The Magical Book of Wands

by Raven M. Williams

  “You know,” he told me as I cleaned his bruises and bound his ribs, “dragon blood has healing power.”

  “You already have dragon blood within you,” I said.

  “But you could give me more. Do to me what you did to Lord Hei. For me it would be healing, not burning.”

  “Where’s the vial?” I asked. “The one you were using on me. Take some for yourself.”

  “There’s not enough.”

  “There’s still a swallow or two left, surely.”

  “No. I mean in the whole world. There’s not enough dragon blood left in the whole world for me to waste what little we have on me. But you could change that, Laela! I saw your blood as it ran from your mouth. It shimmered like the true blood of a real dragon, not the watered-down version that I and the rest of us are.”

  “So what?” I asked. “Are you going to milk me for my blood?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. “No, of course not, Laela, of course not!” said Joki, a little too late.

  “Very well,” I said, after another uncomfortable silence. “Hand me that knife.”

  My wrists were still only half-healed, and I did not want to give Joki more than a drop of my blood anyway. I pricked my thumb and placed it in his mouth, and he sucked it as eagerly as a babe at the breast until I pulled it away.

  “Go to sleep now,” I told him, binding up the cut. “Sleep is healing. I will keep watch in case they come for us.”

  Joki fell asleep without even attempting to object. I sat by the fire and looked out into the darkness.

  WHEN MORNING CAME, Joki arose fresh and hale as a man in the first flush of youth, and helped me into the cart, where I shivered and shook and gripped the sides, convinced I was flying or falling. My fever lasted all that day, and the day after that and the day after that. When it broke, the wounds on my wrists were gone as if they had never been, and my strength was the same as it had always been, no lesser, but no greater either.

  “Was it all for nothing?” I asked Joki, looking at the smooth tan skin of my wrists. “Was all that pain and fear and change for nothing?”

  “The blood is still within you, Laela,” he assured me. “Something like that always leaves its marks. The change has already taken place, and you will never be the same person you were before, even if you no longer bear the signs on your skin. It is still within you, and you will carry it with you forever.”

  “I will,” I agreed, and got out of the cart and walked beside it on the uphill in order to spare Tähti my weight.

  We climbed and climbed and went over passes where winter had long left autumn behind, and down into deep dark valleys that had an evil shadow to them even at midday, and wound back and forth on serpentine paths barely wide enough for our cart, watching as the rocks we dislodged went tumbling down into the depths below.

  One day, when the air was keen and thin and smelled of snow and danger, we came to a little stone settlement in a small cleft between high peaks. There was a gate across the path, and a man stepped out of the squat tower that was guarding it.

  “Joki,” he said. “Whom have you brought us?” He squinted at me. “Pretty isn’t enough,” he said. “They have to have the blood too, to be allowed up there.” He waved at a long line of stone stairs, leading off into heights hidden from our eyes.

  “Show him, Laela,” said Joki, and handed me the dragonbone wand. I twirled it between my fingers, feeling its warm lightness, like a living feather, straining to fly away and take me with it.

  “I see,” said the man. This time his squint had an air of respect, and he stepped back and opened the gate. “Welcome to Dragon’s Forge,” he said.

  About the Author

  E.P. Clark starting writing fiction as soon as she deigned to learn to read, which was not particularly early—she spent a good deal of her childhood doing more important things, such as pretending to be a unicorn. Slightly later, she wanted to be a world-class equestrian. But, much to her surprise, the heavy finger of fate pointed her way and she ended up moving to Russia, which led, very circuitously, to her earning graduate degrees in Russian from Columbia University and UNC-Chapel Hill, and her current employment teaching Russian at Wake Forest University, along with some odd travel opportunities, such as almost getting trampled by stampeding reindeer. She continued writing fiction throughout all this, however, and has had multiple short stories published, as well the four books in the Zemnian Series, which is shaping up to be a trilogy in seven volumes.

