The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  Tiberius turned around, smiled approvingly. “Quickly, son!”

  “Halt!” Thomas yelled, pursuing them.

  They swiftly moved inside the king’s private apartment.

  The trio found themselves in a large room. The thick richly decorated rug stretching from wall to wall muffled their footsteps as they entered. Heavy royal red drapes hung from the top of the two floor–to–ceiling windows. These had been pulled back and the windows hung open to allow a slight breeze to cool the room. The sparse furnishings included two writing desks and chairs made of a dark walnut wood.

  Orlynd was most impressed with the quartet of floor–to–ceiling shelves, filled with books on either side of a doorway at the far end of the room. He could only imagine the stories and information contained within them.

  The king, hearing the distraction, approached from another room, pulling on a long grey silk dressing gown with gold accents on the sleeves, and tying a belt around his waist. “What is the meaning of this?” He glared at his guard and sneered. His shoulder length curly brown hair was voluminous and slightly dishevelled. “Thomas, unless my memory has failed me, which it has not, I commanded you to keep the door locked.”

  The guard abruptly bowed to the king. “I am so sorry, Your Grace,” Thomas said, stammering, trying to re–gather his composure. “I told them you were not to be disturbed. I made no mistake in locking the door. It was the boy, sir. He is a warlock.”

  The king raised a hand and silenced Thomas. He quickly glanced over at the boy, and dismissed Thomas’s accusation. Turning his attention to Tiberius, he spoke with an assertive, no–nonsense tone. “Tiberius O’Brien. I thought I had made myself clear. You and your family were to return to Edesia immediately.”

  “Yes,” Tiberius said with an apologetic tone. “A thousand pardons, Your Grace. I wanted…”

  “I should have you locked up in the dungeons of Tarloch Castle for your insubordination. How dare you disturb me while I am in my private chambers!”

  Tiberius dropped to his knees and lowered himself to the ground, his oily black hair brushing the king’s shoes. “Forgive me Your Majesty! I beg of you. Please allow me to explain. I have found you a new advisor!”

  Francis eyed the sixteen–year–old boy standing behind Tiberius. “What is this mockery? Do you take me for a fool, Chancellor?”

  “No, Your Grace,” Tiberius answered nervously as he raised himself from the ground and kissed the king’s hand. “I assure you this is no jest.”

  Francis took in a deep breath, took another glance at the boy and studied his appearance. He looked nothing like the man standing beside him. He was thin, had ginger brown hair and deep piercing brown eyes. In fact, he reminded him more of himself when he was a young prince, minus the eyes and the hair.

  Could he be? Nay, it is impossible.

  The king’s heart took a sudden thump as he was instantly reminded of one of his beloved advisors, Celeste, who had been considered a confidant and a close friend before she had passed unexpectedly.

  This cannot be, yet the resemblance is uncanny. The boy’s patronage is unquestionable.

  Francis shot a sideways glance at Orlynd. He had to scrutinise him to discover the truth. “What is your name, boy?” the king inquired.

  “O…Orlynd, Yir Grace,” Orlynd replied between swallows. His throat closed up, preventing him from speaking. His breathing increased and sweat began to drip down the side of his face.

  The king’s eyes grew wide and his heart softened. He recognised the Lorritish burr of his former advisor, who was also from the nation of Lorrina. There could be no mistaking it now.

  “You are Celeste’s boy, are you not, Orlynd?” Francis asked.

  “Aye,” Orlynd confirmed, nodding his head. Orlynd didn’t see why the king asked him the question; all he knew was that his mother had once served as advisor to the king.

  The king turned in disbelief. He glanced upward, tears filling his eyes, recalling the smile on her face when she had informed him she was with child.

  You were so happy, and I was delighted for you. I will never understand why you chose to hide the real truth from me!

  Orlynd’s heart began to race. Had he offended the king?

  “Should I be rid of them, Your Grace?” Thomas questioned.

