Conroy: The Prophecy

Reaching into his bag, Quin Conroy brought out a small bottle of blue liquid. As he pulled off the cap, he instructed the boy to drink the entire contents. As the boy was forcing down the liquid, the alchemist busied himself with making a splint, ripping a stretch of fabric from his tunic sleeve and using nearby twigs to immobilize the boy’s arm.

“You will still be in some pain,” Master Conroy admitted. “The elixir will ease the pain, though. Don’t move the arm.”

“Thank you, Master Conroy,” Aislinn said, bowing her head slightly.

“My pleasure,” Master Conroy replied. He smiled, peering at the landscape behind her. “I am here to see your father. Where can I find him?”

“He’s attending to some of the servants working in the fields,” Aislinn answered, pointing behind her back.

As Master Conroy was walking past the stables, he heard someone whisper his name. A shadowed figure slipped into the stables, unseen by all except the alchemist.

“You know we are not suppose to speak,” Master Conroy whispered as he approached the figure who had retreated to one of the stalls.

“I heard you were coming to see the chieftain,” the man in the shadows replied. “I thought it safer to speak to you here than to risk being seen near your workshop.”

“Very well.” Master Conroy waved one hand in annoyance. “Get on with it.”

“My master received your message. He wants to know how sure you are.”

“The child is in this generation. I am sure of it.” Master Conroy crossed his arms, already becoming impatient.

“We know the prophecy states that the child would have seven siblings,” the man stated, “but there have been eight children born to previous chieftains. How do you know the child is among us today?”

Master Conroy uncrossed his arms, placing his hands on either side of his waist. Stiffening his jaw, he replied, “I grow tired of your master’s constant questioning.” There was a moment of silence as the alchemist calmed himself. “The prophecy is quite clear that the child would have six brothers and one sister. That particular mix has not existed since the time when the prophecies were being written.”

“Then, it is time for a special elixir to be made.”

“Hold that thought.” Master Conroy held up his hand, his palm facing the stall. “Your master has not agreed to my terms.”

“Your price is too high,” the man retorted.

“My price is only one extra silver piece than what I would receive from the chieftain over the course of ten cycles, a fair price since I would obviously lose the chieftain’s business.”

“But, you would have my master’s business from then on,” the man reasoned.

“Possibly,” Master Conroy admitted, “but there would be no guarantee. No guarantee, no elixir!”

“Perhaps you will change your mind,” the man said and left the stables without another word spoken.

“Hardly,” Master Conroy said to himself as he continued his trek to the fields.

The chieftain did not greet the alchemist when he caught sight of him. He said simply, “I will no longer be in need of your services.”

“I beg your pardon.” Master Conroy leaned back slightly, stiffening his shoulders.

“I believe my statement was quite clear.”

The two men stared at one another for a moment, both of their expressions blank. Master Conroy eventually frowned. “Why?” he asked.

“It has come to my attention that there is a reason why you send your apprentice here instead of coming here yourself.”

Master Conroy remained silent for a moment, waiting to see if the chieftain would elaborate. When no more was said, he turned around and left, replying with his back to the chieftain, “Very well.”

The End

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