Chapter Text
No young man, no matter how great, can know his destiny. He cannot glimpse his path in the great story that is about to unfold. Like everyone, he must live and learn. And so it will be for the young warlock arriving at the gates of Camelot, a boy that will in time father a legend. His name — Martin.
***
White, lordly, perennial walls of Camelot stand out from the calm rustic scenery. Long motley flags flutter in the wind. The city looks gorgeous from afar. And here, standing just a few miles away from his new life, Martin could finally smile.
Martin was, well, a nobody. And a little bit of wizard, but only a little bit! He spent a week traveling to escape from Ealdor, the little village he grew up in, located in the north of Camelot in the lands of Mercia — lofty kingdom reined by king Alfonso Prieto, famous for hunting down mercenaries and bandits, who pillaged the lands before he came to power.
Martin stopped running only after he crossed the border with Camelot and now, he was finally free. Most of his journey laid through the woods, in a desperate attempt to avoid main roads and slavers, however when he was still about a day away from the pristine white walls of Camelot, farmhouses and fields started appearing here and there. Martin even stopped at an inn, spending half of his coins on a decent dinner and warm bed.
Sun is shining, birds are singing and Martin is making his way through the outer walls, right into the inner city. There are two guards on the sides of a wide arch, and when he passes, one of them greets him when he notices a wave of Martin’s hand.
Martin has never heard so many sounds at once: the clatter of horse’s hoofs on the paved paths, lively screams of kids chasing each other, the hubbub of the people talking, bargaining, and laughing. He is so awed that he stops right in the middle of the gates, smiling widely, taking in the scene before him. The city looks alive! Completely different from sleepy, forgotten Ealdor. Some man crashes into him because of his stupor and Martin just smiles when the merchant starts cussing him.
He follows the curves of narrow streets, trying to find his way through mules, chickens, goats roaming freely inside the crowd of people trying to get into the upper town. He comes across a market, standing on the square right before the bridge. It smells amazing. There are wooden stalls occupying all of the square, with rows upon rows of fresh produce. Vegetables and fruits colorful, their glossy sides basking in the warm sunlight. He passes in front of the stall with forest berries, stealing a handful of small plump blueberries when the vendor is distracted.
He eats the berries while crossing the monolithic bridge, six men standing guard next to the opened metallic gates leading to the upper town. The courtyard shines brightly, reflecting the morning sun from the polished white stones that seem to be everywhere he looks. He passes the long wooden stables, weaponry guarded by two men in red cloaks, and follows the noise that seems to be coming from the left.
There is a square, bigger than the one in the lower town, and it is flooding with people of different status. Most of the crowd is made up of paupers and peasants, who came there for the short spark of entertainment in their punishing, challenging lives. Martin can, however, see several noblemen standing closer to the center of the square, dressed in garments of such value, that Martin could never even dream to afford a single thread of the silk and velvet fabric.
In the center of the square, he sees a man, hands and legs tightly bound together, standing half-naked on the plank pedestal. Behind him, a torturer looms like a horrendous monster, head covered by a black hood, hands gloved. There is a small table next to him, knives laid out on the surface, blades shining, polished.
The guards on the walls blow the horns, the drums creating a funeral-like rhythm.
“Let this be a lesson to all,” Martin looks up and there, on the balcony stands the most beautiful man he has ever seen. Regal features, dignified posture, the way his long fingers rest on the hilt of his sword. His appearance screams only one word — powerful. And then Martin notices the golden crown sitting atop his short dark curls, the iron chainmail, and the red cloak, skillfully forged armor on his right side — covering his heart and the dominant hand, and the gorget around his neck with a small golden dragon — a royal crest of Camelot. This is the king.
The young warlock stares so intensely that he misses the name of the half-naked man, but the crowd cheers loudly and the sound distracts him from thoughts of the unearthly beauty of the king.
“…Found guilty of the secret use of charms and magic. And according to the laws of Camelot, I, Andres De Fonollosa, consider him worthy of death through the thousand cuts. I am a just and fair king but there can only be one punishment for witchcraft — death.”
Martin watches horrified as the king motions with the gloved hand and the torturer slashes for the first time. The blade just barely licks the skin of the man’s shoulder blades, his shriek dying on his lips, the sound outvoiced by the quickened beats of the drums.
The warlock turns away on the fifth slash, the wound on the man’s forearm leaking blood. Martin closes his eyes trying to calm his beating heart — he panics because he never would have imagined how such a beautiful man can be so cruel. He thinks about what would happen if Andres ever learns that Camelot has just replenished its’ supply of wizards. He imagines himself standing in the place of this man, wrists, and ankles raw, aching all over, squinting after not seeing sunlight for days in dungeons, hunger making his belly stick to his spine. He imagines the crowd laughing at his pain-filled cries, the king clapping from the balcony, smiling delightfully when he sees his despair. He imagines the last thing he will see after finally becoming one with the magic that created him, birthed him into this world, would be the satisfaction blazing in his dark hazel eyes.
