The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  “Oi! Whit ur yis doing?” Orlynd called out.

  Realising they had been caught, the boys shrieked, dropped the remains of rotten vegetables, and ran off.

  Orlynd discovered broken egg shells among various smashed vegetables at his feet. Confused and unsure of what was happening, Orlynd absentmindedly cleaned up the mess and retreated into the cottage.

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  Orlynd had wandered around aimlessly, not sure where he had been or where he was going. He turned a corner and found himself in an impossibly long corridor, which seemed to go on for an eternity.

  The walls were painted a royal blue colour, the doors and windows were framed by ornately carved wood painted gold, and the cross beams at the ceiling contained gilded carvings of different animal and bird heads.

  Perhaps eywis ur representations ay the animals thit can be found in the kingdom, Orlynd guessed.

  Lining the walls were what appeared to be at least two to three hundred paintings by various artists. The portraits Orlynd saw included landscapes, many generations of the royal family, as well as some of the members of the royal court.

  Orlynd stopped abruptly and turned, noticing one of the paintings on the wall was a portrait of his father wearing his full religious garments, during a time when the O’Brien name was still honourable.

  He breathed out a slow breath between his lips and stared up at his father’s portrait. Orlynd’s gaze was so intense, it was as if he was attempting to communicate telepathically to the portrait. He pulled his hands together under his robe and raised them up to his waist.

  Everyone Ah’ve ever loved has left me, even yis. How am Ah tae make yis proud? How can Ah dae this when Ah know Ah will never see yis again? Ah’m all alone, Orlynd thought.

  “Who are you?” a demanding voice behind Orlynd said. He turned to see a young man slightly shorter, no older than his early teens, standing about a foot behind him. The teenage boy had piercing baby–blue eyes, and long curly brown hair, which was tied back in a braid. He was wearing a maize coloured tunic with black accents and a black belt wrapped around him, with a cream coloured silk shirt underneath, and black boots.

  Orlynd bowed, realising the boy could be no one other than the king’s son.

  “Ma apologises, Yir Grace. Ah dinnae hear yis approach,” Orlynd stammered.

  The prince advanced, so he could inspect the painting that had captured Orlynd’s attention. He stopped next to the warlock, looked up at the painting and then gazed back at Orlynd, displeased. “Enlighten me. What do you find so interesting about this portrait?”

  “Ah…err,” Orlynd muttered, contemplating how to answer the question.

  The prince narrowed his eyes. “Are you refusing to answer my question?”

  “Nae, Yir Grace,” Orlynd quickly responded.

  Déor eyed Orlynd, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t believe I recall seeing your face in my father’s court before. What is your name and what house do you belong to?”

  “Orlynd,” the warlock answered, growing intimated by the prince’s presence. He watched the prince circle him.

  “Orlynd,” Déor said, eyeing him suspiciously. He stopped to glance back at the painting before turning back to the warlock. “Of course! You must be the warlock from Aracelly my father informed me about.” He turned back to the portrait before continuing. “And that painting is a portrait of your father,” he confirmed, looking over the warlock with a bit of a smug grin. “My, you’re pretty skinny. Do you even have anything under your robe?”

  Orlynd shooed the prince’s hand away.

  Déor chuckled, amused, before his expression changed over to a scowl. “Show me your wand, warlock.”

  Orlynd stared at him in defiance.

  “I said,” Déor said more firmly, “show me your wand.”

  Orlynd did as he was told, pulling out his wand from a pocket of his breeches. He held it out in front of him nervously.

  The prince shrugged his shoulders. “Pity. It appears pretty plain to me. I’ve seen other wands not as pathetic as yours.”

  “It’s not pathetic!” Orlynd hissed. “Ma wand is designed tae bring enlightenment, n’ help clarify the true intentions ay people around me.”

  “Is that so?” Déor challenged. “Tell me then, what am I thinking right now?”

  “Ah cannae,” Orlynd said, putting his wand away.