  “Leave us!” the king abruptly shouted, startling Orlynd.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Thomas bowed, speaking no further, and took his leave, shutting the door behind him.

  The king composed himself and turned to Tiberius. “You are certain the boy has the gift?”

  Tiberius smiled at Orlynd. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Sudden warmth filled the king’s heart. “Speak quickly and tell me everything you know,” the king commanded.

  Tiberius adjusted his collar. “Yes, well, I returned home after our last audience. I went into my study and found my son standing frozen, facing the wall, his eyes trancelike and fearful. A remnant of flames glowed in his pupils.”

  Francis folded his hands and let out a deep breath. “I want to believe you, but Celeste never had episodes such as this. If Orlynd is truly a soothsayer like you say, then he will have to prove it. The boy shall step forward.”

  Orlynd’s jaw dropped.

  How was he supposed to prove to the king he was a soothsayer? He couldn’t control it by sheer will. Being a soothsayer wasn’t a gift. It was a curse! He would fail. There was no way he could possibly prove it to either of them.

  He glanced back at his father with desperation.

  Tiberius whispered in his ear. “Tell his Grace, what you stated in the study, yeah?”

  Orlynd nodded, noticing the king was quickly growing impatient.

  “All right,” Tiberius smiled. “Go on then.”

  Orlynd hesitated to move.

  Tiberius responded by clearing his throat and nudging him forward.

  Orlynd’s heart raced. What if he couldn’t remember what he said? What if the king didn’t believe him? He so badly wanted to please his father. What if he let him down? He looked up into the face of the king.

  “Well? Do you have something to say to me or not, boy?”

  “A…aye, Yir Majesty,” Orlynd stammered. “S…sorry, Yir Grace.”

  “For God’s sake, spit it out, boy!”

  The king watched him intently.

  Orlynd closed his eyes and positioned his hands inside his brown robe. He blinked, lowering his head. Orlynd opened his eyes, raised his head and spoke confidently.

  “When dual warlocks ay royal blood reflect thair image, a time ay great peril will commence. Oan who is coerced will seek the betrayal ay power; the energy ay magic will serve the bearer who brings peace.”

  Francis paused, deep in thought.

  “Your Grace?” Tiberius said, questioning the king’s hesitation.

  “Never in the history of this kingdom has any member of the crown contained the blood of a warlock,” he said, dismissing the prediction. “I fail to see the relevance of this.”

  “With all due respect, sire,” Tiberius said. “I believe my son is delivering a message of warning. You know as well as I, it would not be difficult for a witch from the kingdom of Aracelly to conjure up an enchantment to use on you and your son without your consents!”

  “Silence!” the king snapped, his eyes blazing. “I do not seek your advice. I have already made a grave error allowing you to convince me to agree to the Vatican’s plan of purging Iverna of Magulians. The crown is in danger and my people believe I have gone mad! I will hear no more.”

  “I urge Your Majesty to re–evaluate!” Tiberius persuaded. “My son’s gift is real. Orlynd can help restore Your Grace’s honour.”

  “Tell me,” Francis hissed. “Are Orlynd and the Vatican going to pay for the ships and supplies I lost in order to eradicate the Magulians? I think not.” He had enough of Tiberius’s nonsense. “Chancellor, I will personally arrange for the next carriage to take you back to Edesia immediately. You can pass your w
isdom onto the Edesian church. You will never step forth in my castle again or heed my warning: I will not show you mercy. As for your son, Orlynd, I have decided…”

  Orlynd lowered himself to the ground as the king turned his back. “Ah beg ay yir forgiveness, Yir Grace!”

  The king stopped, shocked by Orlynd’s reaction. “Orlynd. Rise,” Francis commanded, waiting till the warlock stood back up. “Never throw yourself at my feet again. You need only bow.”

  Orlynd nodded, tearfully.

  Perhaps he has the gift or perhaps not. Time will unravel the truth, but keep him near in honour of Celeste, I shall. Francis thought to himself.