“When I arrived in this kingdom chaos reigned here.” Fonollosa begins his speech again and Martin finds himself drawn in by the sound of his husky low voice. “But the people and I banished the magic and today starts we will have a feast to mark the tenth anniversary of the capture of the Great Dragon and Camelot’s liberation from the clutches of magic. Let the celebrations begin!”
The king smiles, holding his hands in something that resembles an embrace, as if to signify the importance of the event and turns to leave the balcony, the guards behind him holding open the dark oak doors with stained glass inserts.
Suddenly there is a loud cry tearing apart the silence after the king's speech. The only sound is the torturer dragging off the dead body, shackles jingling, blood staining the white paved tiles of the square.
There is a woman standing close to the pedestal, people backing away from her like the Red Sea. She looks ancient, the hair white and dry like straw, wrinkles on her face reminding him of folds on the dresses of the rich. Her face is a grimace of despair.
“There is only one evil in this kingdom and that is not magic, it is you. Your hate, anger. You took my son away from me,” she points at the pedestal, fingernails long and cracked. “And I swear — before the end of this feast, you will join me in my grief. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son.”
“Cease her.” Orders a king, and almost hides the way his gaze became alert, the worry lines deepen the wrinkles around his mouth and between his eyebrows. Almost.
The woman, however, doesn’t allow any of the guards armed with halberds to come near her — she shrieks for the final time, clutches a medallion tightly in her fingers, and disappears with a few uttered words.
Martin is enchanted by the sight of magic used freely in public. The king leaves the balcony in quick, self-assured strides. And one of the stained-glass windows next to the balcony closes with a clang of the brassy door hinges.
Agata strolls away from her bedroom window. This time Andres has surely crossed a line. She needed to find him — surely in high spirits after the execution and give him a piece of her mind. But first — breakfast already brought in by Raquel, her maid.
***
Martin feels disturbed when leaving the square and moving towards a tower to the right of the grand entrance. There are two guards stationed outside the door leading into this side of the castle.
“Excuse me,” Martin asks. “where can I find Mirko, the Court Physician?”
One of the guards points at the door behind him and lets him inside. He wanders through a colonnade, stopping at the spiral staircase and carefully going up, making sure to keep himself where the steps are the widest. In the hallway, there is a small sign with the “Court Physician” carved in elegant handwriting. Beneath the letters, there is an arrow pointing to the left.
He walks more, occasionally meeting maids with clean linen in their hands, servants with silver food trays stacked with meat and vegetables and small children running through the hall.
At last, he comes across a huge wooden door, the sign on the right replicating the one he saw before, but without the arrow. He slowly opens the heavy door; hinges creak a little when he pushes it just enough to fit inside.
He stops dead in his tracks.
The room looks interesting, to say the least. There are several sturdy tables inside, all of them except one (which seems to be the dining table) are covered with bundles of herbs, strange artifacts, boxes filled with glass flasks and jars. A small cauldron sits proudly on one of the tables and something gurgles inside of it, the smell making his eyes water. Further upon there are dozens of ceramic pots with herbs and little flowers peeking over the reddish sides, basking in the direct sunlight from one of the small windows. There are shelves lining every single wall, some of them mounted, some of them standing. But all of them are covered in books. Old, battered spines with shiny golden letters in the unknown language scream ‘Magic’ and if Martin didn’t know better he would have assumed that Mirko heals his patients with spells.
There is also a second floor, with even more bookcases lining the walls, and several shelves stacked with filled jars, and vials — the colors of the glass ranging from white to green to brown.
Mirko stands with his back turned to him, humming a tune, the man seems to be lost deep in his thoughts, so when Martin loudly clears his thoughts, Mirko startles, turns around and drops the fragile green vial.
But it never reaches the ground.
The gold in Martin's eyes shines brighter, his hand outstretched, fingers tense. The vial slows down, softly falling on the bed beneath Mirko.
The physician looks at him, eyes wide with surprise. He quickly collects himself, drags the ladder closer to him, and climbs down.
“What? What did you just do?” Mirko grabs his hand, clutching his wrist tightly in his fingers.
“Talk.”
“I–I don’t know what happened.” Nice try, Martin.
“If anybody notices that…” The man begins again, his accent sounding foreign to Martin’s ears.
“No, no, that wasn’t me. It was...” And one more nice try.
“It was you. Where did you learn to do this?”
“Nowhere.”
“And how did you learn to conjure?”
“No how.”
“Did you even study?”
Martin indistinctly answers, the tight hold on his wrist diverting all his attention. The pain from the tight hold sobering.
