Something about him was unsettling. His presence, his blank stare, his gruff voice, perhaps? Emery was unsure what exactly it was that was making him uncomfortable but chose to ignore it for the sake of his wife’s health.
The elderly man rested the back of his hand against the unconscious queen’s forehead.
“She will not last the week, I fear.”
Emery stood up to face the man. “I thought you said you could save her?”
“I can.” His blue lips barely moved as he spoke.
Emery nodded. “Very good, then.”
“However, my methods are somewhat… unorthodox.”
Emery did not care. If what the old man said was true and he could save Sirillia when no one else could, then it would be worth it.
“What do you need from me?” Emery asked.
The old man paused before speaking. “I will need space to work.”
Emery nodded, considering areas within the castle that were open and free from distraction. “You are welcome to use the undercroft beneath Alderhall.”
“There is more.”
“What else do you require?”
“Children.”
Emery swore he misheard the physician. “Pardon me?”
The elderly man looked back at him. “I will need children to help cultivate an antidote. It matters not where they come from; you can get some orphans from the Gutters for all I care.”
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Emery laughed angrily. “I will have you punished for wasting my time and jeopardising the queen’s health.”
“I never joke.”
Emery planted his hands on his hips. “What is your name?”
“They once called me Impatus Rumanos.”
“‘They’?”
“The Magister’s Imperium.”
Emery squinted at the old man. His name sounded familiar. Impatus Rumanos. Had he heard it somewhere before? What in the Creator’s grace is this fool trying to accomplish here?
“Well, what shall I call you now, then?”
The old man raised a sharp eyebrow. “Some call me the Enlightened One. The Winged Death. But I go by the common name of Morpheus.”
“You were a Magister?”
Morpheus faced the queen once again, still lying in her bed. He raised a wrinkled hand over her face.
Emery stormed towards him. “What do you think you are…”
But he was stopped in his tracks by a magnificent sight.
White tendrils began to flow out from Morpheus’s hand, starting small but steadily growing longer, down onto Sirillia’s skin. They radiated white light, wriggling like worms before making contact with her red-hot flesh.
As each tendril touched the queen’s face, Emery noticed that her skin began to change colour. Her paleness began to dissipate beneath each spot of contact.
Emery stood in awe by what he was witnessing. As the dozens of tiny tendrils gently caressed Sirillia’s skin, the life seemed to slowly come back to her. They radiated a soft, angelic glow as they shifted and flowed. Her skin tone eventually shifted from pale to a much healthier colour.
“What… what is this?” Emery stuttered, the white light illuminating against his face.
Morpheus turned his head proudly, recalling the tendrils back into his hand until they disappeared. “That, King Emery, is just a morsel of what I can offer you, to save your wife’s life.”
Emery was completely mesmerised by what he had witnessed. His eyes still stung from the glow of the tendrils, and his heart was beating out of his chest with excitement.
“You can save her?” Emery repeated, falling to his knees before the robed man.
“I will save your wife’s life. I am the only one who has the power to.”
Emery began to sob, bringing his hands together to signify his gratitude and emotional shock.
Sirillia would live. His wife, the one woman he had ever loved, his gracious, intelligent, beautiful wife and mother to his children. She would finally be rid of this horrific illness.
“But…” Morpheus began.
Emery’s lip quivered. He lifted his gaze towards the towering figure, consumed by fear, grief, and relief all at once in an overwhelming mix.
“B-b-but?”
Morpheus sneered. “I will do this for you. But you will need to do some things for me in return, before I can begin culturing a cure for your poor, dying wife.”
Emery bowed multiple times, willing to do anything he was asked to save Sirillia from this horrific fate. The last bow he made, his crown came tumbling off his head, clanging against the rug at Morpheus’s feet and rolling away against the stone floor.
“Anything you ask,” Emery begged, taking no notice of his crown as it tumbled away. “Anything.”
Morpheus knelt, facing the king at eye level. His white eyes were almost glowing, as if staring straight into Emery’s soul.
“You will bring me the children I need. As many as I require,” Morpheus said sternly.
Emery nodded. “Children… yes, I can get you some children.”
“Not “some”. I need more than some.”
Emery knew not what children would be needed for. Extra labour, or smaller working hands, perhaps? If it meant curing this deadly disease, then it was worth trying. Morpheus appeared to know exactly what he was talking about.
“You will declare war against the kingdom of Caldaea,” Morpheus stated.
“I… what? Why?” Emery asked, suddenly confused. What did that have to do with anything?
“Asking questions will only serve to delay what little time your wife has left.”
Emery closed his eyes, trying his best to think, to work all of this out. But nothing made sense to him. Nothing about this seemed real.
We are practically at war anyway with the Seynards. What harm will come from making it official?
Emery sighed, before agreeing to the second condition made by the enigmatic Morpheus. “I will declare war on Caldaea.”
“And,” Morpheus said, standing back up and glaring at the king who was begging at his feet, “you will find me an ancient book, one of great value to