  Links:

  Website: https://epclarkauthor.net/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/epclarkauthor/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/Andreyev7

  The Wand Whisperer

  By: J. Steven Young

  Chapter 1

  For a magic wand, finding the right kind of wizard as a bond-mate is akin to picking the best pet. This wand-lore knowledge comes from countless centuries of experience as a magical instrument. And for me—Sparkle—choosing a wizard has become an endless cycle of disappointment.

  Once in a century or so, I have come across a magical talent worthy of bestowing my experience, knowledge, power, and—if I say so myself—understated elegance. I am an ancient wand, partnered over the centuries with many of the most accomplished of wizards, sorcerers, fairies, and the like. Sometimes I paired with some hopeless causes, but eventually, they became adequate.

  It is a matter of linking and balance of what both wand and wizard bring to the relationship.

  In times long forgotten by most, I would linger in a place, waiting for a new master to find and claim me. Now I sit in a case, on a dusty shelf, waiting for someone with enough talent and fortitude to touch me that I might measure their worth of my bond.

  "Perhaps today's visiting mages will present a passable match for me."

  "Would you please silence your haggard old handle," said a young new wand named Wizard's Bane.

  "You should listen to the voice of experience," I told the fresh twig of an upstart. "Experience is a dear teacher one should best learn from."

  If the cocky little stick had eyes, I'd have heard them rolling at my words from the other side of the room.

  "Just because you are old and been around the tree a few times, doesn't mean you know anything. Who would match you these days anyway? You're dull and shriveled enough for only an ancient wizard or frumpy hag or hedge witch."

  "Your lack of practical knowledge will not help any master you select. Your shiny new appearance will not substitute for the wisdom in my weathered surface or ancient core."

  "We shall see, granny," Bane said. "The doors are opening for a wand selection group now. Perhaps you'll find a tired old sorcerer to bond with today."

  I held little hope, now that I saw the procession of mages entering the shop. Petitioners from the Wand Guild began wandering the magical instruments room of the local magic shop where I resided. Young, and inexperienced, I relented to returning to my wait for a new partner. I prefer the term partner over master, for you never master a wand. It is a symbiotic relationship.

  "Sure, we work together, but I would be a waste on a meager talent," Bane boasted. He wiggled in his upright display clips, trying to get the attention of passersby. "Here are some decent mages with a sizable store of ability."

  Now it was I who rolled my imaginary eyes. "Bane, you are missing the point about having the right mix, ability, and knowledge. The partnership-"

  "Attraction," Bane started, "is the only necessary measure of compatibility. See how many of these mages are stopping to look at me? My polished and sleek exterior is far more desirable than your wrinkled and cracked old fossil of an appearance."

  Agist little shite-stick. I would have drained the sap from his wood then had I a proper bond with a wizard. "You'll soon find that the measure of a mage is not in the size of his wand, but the performance gained from experience and working together."

  I could tell Bane did not understand my little dig, he continued to drone on about hi
s own merits and attractiveness.

  "Oh, there are far too many mages looking at me to decide. I'll have to allow them a touch soon enough to begin a proper measure of their worthiness of my greatness."

  Mage after mage walked past, each curling their lip at me and complimenting Bane. I was used to being overlooked. In truth, I had not been keen on choosing a bond-mate in the last century or more, but it still hurt to be dismissed and looked past. Wand and Wizard had to pick one another.

  Chapter 2

  The Wand Guild certainly had a large number of petitioners this quarter. Four times a year, anyone with a touch of magical talent could enroll with the Guild to acquire a wand. The only certified methods were to be partnered with a wand through the trials the Guild created, or inherit a family wand.

  "Oh! Check out this line of young magic users," Bane said. "There has to be at least one in the mix that can take me on."

  For the love of wand-lore, I thought. The entitlement these young wands feel for themselves is maddening. I have no use for passing thoughts of time as measured by humanity, but the longer I listened to the prattling on from this pretentious little twig...well, I could weigh a moment as every grain of sand in the world.