“Answer me.” Mirko screams in his face, his face contorted in anger, brows furrowed and mouth resembling a thin line.
“I never studied, and nobody taught me.” Martin finally manages.
“You’re lying!”
“Hey, cut it out, big guy. I am telling the truth. I was born with this. And if you don’t trust me then that is surely your problem, not mine, alright? Also, can you release your bear hold? I can’t feel my fingers and my wrist seems to be turning purple.”
Mirko instantly deflates, his expression changes from angry to apologetic, and he finally releases Martin’s hand, his gaze filled with regret.
“I am sorry.” He says. “Here,” he grabs a jar from one of the tables, its contents looking like some kind of a salve. He unscrews the lid and the minty smell fills warlock’s nostrils. “this is a soothing balm; I will apply a bit to your hand and in an hour, you will be as good as new!”
Mirko’s hands are big, calloused but gentle while he carefully rubs the balm on the red skin. Martin wonders how a guy like this could end up as a court physician but deems the question inappropriate and stays silent.
“Who are you?”
This question Martin was ready for. He grabs an envelope from the inner pocket of his old jackets and hands it over to the physician. Mirko seems hesitant to open it.
“I am Martin, Olivia’s son.”
“Olivia’s son? But you were supposed to arrive on Wednesday.”
“It is Wednesday today.”
“Oh.” Mirko looks genuinely surprised and they stand in the awkward silence for a few moments. Then the man walks to the other side of the room, cleans his hands in the water basin, and dries them with a towel hanging from his leather belt.
The healer picks up the glass vial still lying on his bed and dusts it off.
“Cowbane poison. Glad it didn’t break.” The man rubs his finger over a small paper with a black skull drawn on it. He then points to the small door on the other side of the room, with three steps leading to it.
“This will be your room. You better leave your belongings here now — we have a long day ahead of us.”
Martin smirks, the motion lifting just one side of his mouth. He starts walking towards the room when he turns around sharply and asks the most important question.
“Will you tell anyone of what happened?”
“Of course not.” Mirko sighs tiredly as if this was obvious from the start.
Well, Martin learned the hard way that blindly trusting someone with a vital knowledge can get him killed.
Trust but verify.
***
Agata spends her morning training on of the equipped grounds, the straw dummy wobbling with the force of her strikes. There is a sharp sound behind her, and she spins around, sword ready.
“No need to be so angry, Agata.” The king says. “You didn’t join me for breakfast in my quarters, why?” Andres sounds surprised, hurt even, lips in a thin line, disapproving.
“Don’t want to share my meals with a butcher. Andres, I understand your hate towards magic, and what it did for your family, but you are becoming much worse than the evil you seek to destroy. If this continues, Diego won’t have a kingdom to reign in.” She looks away, the beaten image of a man forever imprinted in her mind, on the back of her eyelids when she closes her eyes. “Poor mother.”
“Just punishment for a crime. Hag should have known better than to teach her children magic.”
“You will never understand how it feels to lose the only child, you bastard.” Agata screams, furious, a red veil obscuring her vision, a lump in her throat, saliva forming viscous clumps. She sticks the sword into the ground — shining blade cutting through vibrant glass like butter, ornate hilt wobbles a bit — and storms off, ordering the stable boys to equip her chestnut mare, Nairobi.
***
Martin spends the stuffiest hours of the morning in the castle, the centuries-old stone walls giving off the blissful chill. The breeze also sometimes finds him, when some servant sneaks outside for a short break, the wooden doors opening and closing, letting the wind rustle his clothes and hair.
He runs from one assignment to another, Mirko making him a delivery boy to solely focus his attention on the brewing an antidote for one of the small villages on the outskirts, suffering from a plague.
Lady Catherine and Lord George thank him for his troubles, and he heads off to find Radko, court physician’s brother. Sir Radko is one of Andres’ knights, the elite unit obeying only the orders of the king. To become a knight one should be fearless, gallant, and courageous. And noble. And a total asshole it seemed like. Martin couldn’t imagine someone who would be ready to fight for the cruel king of Camelot.
He goes to find training grounds, where the knight should be training with the others. The amount of times Martin skips the turn or ends up in a dead-end makes even himself laugh, and after ending up in the kitchen, he asks one of the maids (he shudders on the inside when before asking for help — but there is no other way). He deliberately passes “chickens” endlessly blabbering about something between themselves, and finds a maid returning with a tray.
The woman looks gorgeous, her long hair braided with beige ribbons, her dress looking poor but trim.
“Hey.” He greets her, helping the maid to empty the tray from dirty dishes.
“Hello.” The woman answers, smiling.
“I am Martin. The apprentice of the court physician, Mirko. Can you help me?”
“What can I help you with? I am Raquel, the handmaid of Agata, the king’s right hand.”