  “You cannot or you won’t?” Déor mocked, circling around the warlock again, stopping abruptly when he was face to face with Orlynd. “So, you’re really expecting me to believe you’re my father’s new soothsayer?”

  “Ah am,” Orlynd said, growing uneasy.

  “Well,” Déor laughed. “Go on then. Tell me my future, warlock.”

  Orlynd stared at him with bewilderment.

  Déor stared at him coldly. “You think you can disobey me? I am the crown prince. I told you to tell me my future! I command you to!”

  Orlynd’s mind raced to come up with an explanation why he could not fulfil the prince’s request. Déor would never understand he had just recently acquired the ability and could not manipulate it to his will.

  “Fool,” Déor said, shaking his head. “I was only jesting. Seriously, you cannot do it, can you? Thought so. You’re as worthless as the last man who claimed to be a soothsayer. It confirms my suspicions that my father only selected you out of pity. There are whispers that he is going mad. I cannot deny the claim myself. Why, if I had been king, I would have burned your father at the stake.”

  “Dinnae speak ill ay ma father!” Orlynd answered angrily, raising a fist.

  “Or what? Are you going to hit me, warlock? Or, maybe threaten to turn me into a frog?!” Déor grinned, amused. “I dare you to.” His expression quickly changed to disgust. “Once word spreads of your incompetence, you will be made the laughingstock of the kingdom. You are no use to the king nor to me. It would be better if you were gone sooner than later.”

  He turned his attention to one of servants hurrying down the hallway. “You there,” he stated, pointing. He then pointed to the portrait of Orlynd’s father. “Take this portrait down and get it out of my sight!”

  He glanced back to Orlynd and smirked. He said maliciously, “You will notice that kind of filth is unwelcome here. It is just a matter of time before you are unwanted, too. Better watch your head, warlock!”

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  All hail his royal majesty, Francis, King of Vandolay,” the herald announced one mid–August afternoon. When the king and his new advisor approached the stairs to the Royal Box, the crowd erupted in applause, which drowned out the questioning whispers.

  As they began their climb up the stairs, the king waved to the crowd, surveying the field. The stands had been decorated with green and white banners of the royal family crest and were filled with lords and ladies from various houses in the kingdom. Francis was pleased to see the wooden barrier, which stretched most of the length of the field, had been repaired after an unfortunate incident during the previous jousting festivities.

  Looking to either end of the barrier, the king smiled when he saw several tents set up, each one carrying the colours and sigils of the different houses the knights were representing. His eyes lingered briefly on the tent bearing his own sigil—a green shield with a golden split–tailed lion leaning against a great helm with a golden visor and magnificent green and gold feathers. His heart warmed, reminding him of his love for his son, his only heir, who was preparing himself for the one-on-one challenge.

  This was extra special for the royal family because today the king would pass on a family heirloom, a pendant said to have been created by a warlock from the kingdom of Aracelly in order to protect the royal line from elimination. The king himself had never seen the charm do any magic, so there was doubt in his mind of the pendant’s origin or whether any part of the story he
had been told as a child was true; however, he hoped once he placed it around his son’s neck, these doubts would be put to rest.

  The king took his place in the furthest seat on the right while Orlynd hesitated. He wondered why there were three chairs when only the king was seated. Before Orlynd could question, the king interrupted his thoughts.

  “You shall stand beside me. The other seats are for the High Lord Steward, and his daughter, Lady Anya, who is betrothed to my son,” Francis stated, turning his head, hearing a carriage approach. “And what splendid timing, their carriage arrives.”

  Orlynd turned around, and positioned his arms under the sleeves of his robe while he took his place next to the king’s chair. He looked up to see a magnificent carriage approaching the fair grounds. It was shaped like a shield with a stylised crown on top and was covered in gold leaf. There were three windows through which the occupants could see the passing countryside or, more importantly, through which the people could see them. The panels below the windows were a forest green, the official colour of the steward.