  "Do shut up already."

  Bane stopped talking. "What's the problem granny? It's not like they can hear us."

  "You know nothing of the ways of Wizard and Wand," I told Bane. "You and your new magics and ways of thinking are nothing more than abbreviated uses on much older—proven—methods. You think that simply because you are all shiny and new, that you know all the ways of the magical universe and are entitled to anything you want."

  Bane managed to smirk within the wand impression he radiated my direction. "You said it. We have better ways of accomplishing what used to take more effort and training."

  "Shortcuts are no substitute for a full understanding of the magical arts and wand usage. You will find that failure to understand could be disastrous." I tried to explain the damage he could inflict on the mage he was paired with.

  Bane insisted he would be able to guide any mage of even moderate ability. "I would face any duel and survive to fight again."

  "Perhaps, but that does not mean your bond-mate would survive." I sent an image of ancient headstones from the last magical war. "The only participation trophy you'll get is an epitaph for your mage."

  "I will make my mage as powerful as I am. There is no failure option for me because I am the brightest wand in this shop."

  It's unfathomable that I too, was once that young and naive, but I was not so over-inflated and arrogant as to believe myself omnipotent. I needed to bring this young willow-whip down to earth.

  "I once felt I would be able to improve the abilities of a bond-mate," I told Bane. "It was painful for us both, and I earned many a crease in my wooden body for my efforts."

  Sparkles crackled along his handle as Bane laughed. "You must have experienced much pain and effort seeing the wrinkled and cracked state of your encasing."

  "Hey," I sparked back. "I earned every one of these wrinkles and creases; they indicate the power and ability I hold. I only wish you gain the insights you require to form creases of your own over time."

  "Eew! Why would I want to be all old-looking? I plan on staying smooth and sleek."

  I shook my imaginary head which translated to a slight twisting in my wand-stand. What a smooth-wand, I thought. Experience and knowledge accompanied the creasing of a wand. The more creases and wrinkles in the wood, the more potent and useful the wand's core.

  Our debate and resulting twitching and sparks drew the attention of a group of mages. As we watched them approach, Bane bantered on about who showed promise and those that would be a definite pass.

  "Look at this young lad," Bane said. He commented on the long hair bundled up on top of the mage's head. "See his hair up in a bundle on his head? That is the sign of a new thinker and might be worthy of my talent."

  "A hair-knob is no indication of prowess. The mage is too lazy to get a proper haircut. Next!"

  Bane studied the others walking by. A spirited little girl, hardly past her flowering, ran up to our case.

  She screwed her freckle-filled face up at the sight of my weathered appearance. "What an old wand," she said. "It must be as old as my nana."

  Older than you can imagine little fart, I thought. What is it with this generation of mages and wands? No respect for age and experience.

  "Maybe you should draw over some of the older mages browsing for a wand," Bane said. "Perhaps you fit better with someone close—someone nearer your age—you know what I mean."

  "Balance between Wizard and Wand does not come from age appropriateness or equal ability and magic." I was becoming a broken Victrola.

  The older mage that Bane pointed out fumbled past a display case filled with vials containing potions. Smoke billowed from the seams of the case door as concoctions began to mix. Only the quick response of the Wand Warden, Jarvis Winterbell, saved the shop from impending doom.

  "What is your name?" Jarvis—the shopkeeper and Wand Warden—asked the clumsy mage.

  "Dillard Muckledun, sir." The magician lifted his hand to shake with Jarvis, knocking another jar from the counter before Jarvis intervened—again.

  I looked at this mage. A man of middle age, thin and scraggly. He wasn't unkempt but could do with a proper cleanup and tailor for those baggy clothes and loose robes. For all the bookish looks that were charming I admit, he managed to present as an ogre in a glass shop.

  Bane snickered and sparked. "There's your perfect balance then Sparkle."

