The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  de–horsing his opponent, the match is declared over, and the victor may claim his opponent’s armour and horse.”

  “He may also hold his opponent at ransom if he should so wish,” Francis interjected, grinning.

  Ciarán nodded in acknowledgement and continued. “Points are awarded as follows: If a lance breaks at the chest and between saddle and helm, one point is given. If a lance breaks at the helm or base, it is two points, and if a competitor should become unhorsed or drop their lance, it is three points. Do you understand?”

  “Aye.”

  “Now, please observe the knight’s attire,” Ciarán said. “Their armour is constructed from the finest mail, accompanied by a solid, heavy helmet, called a great helm, and mighty shields composed to take the hardest blows.”

  With a wink Francis teased, “There’s even a little extra padding at the rear for when they get de–horsed. I do hope you have a stomach strong enough to handle violence. These things do tend to occasionally get gory.”

  At that moment the crowd’s cheering increased and the king’s guard readied his lance and charged his opponent, knocking Antonio quickly off his horse and onto the ground.

  Francis applauded. “Splendid! Another victory for Aindrias. He makes the other knights on the list look like fools.”

  Orlynd gazed at the fallen knight with concern, hearing him moan on the ground in pain. “Yir Grace, is that man injured?”

  “Never mind, the squire will attend to him.”

  Unable to accept this embarrassment, the knight stood back on his feet, revealed a small knife from underneath his armour and threw it towards his opponent, hitting the horse. The horse neighed and stood on its back legs, knocking Aindrias onto the ground.

  “Seize that man!” Francis commanded. “How dare his frustration be taken out on an innocent horse.”

  “I will see the knight is rightfully punished, Your Grace,” Ciarán stated. He stood up from his chair and walked over to where guards had surrounded Antonio. “Take him away!”

  The remainder of the afternoon went without incident. By the time it had come for the prince’s appearance, the field had been narrowed down to one remaining knight, Aindrias, who other than having a sore back from being thrown from his horse a few times, was eager for the prince’s challenge. He had obtained better armour and a faster horse.

  Déor appeared from his tent to the eruption of the spectator’s applause, riding on Arthelea, a magnificent white horse with brown patches that was already attuned to the competition. The prince smiled and lifted his right hand to greet everyone.

  “Aindrias,” Déor mused while the squire approached with a lance. “I cannot think of a worthier opponent. My father chose well in the selection of his guard.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Aindrias replied. “I am honoured to accept your challenge.”

  Déor grinned and lifted his lance into the air to the crowd’s applause. He trotted over to the royal box.

  “My lady, would you kindly do me the honour?” Déor requested, reaching his lance out towards Anya so she could tie a ribbon from her hair to symbolise that Déor represented her in the competition.

  “My prince,” Anya answered with a slightly higher pitch, keeping her eyes fixed on his.

  “Please, accompany me to the viewing stand for the Lady of the Joust.”

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1238 CE

  Mierta approached the oversized bog–wood door with a cast iron latch, which led to the cellar. He could feel his heart rapidly beating in his chest in anticipation. What would he find down there? Would he be able to locate the elixir book? More importantly, would he even be able to understand any of it? The book had to be salvageable, otherwise Lord Kaeto wouldn’t have even mentioned it. This book he was meant to have; he just had to find it.

  He reached into his breeches pocket and pulled out the old–fashioned key his father had given him the day before. Turning it over, he noticed its rustic features; it felt cold and heavy in his hand.

  “All right. Show me your secrets,” Mierta spoke to the key, grinning.

  He reached up and placed the key into the keyhole. He tried to turn the lock, but it wouldn’t budge. Years of disuse had somehow caused the lock to become frozen. Unwilling to give up, he tried again, turning it counter clockwise until he heard the bolt slide away. With anticipation growing, he quickly unfastened the cast iron latch and pulled it toward him. The door opened with a loud creek. A musty, mildew aroma filled his nostrils, and an intense cool draft emerged from below, sending a chill down his spine.

  Mierta stared into absolute darkness, listening for any kind of sound or movement. Cautiously, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand.

  “Scamos lias,” Mierta commanded.

  A dim turquoise florescent light sparkled from the tip of his wand. With a slight ache in his heart Mierta silently thanked his mum for teaching him simple spells.

  Mother, I wish you were here. Then we could still be together. I promise you, Mother, I will not stop until I find who killed you, and when I do, he or she will be sorry.

  Lifting the wand in front of him carefully, he could see the large cobblestone texture covering the walls and stairs.