  “Orlynd O’Brien,” the king continued. “I appoint you as my new advisor. You shall serve my family just as your mother did.”

  Orlynd stared at the king with disbelief. “Thank yis, Yir Grace.”

  The king continued. “I will arrange new quarters for you here at court. You shall have everything you will ever need as long as you stay in my good graces. I will look to you as my conscience and as my friend. This is your home now.”

  Orlynd carefully listened to the king’s instructions.

  “As for your father, he must pay for his sins.” Francis glared at Tiberius. “He has shamed his family name. This is a burden you must also bear.” He turned back to Orlynd. “I am sorry. I know you already have lost your mother and your brother. Your mother was very dear to me, and I promise you, I will forever honour her memory. I am sorry you must lose your father now, too.”

  “Whit?” Orlynd uttered, frantically eyeing his father.

  The king turned, walked to the door of his private apartment and opened it. He looked into the eyes of Tiberius. “You are hereby exiled. Get out of my sight,” he said. He then addressed Thomas and ordered, “Take Chancellor O’Brien away.”

  “Father!” Orlynd shouted, his eyes wide in shock. He attempted to run towards him, but was halted by the king’s arm.

  “Your Majesty, I beg of you!” Tiberius yelled as several guards dragged him away.

  “Father!” Orlynd cried, tears rolling down his face, as he watched the scene unfold.

  “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!!!”

  POVEGLIA—THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY

  1238 CE

  When Mierta next became aware he found himself in a cramped room.

  Where am I? he wondered as he looked around, gathering his surroundings. What is this place?

  “You’re doing great, Mrs. McKinnon. It should just be one more push and your baby will be out,” stated the woman. Watching the scene in front of him, he realised she must be a midwife.

  Mother! Mierta thought, his eyes brightening, seeing his mother lying on a small bed in the centre of the room, towards the end of her delivery. He gazed around the room again. This must be one of the sick rooms in Poveglia, the sanatorium located in the kingdom of Aracelly. I remember Mother telling me I was born here so I would be born a warlock, and not a man.

  A man soon joined them at his mother’s side. He wiped a cool cloth over her brow.

  Father! Oh, Mother! Please, don’t ever leave us again!

  A loud wailing cry came from a new–born as he was lifted into the arms of his young mother and placed near her chest. The child grabbed onto a clump of the woman’s hair.

  The woman called Clarinda was visually pleasing to the eyes. She wore her long black hair in a twist to the side so it hung over her shoulder and caressed her breast. Her luscious red lips left any man with the desire to kiss them, and when she stared at someone, they felt as if her mysterious green eyes were peering through to their soul.

  “Mortain,” she said with a grin. “You have a son.”

  That’s me! I sure had a lot of hair then. Hang on, are those some blonde streaks in my hair?

  The court physician representing the kingdom of Vandolay leaned in and kissed the top of the child’s head. “He is beautiful, just like his mother. He has my hair, and your green eyes. What shall we name him?” He asked, his own hazel eyes betraying the pride he felt.

  Clarinda studied her son for several minutes. She spoke, “His life force is connected to this world like a river, bright yet unpredictable. He will accomplish things that shall surpass both our talents.”

  “Then, it is settled. We shall call him…Mierta.”

  As the scene began to fade into darkness, Mierta thought, No! Don’t take my Mother away from me again. No! Please! Mother!!!

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1238 CE

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, my boy!” Mierta heard his father’s voice, before the darkness lifted and the scene came into focus.

  Mortain turned in his chair towards the doorway, smiling. A quill was in one hand while his other hand was holding down a piece of parchment.

  “Thank you, father,” Mierta answered, furrowing his brow as he glanced towards the ground with uncertainty.

  “What is troubling you, my boy?” Mortain questioned, gesturing for his son to come closer.

  “I…” Mierta said, his heartbeat quickening.

  I remember this, Mierta thought. This just happened earlier today! I was worried how my father would react.

  “I need to ask you something,” Mierta said.

  “Of course, my boy.”

