The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  Get up! Get up, please! This can’t be the way things end. No! Mierta screamed before all went dark.

  DRACONIERA MOUNTAIN—

  THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY

  1238 CE

  WHEN MIERTA awoke, he was back at Draconiera Mountain, in a sitting, yet somewhat slumped–over position, his back pressed against the pedestal. He blinked, still trying to fully awaken from the trance.

  As soon as he recognised his surroundings, he gasped. There was no evidence of blood on the ground. He then quickly examined his chest, again finding himself unscathed.

  Blimey! It was a hallucination. But, what happened? Did I really die? Mierta wondered.

  “Well done, young warlock,” Lord Kaeto announced. “I’m sorry you had to experience such torturous dreams, but it was necessary. You have successfully been evaluated and your essence is now synced.” He turned to Dragomir. “Thank you for your assistance. I’d like to speak alone with Mierta. Off you go now.”

  Dragomir bowed and made his way back through the doors he first appeared from.

  “You mean I passed, I succeeded? I can be part of the magical community now?” The smile on Mierta’s face quickly faded as he recalled the sad expression on the dragon’s face before he had lost consciousness. “You…you already knew what I was going to see,” Mierta stammered. “My future…I died.” He wondered if he had possibly mixed up ingredients and had somehow managed to poison himself, which resulted in his immediate death. His eyes narrowed and he glared back at Lord Kaeto. He felt his hands bending into fists, and he held the position until he could feel his fingernails digging into his skin. “Oi! My life is going to be claimed by some formidable disease?”

  “Yes,” Lord Kaeto replied. “I was uncertain you would accept your disheartening fate. Not many warlocks could. However, the point of the ritual isn’t to show what may or may not happen to you. Rather, it’s up to you to decide how you are going to react to it.”

  “Is there no way to prevent it?” Mierta protested. There was no way he was going to accept this destiny. “Is my fate sealed, then?”

  Lord Kaeto continued. “Heed my advice, young warlock. The future you saw is only a possibility. You will be given the ability to change it.”

  “How?” Mierta asked.

  “I suggest you start by studying your father’s potion books! Don’t worry, you do not need to understand magic in order to compound ingredients,” Lord Kaeto stated. “And now, you must heed my warning, young warlock. I know what your heart desires. You seek power, and you are angry because a brigand murdered your mother.”

  At the mention of his mother, Mierta’s thoughts drifted back to that horrible day, earlier this spring.

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1238 CE

  “SUCH A travesty…”

  “The poor boy! He’s too young to have lost his mother…”

  Quiet voices echoed from the parlour at the McKinnon estate. Mierta approached the top of the stairs in the entrance hall. He swiftly lowered himself against the railing when he caught the sound of his father’s voice. It sounded like he had been recently crying. None of the adults were aware he was there.

  “Mortain, you are certain it was Clarinda that was found in the dark alleyway two nights ago?” Mierta heard a neighbour say.

  “Yes,” Mortain said. “Her head had been severed, her chest had been cut open.”

  Mierta gasped and covered his mouth with his hands, afraid he may have given his presence away. Hot tears filled his eyes. His mother was dead, brutally murdered, and he didn’t have the power to bring her back.

  DRACONIERA MOUNTAIN—

  THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY

  1238 CE

  TEARS ROLLED down Mierta’s face as his thoughts returned to the present.

  “You blame yourself because you believe you are weak. I understand. However, Mierta McKinnon, you are far from being a failure.”

  Mierta gasped at Lord Kaeto’s acknowledgement, and quickly wiped the tears from his face.

  The dragon continued. “You have a great destiny before you, one which you cannot even begin to comprehend. Now, on your feet, the time has come to awaken the gift your mother passed onto you. Reach out your hand and call for the wand, which will aide you in your journey!”

  “Hang on, Lord Kaeto,” Mierta said through nervous laughter. “You said I could summon a wand to come to me? You must be mistaken. It is impossible.”

