also a rite of passage for those who entered temple service. The celebration was a time when new acolytes were officially accepted into the temple and were tested to see if they possessed any of the ancient magics. “But... Liria!” I was astonished. “I can’t remember the last time we had guests from Lyonesse.”
The capital city of Liria lay in the kingdom directly south of us, Lyonesse. A sun-drenched land of olive groves and vineyards. Or so I had read. Lyonesse was supposed to enjoy a vibrant culture, rich with music and dance and literature, where the various noble courts played host to traveling musicians and poets called troubadours.
Arthur nodded, but I could tell his attention had waned. “A diplomatic visit, of a sort. I will tell Kaye he may look forward to seeing you in the dining hall soon.”
He and his guards moved back towards the keep.
I stood for a moment, sweaty and exhausted and alone in the practice yard, then came to a decision. Things could not go on as they had been. Before I joined Kaye in the dining hall, I would pay a visit to the Master of Potions.
CHAPTER 10
The apothecary's laboratorywas a dimly lit room located deep in the bowels of the castle, accessible only by a narrow stone stairwell that wound its way down into the earth.
As I descended the ancient stone steps, the air was redolent with the scents of herbs and oils, mingled with the acrid smell of smoke from the various burners and furnaces that dotted the room.
The stone walls of the laboratory were lined with shelves. Some with books, others brimming over with jars, bottles, and vials of all shapes and sizes, each one containing its own precious mixture of powders, liquids, and herbs. I could see some jars filled with dried plants, their leaves and petals fragile and brittle. Others had more mysterious contents, with thick, syrupy-looking concoctions that shimmered strangely in the gloom.
At the center of the cavernous room was a spacious wooden work table, worn smooth by years of use. The table was cluttered with all manner of instruments and tools, from mortars and pestles to flasks and beakers.
In a far corner of the laboratory stood a wooden cabinet with a grated iron door and a heavy lock. I had never seen the cabinet opened before. I knew this was where the apothecary kept his most dangerous ingredients, those that were too rare or potent to leave out on the shelves.
Behind the table lay a broad stone hearth, its flickering flames casting long shadows over the room.
An elderly man with a white braided beard stood hunched over a cauldron, stirring meticulously. His nose was long and hawk-like, his skin weathered and creased. Contrary to the dusty and dingy setting of the laboratory, he wore a flowing robe made of a luxurious purple velvet embroidered with gold and silver threads in patterns of the constellations. The robe was cinched with a wide leather belt equipped with pockets and pouches and hooks from which various vials and small bottles dangled.
“Morgan, my dear,” the old man said without raising his head from the cauldron. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Have you?” I took my foot off the last step and moved into the room, going to stand near the wooden table. I was surprised to hear this, but then, for someone who spent his life mostly below the earth, the old man had an uncanny knack of knowing things. Sometimes even before they happened.
“Oh, yes. I’ve been expecting you to visit me for at least three months now.” He chortled. It was a rather rusty sound. As if he was unaccustomed to laughing or talking much, which was probably true. I did not think he received many visitors.
“I’m sorry,” I said ruefully, thinking of my own recent bout of solitude and how isolating it had been. “I should have come much sooner.”