  I do not understand. Why I am being re–shown this? I was expecting to see something different.

  “Today is my twelfth birthday,” Mierta began, trying to convince himself not to be nervous.

  “Why, yes, it is,” replied Mortain with a smile.

  “It is an important year for a boy of my age, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Mierta nodded. He glanced up into his father’s face. “Then I need to ask for your permission. If Mum were still alive, I am certain she would have agreed.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking, Mierta?” Mortain asked, curving his eyebrows.

  I didn’t notice father looking at me like that before. He appears to be worried. I thought he wouldn’t have any knowledge of the Rite of Wands.

  “I request your permission to participate in the Rite of Wands. I wish to join the magical community.”

  There was a genuine look of fear in Mortain’s eyes before the scene faded to black once more.

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1260 CE

  AGAIN, THE scene changed. At first, there was nothing but darkness. Slowly a landscape was unveiled.

  The smell of smoke in the air lingered from a previous fire, but it didn’t drown out the smell of death.

  Blimey! Mierta thought between coughs. Where am I now? What’s going on around here? It smells terrible! Mierta gasped, seeing corpses starting to form in the scenery in front of him.

  There were hundreds of them. Bodies were lying on top of each other, thrown in oversized piles like they were nothing but animals. An abandoned wheelbarrow contained more bodies.

  A deadly plague called Shreya had ravaged the land of Iverna, leaving destruction in its path. The disease did not discriminate in whom it had consumed. Thousands of families had already been eliminated, and those who had been left behind were forced to bury their loved ones, only to become infected themselves.

  The image of a man’s brown boot appeared, and the sound of a shovel meeting fresh dirt was heard next. He lifted the dirt and tossed it aside before striking the earth again with his shovel. Leaning against it, he shifted a clump of thick brown hair out of his eyes before wiping his feverish brow with his arm.

  This man probably cannot hear me, but I wish he could tell me what happened here.

  Mierta watched the man examine his fingers and frown, noticing the greyish tone to his fingertips.

  A wet sounding cough escaped his lips. The ailing man appeared to be in his mid–thirties. He was wearing a long cream tunic and black breeches. Allowing the shovel to fall to the ground while another coughing fit took a hold of him, he breathed heavily; wheezing sounds could be heard when he attempted to take in a dee
p breath. When he was finished, he spit into the dirt and watched the blood seep in.

  This man is very ill, Mierta thought. If only there was something I could do to help him.

  The man continued to try to take in a deep breath, but it only brought on more coughs. He leaned over and waited for the fit to pass.

  “I have to get back to the cellar,” the man said to himself. “I need another potion. I reckon the one I made earlier should be cool by now. After, I shall rest. Yes, then I shall rest.”

  He sounds just like I do. Mierta thought, his eyes growing wide at the realisation. This is from my future, which means, this man is me!

  The man turned, took a step forward and stumbled. Attempting to reach out for something to keep his balance.

  What’s wrong with me? And where is everyone else? Is everyone dead?

  “No, no, please!” the man spoke out loud, gazing up at the sky, as if someone else was conversing with him. “I’m not finished yet. I still need to conjure up a cure for the Shreya.”

  Shreya? I’ve never heard of it. Maybe father will know. I must ask him later.

  The man made it back into his estate and began to walk down the stairs to the cellar.

  Blimey! I appear as if I’m about to pass out trying to get down those stairs. It would be rather unfortunate if I fell and hurt my back.

  Reaching a hand out to keep his balance, the man walked past three workbenches before he found the container holding his latest attempt at a remedy.

  What is that?

  The man held up the vial of liquid to his lips, drinking the concoction until he had fully consumed it. He set the empty container down on the workbench. There was a moment of fright in his eyes before his knees buckled underneath him.

  What’s happening? What’s going on?

  Mierta’s watched the man close his eyes and fall backward, landing on the wooden floor with a loud thud. There was nothing Mierta could do even as the man’s breathing increased then became shallower until it appeared to cease.