  Chapter 3

  There was no denying this Dillard Muckledun was a heated muddle—a definitive challenge to magic use—and perhaps more. There was a challenge implied from Bane that a balanced pairing would not be on par with two accomplished bond-mates. "Bane, this is not what-"

  "Oh, so your dribbling speech about balance and ability is not as solid an argument now in the face of this Dillard the Dullard?"

  I looked Dillard over again. I watched his eyes narrow as he approached Bane and myself.

  Dillard's head tilted as he looked Bane and me up and down. "Jarvis, did you hear something?"

  "Beside the results of your...what are you referring to?" Jarvis turned away, paying little attention as he continued to clean up Dillard's mess.

  "The wands," Dillard said. "Do they...talk?"

  That question earned my attention, and by the abrupt turn of Jarvis, he was inclined to listen.

  Jarvis joined Dillard before me. "There is lore surrounding the advanced bond of wand and wizard that alludes to a link deeper than the surface. No proof mind you, but I've always believed wands have some level of sentient properties."

  Not such a dullard, I thought. "Bane, I challenge you to find yourself a suitable mate. Prove your new ways are superior and I'll not preach to you again on the merits of experience. How about that young lady there with the fancy clothes and nose in the air like she smells something bad."

  "Ha, a female mage...are you serious?"

  "Oh you're sexist as well as arrogant," I said. "Bane you should-"

  "Fine," Bane acquiesced. He examined the sorceress closer and agreed. "I'll take the challenge. She seems well-abled enough, and there is an aura of confidence about her."

  The young lady pranced around, pushing her way past other mages. She bragged and preened about her abilities and how Daddy thought it time she obtained the most excellent wand money could buy.

  "She just described me exactly."

  He confused confidence with cockiness and privilege, but rather than argue further I needed to focus on the unsurmountable secondary challenge I was going to climb with this Dillard.

  While the young lady, Prudessa Bruxberry, selected Wizard's Bane—thinking it her decision instead of the wand's—I watched Dillard walk away. He started whispering to other wands, expecting them to talk back or respond in some way. When the others—knowing of mine and Bane's deal�
��did not respond to him, Dillard returned. I gave him the response he was not receiving elsewhere; I sent a spark of energy along my exterior and whisper to him my name.

  "Sparkle?" Dillard said. He lifted me from the case and twisted me around, examining me. Tilting me this way and that, he pointed me away reviewing my lines and balance—pretending he knew what he was doing.

  It felt a bit intrusive, as though I were a billiards stick, but I allowed it.

  Dillard looked at my case, seeing the nameplate was blank. "Is that your name, wand?"

  "No you dolt," Prudessa said. "That was the acceptance of your ownership from that rust-bucket of a wand."

  "That was rude," Dillard said without realizing he channeled my thoughts. "This wand is made from ancient Rowan wood it seems. It's quite rare, more than rare it is unfathomable to find a Druid Wand in this day and age."

  How did he know my lineage so intuitively, I wondered?

  "That dusty old thing?" Prudessa chided. "Even if it were what you say, I doubt there is an ounce of magic left in it." She moved a bit closer and squinted at me—nose in the air. "You suit one another."

  I watched Dillard look over at Bane and felt his undertone of envy. All bluster with no bite, I thought.

  "All bluster and no bite," Dillard said. He pointed at Bane's name placard. "Wizard's Bane? Seems a bit arrogant. You suit each other."

  Dillard heard me. That has not happened in longer than recorded time. Could he be more than appearance displays? Only a particular kind of mage can commune with a wand.

  Dillard lifted me to his nose. "Well Sparkle, either I'm crazy, or we are meant for each other."

  We shall soon find out together, I thought. Again Dillard had to hear me, but I fear his doubt was mounting.

  "Yep, definitely crazy. I'm talking to a stick." Dillard purchased a holster, quite lovely and likely cost all his pocket money, then headed off to the bonding exercises at the Guild.