  The door of the carriage promptly opened and servants waited for their appearance. First, stepped out the steward, known to the people of Vandolay as the Hand of the King and overseer of court trials. He reached behind him for his daughter, who had cautiously placed her hand on the side of the carriage. Her festive dress equally caught the attention of women and men with its flashy royal blue and gold colouring with golden lacing.

  “Herald!” Francis commanded, startling the herald who had become enchanted by Lady Anya’s beauty.

  “All hail, High Lord Steward Ciarán Hrodulf, and his daughter, Lady Anya of Glendalow!” yelled the herald promptly.

  Anya was a beautiful, intelligent, medium–sized young woman, the same age as the crowned prince. She had a perfect light complexion, when not hidden by enormous amounts of makeup, piercing hazel eyes, and well–developed breasts. Her long blonde hair was tied up in a bun while wavy strands lay loose on each side of her face.

  Francis smiled, watching Orlynd’s facial expressions closely, believing the warlock was becoming charmed. “Lady Anya is very pleasing to the eye, is she not?”

  “Aye,” Orlynd replied, distracted, not by the Anya’s beauty, but by a warning he felt in his heart. Something did not feel right. He continued to stare at them as they made their way towards the Royal box.

  “She comes to us from Glendalow,” Francis inserted, nodding in the direction of Anya. “Glendalow is one of the former kingdoms in Iverna, now a conquered territory of Vandolay. She resides with her father, who serves as my hand, at Tarloch Castle, where all of our rather difficult prisoners are sent. She shall one day be your queen, and with utmost certainty, will lead this kingdom to greatness. If she were not already betrothed to my son, I would be happy to claim her.”

  Anya smiled, catching Orlynd and the king staring at her. At that moment, Orlynd saw a vision of the royal goblet placed on a table. A small amount of clear liquid was being added to the ale, which was already in it.

  The royal goblet. Someone means tae din his Grace harm, Orlynd concluded.

  Francis leaned in, startling Orlynd. He laughed, seeing a blush starting to form over Orlynd’s checks, before continuing. “She has grown into quite the woman. She knows what she wants and how to get it. These people will love her just as I do,” Francis teased before turning his attention back to his guests.

  “Yer Grace, Ah must inform yis ay something,” Orlynd began anxiously, only to be ignored.

  “High Lord Steward!” Francis greeted the noble party. “I am honoured with your presence. I have specifically arranged these chairs for the duration of the tournament.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” the steward replied after bowing. “There is no need to be so benevolent. The honour is ours. May it please Your Majesty to present to you my daughter, Anya. If I recall correctly it has been several years since she has seen Your Highness, has it not?”

  “Aye, it has,” replied Francis, his eyes twinkling. He gazed at Anya. “Please, approach my Lady.”

  “Your Grace,” Anya responded with a half–smile, her lips tucked in slightly. She curtsied and bent her body forward, keeping her eyes locked on the king. In doing so, she exposed the top of her cleavage, yet concealed the vial of clear liquid between the cleft of her breasts.

  “Your beauty is ravishing, my lady. You will make a satisfying suitor for my son,” the king said, charmed.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she answered with a smile.

  “Please, allow me to introduce you both to my new advisor from the kingdom of Aracelly, the warlock, Orlynd. He is the son of Celeste, my former advisor.”

  “Lord Steward, milady.” Orlynd bowed, growing further uneasy. There was something very wrong with these two. It felt as if darkness filled their hearts, but he could not figure out why.

  The steward and his daughter nodded back.

  “Now, it will please me to have you be more present in this kingdom,” the king interjected. “Would you like that, Lady Anya?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she answered with a smile.

  Orlynd felt further unease. Her smile came too quickly and was not matched in her eyes.

  “Then it shall be! Please, take a seat beside me. I must address my subjects about the tournament in my son’s honour.”