  The doors from which Dragomir had originally appeared from opened with a jolt.

  “Nothing is impossible, young warlock! Did you not know of your mother’s talent to control things with her mind?” Lord Kaeto challenged. He didn’t wait for Mierta’s response before commanding, “Stand up!”

  Mierta stood on shaky legs, brushed his breeches and adjusted his cloak. He could only see darkness through the doors, yet he could now feel a strong cool wind coming from an unknown source.

  “Stand at a slight angle, with your right hip towards the door. Align your right leg slightly in front of you, and place your full weight on your left. Now, stretch out your right hand, turn it sideways, and raise it in front of you,” Lord Kaeto instructed over the wind. “Close your eyes. Concentrate. Permit yourself to feel the energy flowing through your body, allowing you to influence the physical essence of the system without any kind of physical interaction. Now, open your eyes, and repeat after me. Convosurí.”

  Mierta did as instructed and repeated with no inflection, “Convosurí.”

  Lord Kaeto growled. “Put some emphasis into it, young warlock! You can’t expect your wand to respond to such weak commands. You don’t wish to be known as the warlock with the feeble wand, do you?”

  Mierta scowled at the dragon. He could feel an energy brewing inside his body from an unknown source. Water crashed against rocks like the beginning of a severe thunderstorm, and Mierta’s eyes transformed into the shape of a snake’s.

  Mierta re–focused on the doors, and spoke with a commanding voice, “Convosurí!”

  The ground shook under his feet, and an ebony wooden wand with a bloodstone crystal connected at the shaft flew out of the darkness.

  Each wand was as unique as its bearer, bringing its own abilities and enhancements due to the crystal it carried. Some wands brought prosperity, some brought healing abilities, some brought clarity, and some brought on dreams. No two wands were designed the same, and each synced to a witch or warlock’s life force.

  Mierta took a hold of the wand in his hand and stared at it. His wand brought on strength, inner courage and vitality. Slowly, he closed his eyes, feeling his body becoming instantly rewarded by his new wand’s powers.

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  Father,” uttered Orlynd, staring at the empty hallway where his father once stood. A deep sadness grew in the pit of his stomach. He calmed himself, overcoming the shock of the day’s events.

  Ah’m never going tae see him again, concluded Orlynd.

  “Orlynd,” Francis said, startling the warlock from his thoughts.

  Francis held his hand out towards the direction of the dining room. “Please, follow me. I wish to speak more privately.” Orlynd watched Francis share a warning glance with Thomas before readdressing him. “I assure you, young warlock, we will be permitted to interact without further interruptions,” he finished.

  Orlynd hesitated, watching Thomas lower his head in shame and close the door behind them. He took in a deep breath and followed the king.

  As they entered the room, Orlynd was overcome by the sight before him. In the centre of the room was a large table covered in a white lace tablecloth. There were ten place settings of the finest plates Orlynd had ever seen. The silver candleholders in the centre of the table gleamed in the light and held tall, thin, white candles just waiting to be lit.

  On the right wall a portrait of the king took up most of the space allowed. Underneath the portrait was a smaller table, cov
ered with a matching lace tablecloth, upon which large covered platters sat. Orlynd was certain they would soon hold the most delectable meats found in the entire kingdom.

  At the far end was an elegant fireplace that could warm the entire room against even the coldest weather. The floor he stood on was covered with a thick ornately decorated rug, which stretched to the farthest corners of the room. Orlynd came back to himself and realised he had stopped, frozen, just inside the doorway.

  “Fear not. Please, be seated. You may speak freely.” Frances walked over to a large pitcher and picked up a silver goblet from the table. “May I offer you some mead? My servants locate the finest mead available in all of Iverna,” he stated, pouring himself a drink.

  “Thank yis, Yir Grace,” Orlynd answered, afraid of offending the king if he refused.

  Francis took a large gulp before setting his goblet down on the table. He then poured a cup for Orlynd. “How old are you, Orlynd?”