  “Hello,” Mierta spoke softly with a smile, his eyes brightening, not expecting an answer. He lifted his eyebrows and puckered his lips, wondering what secrets he would find below. Cautiously, he placed his foot on the first stair and heard it echo. He paused.

  So much for a surprise entrance, Mierta thought to himself.

  He took a second step and then a third. However, when he placed his right foot down again, he heard a loud screech from underneath him.

  “Ah!” Mierta screamed, flailing his arms while attempting to lift his foot. His wand was sent flying out of his hand as his body twisted and sailed down the remaining stairs until he hit the cherry wood floor with his back, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending huge dust plumes into the air.

  “Oof!”

  Gasping for air, Mierta searched trying to locate his wand. It was shining dimly just a short distance away. He reached out for it, only to discover it was much farther away than he thought.

  He stared at his wand intently. Again, overcome by an unknown sensation, the pupils of his eyes took on the shape of snake eyes.

  “Convosurí!”

  The wand lifted off the ground and flew directly into his hand. Once his hand had firmly grasped his wand, Mierta rolled over onto his stomach and lifted it to illuminate the stairway, his eyes now back to their normal appearance.

  “Blimey, what a fall,” he said aloud to himself, observing the staircase.

  Crinkling his brow and parting his mouth ever so slightly, he spotted what he had stepped on. A rat stared back at him from the stairwell. Mierta returned the stare, uncertain what to do.

  The rat then screeched loudly in indignation and disappeared into a hole in the wall.

  Mierta lowered his wand, and gathered his thoughts. “Rats. Right,” Mierta said, between breaths, acknowledging his father’s warning.

  He carefully stood up and brushed the dust off his robe. Repositioning his wand, he shined its light around himself, checking for any tears in the fabric or scrapes on his body. Other than the dust from the floor, he found nothing amiss.

  “I need more light,” he concluded. “What were the words Mum taught me? Scamos…scamos…err.” Mierta tapped the sides of his face while pacing back and forth several times. Abruptly stopping, he turned, raised his wand and shouted, “Scamos lias luz intensate!” A huge grin spread on his face when the wand shined a powerful turquoise light, brightening the entire cellar. Proud of himself, he whispered, “Thanks, Mum.”

  Mierta took in the scene before him. It was nothing like the cellar he had seen in his future. Through a myriad array of cobwebs, he could make out three large wooden workbenches. He could just make out shapes on one of the tables, but was unable to see what they were due to the thick coating
of dust that seemed to cover everything. Every step he took produced echoes throughout the cellar and left clouds of dust in his wake.

  As he started toward the tables, he stumbled over the body of a long–dead animal.

  “Ah!” Mierta cried, his eyes wide, catching himself. Looking down, he observed what he had tripped over.

  “Eww!” he reacted, crunching his brow and crinkling his nose, realising it probably had been just another rat. However, its carcass, which was covered in hundreds of dead maggots, had been long since reduced to bones with very little skin remaining.

  “Sorry, if the rat on the staircase was your mate,” Mierta jested.

  Mierta stepped over the carcass, adjusted the front of his robe, and raised his wand, continuing to explore the cellar.

  The floor and walls were constructed of river rock and mortar, which were covered in some places by damp moss and mildew, and cobwebs hung prolifically from the ceiling. Lining the walls were several shelves, some of which held books, while others held hundreds of glass bottles, some empty, meant for storage, and some containing ingredients long expired.

  Mierta lifted his eyebrows, widened his eyes, and muttered to himself. “Reckon I won’t be needing any bottles anytime soon.”

  He surveyed the rest of the cellar wondering what had made his father abandon his studies. His thoughts became distracted by the workbench he was now standing in front of. A broken jar containing unknown ingredients was scattered over the table and mixed with several inches of dust. “Curious,” he thought as he traced his finger through the dust. He tilted his head when he thought he saw what appeared to be a roll of parchment underneath the chemicals.

  “What have we got here?” he asked, his eyes brightening.

  Mierta took in a deep breath, leaned forward and blew on the workbench, sending thousands of dust particles into the air, which caused him to cough uncontrollably.

  “Must…remind myself…never to do that again,” he uttered between coughs. “Achoo!” His abrupt sneeze caused more dust to infiltrate the air.

  Irritated with himself, Mierta reached for the roll of parchment, only to have it disintegrate in his hand. He quickly dropped the dust from the parchment. Mierta blinked, set his wand down on the workbench, nervously re–adjusted his robe, and brushed his hands through his hair.