  Francis stood from his chair to address the crowd. When the cheers and applause subsided, he proceeded, “Good people of the realm, and those from visiting realms, I thank you for joining me for today’s festivities. Today marks the day my son, the crown prince, becomes the rightful age to marry, and therefore a special entertainment has been arranged for his guests, in which the best knights of the realm shall joust till all save one have been disqualified. By the crown’s tradition my son shall challenge this knight in order to earn his rightful place as champion! May the best knight or royal prevail! Afterward, please join us for dining and dancing in the banquet hall. High Lord Steward, if you would please do the honour,” he said, gesturing to the steward.

  The High Lord Steward stood from his chair and promptly announced, “Let the tournament begin!”

  An eruption of cheering filled the stands as the first two knights took their positions. The first to face the king’s guard was Antonio. He came from a very noble family and was the son of a prominent general. His arrogance was unfathomable, and most of the knights whose names were on the list had grown tired of his endless boasting.

  Aindrias, the king’s guard, stared Antonio down. Losing wasn’t an option for he could not foresee himself handling the embarrassment. He lowered his helmet and commanded his horse to charge down the barrier towards his opponent. Antonio’s lance was knocked out of his hands, while Aindrias’s lance shattered after making contact between the saddle and helm.

  “Three points for Aindrias!” the herald announced.

  “I expect that shall not be the last lance to break today,” Francis smirked.

  “Forgive me, Yir Grace,” Orlynd said while the knights prepared for their next pass. “Is nae thir something less dangerous tae celebrate the prince’s coming ay age?”

  “And what would you consider is appropriate?” Francis challenged.

  “Ah dinnae know, Yir Grace,” Orlynd answered.

  “Let me remind you, yesterday you were nothing more than the boy of a banished Chancellor. Be grateful your mother was honourable.”

  The High Lord Steward cleared his throat while Anya glanced over to the warlock, a sly smile escaping her lips.

  Orlynd felt heat rise to his cheeks again.

  “With all due respect, Your Grace, the warlock is only concerned about your son’s continued health and good fortune,” the steward commented.

  “My son is not some mandrake mymmerkin, steward!” Francis snapped.

  “Good gracious, he is not. I’m sure the warlock meant no offense,” Ciarán answered, trying to calm the king.

  On the field, Aindrias charged down the barrier towards his op
ponent, their lances shattering as each made contact with their gritted grand–guards.

  “Another point rewarded to each competitor,” the herald announced. While they waited for the knights to ready themselves for the third pass, the steward turned back to the warlock. “Tell us, is this your first individual joust tournament? You must excuse me, your name is Orlynd, is it not?” Ciarán inquired.

  “Aye.”

  “I see. Then, perhaps I may suggest to his Grace that he educate his young advisor?” Ciarán proposed.

  “You may certainly not!” Francis glared at Ciarán. “Who do you think I am? I am the king, not some nursemaid meant to educate waifs. I will excuse your outburst since my son will be marrying your daughter.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I apologise.”

  Francis smiled slightly then quickly turned away.

  At the same time Aindrias charged down the barrier towards his opponent, this time Antonio’s lance shattered while Aindrias’s lance missed.

  “Two points for Antonio,” the herald announced.

  Francis turned his attention to Ciarán.

  Feeling Francis’s eyes on him, Ciarán took in a deep breath, and said, “Prepare to be amazed, young warlock! Jousting has been the tradition of this country for centuries during times of peace. It was once used for military training, now evolved as a sport competition allowing nobles to demonstrate who is the mightiest and the bravest,” he explained. “There are some basic rules. First, the competitor must be a noble from Vandolay or Glendalow; commoners are only permitted to be spectators.”

  “Whit about warlocks from Aracelly?” Orlynd interrupted.

  “Your Majesty?” Ciarán asked, looking for assistance in the explanation.

  Francis rolled his eyes. “They were once permitted to joust, until too many were caught manipulating the game using their magic.”

  “Ah see,” said Orlynd.

  “Second, each noble must provide his own equipment and horse. The squire is the only person permitted to provide a new lance if it should break, speak between charges, and help the competitor up if he should become unhorsed. Third, if the noble is successful in