  “Sixteen, Yir Grace,” Orlynd answered, raising the goblet to his lips to take a sip. He was surprised by the flavour of the gorse flower dry mead, which finished with a sweet taste of honey, coconut and vanilla, and how easily it travelled down his throat.

  “Sixteen, a fine age,” Francis said, taking a seat. “Tell me, Orlynd. What interests you? Do you enjoy reading?” The king raised his goblet to his lips.

  “Aye, Yir Grace. Ah enjoy reading scrolls n manuscripts.”

  Francis’s eyes sparkled as he raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?” he responded, smiling. “Our kingdom contains some of the finest libraries. I am confident you would have made a good scholar.” His gaze turned to the table and his expression changed from friendly to contemplative. He took another sip of his mead before setting it down in front of him.

  “Is something wrong, Yir Grace?” Orlynd asked.

  Francis cleared his throat. “I have decided tomorrow morning you will begin lessons in proper etiquette. The education you will receive shall be suited for a royal. You will be granted access to my libraries, which will assist you in your studies on the customs and history of the kingdom. You will be expected to have this knowledge when you accompany me or the prince. Have you had the honour of meeting my son? He is just a few years younger than you.”

  “Nae, Yir Grace.”

  “Naught to fear. There shall be plenty of time for you to become acquainted. You shall be joining him during his language lessons. He is currently composing a love poem in French to impress the Lady Anya from Glendalow. She has been promised to my son and will someday be his queen.”

  “How very thoughtful ay his Grace,” Orlynd responded.

  “I am glad you approve. Now, that’s enough socialising for today. I must finish preparing for the celebration of my son’s fourteenth birthday. I do expect you to attend the festivities. It shall begin with an amazing jousting tournament where my son, Déor, shall challenge the winning competitor,” he grinned egoistically. He then stopped smiling. “It is important my son wins to prove the crown is strong. You shall be permitted to explore the castle halls and the grounds at your leisure. This is your home now, and there is no better time than the present to start getting yourself familiar with it. The navigation can be challenging. You will find the castle and its various buildings contain over one hundred rooms! You may leave me now.”

  “Aye, Sire,” Orlynd answered, standing up from his chair quickly. He abruptly stopped and turned towards the king.

  “What is it?” Francis asked, leaning forward, getting annoyed.

  “Ah’m sorry Yir Grace, but Ah dinnae know how tae find my room.”

  “Of course you don’t,” The king said, gesturing with his hand before shouting, “Thomas!”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas said, bowing, after re-entering the room.

  “Please accompany Orlynd to his room. I do not wish for him to get lost, understand?”

  “Yes, Sire,” Thomas said, nodding. He paused. “And where would that be exactly, Your Grace?”

  Francis thought for a moment, contemplating where best to house the boy without problems arising in the castle due to the O’Brien name. “There is an empty cottage just outside the gate at the edge of the village is there not?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas replied.

  “Then it is settled. It shall now belong to Orlynd,” Francis said, turning to the warlock. “Understand, it is not much, but it shall provide you a roof over your head until better arrangements can be made.”

  “Aye, Yir Grace. Thank yis, Yir Grace.”

  “Now, please leave me.”

  They bowed to the king before taking their leave.

  Once the king was alone, Francis raised his hands and rubbed them down his face, blowing air slowly out through pursed lips, pondering whether he had made the correct decision regarding Tiberius.

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1238 CE

  “MIERTA? ARE you all right?” Mortain asked, approaching the parlour. “You have not said a word since we returned from your Rite of Wands.” Mortain, a man of average height, was dressed in the custom of his profession, his long blue tunic all but covering the red undergarments he wore.

  “I’m fine, Father,” Mierta said, staring towards the empty fireplace. He was seated at a cherry wood table staring at the wall. A full cup of tea, which had been placed on the table in front of him had long since gone cold. The top crust of his pot pie had been cut away and set aside, and his wand was lying next to it.

  “You are not fine,” Mortain said, removing his black hat and running his fingers through his medium length brown hair. He approached the table. “Son, you have barely touched your dinner. Please, tell me what is bothering you.”

  When his son didn’t reply, Mortain walked to the opposite side of the table and glanced him over with concern. His son’s face had gone pale. Droplets of cold sweat had already soaked his sideburns. Mortain went to his son’s side and lay a cool hand over Mierta’s brow, becoming alarmed. “My dear boy, what is wrong? Your skin is clammy, yet your body is freezing.” He turned and shouted towards the kitchen, “Armand!”

  “Monsieur, McKinnon?” the servant Armand questioned from the parlour entrance, upon hearing Mortain’s voice. He was a tall young man in his late teens. His long curly black hair had been tied back at the base of his neck. A short well-trimmed beard covered his strong jaw line, and his upper lip was covered by a thin moustache under a long beak-like nose. His fiery brown eyes betrayed his weary countenance.

  “Armand,” Mortain said, glancing over, struggling to hide his worry. He lowered his hand from Mierta’s brow and took a hold of his son’s hand, pretending to check his pulse. “Please set a fire in the fireplace. My son is not well, and I must tend to him. Then, please fetch me milk of the poppy, and bring it to Mierta’s room.”

  “Oui, Monsieur,” Armand answered, starting a small fire in the grate.

  Mortain waited till the servant had left before furrowing his eyebrows and turning his attention back to his son. “Mierta? Please, son, speak to me. I know I have not always been the best confidant. Your Mum was much better at that, but I wish to help you.”

  “You cannot,” Mierta answered a bit coldly.

  Mortain gazed into Mierta’s eyes, becoming further disturbed when a single tear fell from Mierta’s right eye. Frustrated, he wiped his hand over his face and down his prominent chin wishing Clarinda were still alive. She had had the most impressive ability to help those in need, and Mortain at that very moment needed her assistance desperately. However, she was not there, and Mortain had no choice but to aide their son through whatever was ailing him. “Please, my son. Let me try!” He was beginning to feel helpless.

  Mierta looked up into his father’s face, furrowing his forehead, contemplating his situation. He couldn’t tell his father. Discussion of his Rite of Wands was forbidden, even though he desperately needed his father’s advice at the moment. He had very little knowledge about compounding chemicals, and though it was never s
aid, it was expected of him to follow in his father’s footsteps, for that was what all fathers wished of their eldest child; it saved them from having to pay a stranger for their child’s apprenticeship and worry about his well-being. Nonetheless, Mierta was afraid. What if he failed or disappointed his father? “I’m sorry,” Mierta’s voice cracked. “I…cannot explain.”

  Mortain took in a deep breath. “You have been thinking about your Rite of Wands ceremony, right, my boy?” he asked, continuing to comfort his son.

  “Yes,” Mierta uttered, unable to get the scenes out of his mind.

  Mortain brushed his hand down Mierta’s arm, feeling is son’s body tremble. “Oh, my poor boy. I understand. It is a burden only you must bear, but you must remember that it is over now.”

  “Is it?” Mierta questioned with doubt in his heart, not expecting a response. His Mum would have understood. She was a witch and had gone through the Rite of Wands herself, but his father…he was just a man. “Father?” Mierta asked.

  “Yes, my boy?”

  “When I told you I wanted to participate in the Rite of Wands, you looked scared. I want to know why.”

  Mortain nervously laughed it off. “I apologise if it appeared that way, my boy. That was not my intention. I was just surprised!”

  “I see.” Mierta gazed down at the cold cup of tea, unable to look his father in the eye. He mumbled to the ground, “Do you suppose the reason the Rite of Wands is not to be discussed is because people have gone mad?” The question was hypothetical. Again, he didn’t expect Mortain to have the answer. He just wanted his father to listen.

  “I suppose anything is possible, my son,” Mortain responded, quickly becoming uncomfortable by the direction of the conversation.

  “I am frightened. I fear I will not be able to do what was asked of me.”

  “Mierta, look at me,” his father instructed.