  “How unfortunate, I would have liked to have read that,” Mierta said to the workbench. He turned his attention to the bookshelves. “Right. Enough time wasted. Time to find the elixir book.” He glanced around the room again, contemplating where to go next.

  Then, on another workbench, Mierta spotted a large caldron and two candlestick holders, which stood empty. He scrambled around the cellar, discovering a box of candles. Retrieving two of them, he placed them in the candlesticks.

  He picked up his wand from the workbench and pointed it at the candlesticks. “Sine!” Mierta exclaimed, setting the candlesticks ablaze. Satisfied, he put his wand back down on the workbench and danced over to the bookshelves to search for the book.

  “No,” Mierta said after examining a book and throwing it behind him. He grabbed the next book off the shelf, opened it, and after seeing the pictures depicting unclothed bodies, he slammed the book shut.

  “No!” he stated a bit louder, throwing the book behind him, unable to withhold his disgust.

  He reached up again, his hand coming across something brittle. Grasping it, he pulled out a bone, which may have once belonged to a human child. Mierta crinkled his brow, widened his eyes and parted his mouth as he gazed over it. Unable to come up with anything witty, he dropped it beside him.

  Next, he came across a book on how to perform minor surgeries. “This might be useful,” he added, carefully placing it on the workbench.

  Mierta turned back to the bookshelf and pulled the next book off the shelf. Looking it over he recognised his father’s handwriting. “Ha! Yes! This is it!” he said with a grin.

  Quickly racing over to the middle workbench, he slammed it on the table. Opening it to the inside cover, he stopped at a message written in ink by his father.

  “I hereby pass my first compound book onto my next of kin. May he forever uphold our family’s honour after what I’ve seen in my Rite of Wands.”

  “The Rite of Wands? What has Father been keeping secret all these years?” Mierta furrowed his forehead, wondering if what he was interpreting as his father’s writing was correct. He decided to investigate further, quickly opening the book and glancing at the first recipe. His eyes grew wide. “What? This cannot be,” he stammered. “I can’t read it.”

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  Déor stared his opponent down. Because Aindrias was a member of his father’s guard, the prince was certain he wouldn’t put up much of a challenge, leading to an easy victory.

  After all, he was the crown prince and Aindrias would not dare win the challenge. He exchanged smiles of approval with his father before Arthelea danced and pranced toward the beginning of the track.

  Satisfied, Déor lowered his helmet and charged down the barrier towards his opponent. However, when their lances made contact with the gritted guard, a piece of armour attached at the shoulder, Déor’s lance was abruptly knocked out of his hand.

  The crowd went silent before the herald announced, “Three points for Aindrias.”

  Once Déor had reached the end of the track, he quickly turned around and raised his helmet, his mouth partially open and eyes wide.

  How dare Aindrias embarrass me in front of my people! Déor thought. He could not fathom looking towards the royal box, certain his father would be displeased.

  “Squire!” Déor shouted, slamming his helmet down and impatiently holding his hand out for his lance. He could not allow further misfortune to spoil this day of celebration.

  He raised his lance, took his position at the beginning of the track, and charged. Aindrias missed his mark while Déor’s lance shattered at the helm.

  “Two points for his Grace.”

  The prince was now only one point behind. This still did not satisfy him. There was only one thing left for him to do; unhorse his opponent and put an end to this match.

  Again, he readied Arthelea at the beginning of the track, took the lance from the squire, and charged.

  The crowd gasped. The moment their lances made contact, Déor could feel himself slipping off the left side of the horse. He recalled he couldn’t grab the reigns for the horse might rear up, possibly falling on top of him, resulting in his death. Thinking quickly, and using the stirrups, he recovered, thus preventing further embarrassment.

  Francis stood from his chair, seeing both opponents beginning to fall off their horses. He held his breath, watching Déor begin to right himself, letting it out when he noticed Aindrias fall from his.

  The spectator’s gasps were replaced by a loud applause. Déor gazed around, realising he had been successful in unhorsing Aindrias.

  “His Grace wins!”

  The tournament concluded with an award ceremony.

  When it was the prince’s turn, Francis stepped forward and called to his servant to bring forth the box, revealing a small amulet on a chain.

  “Congratulations, my son,” Francis said. “I hereby reward you with this gift, a family heirloom given to me on my fourteenth birthday by my father, as was given to him on his. May the Bynoch guide and protect you.”

  The Bynoch was a clear quartz manifestation crystal, containing a smaller crystal growing within a large one, wrapped in a golden wire, and hung from a silver chain. Stories passed down alleged the Bynoch contained a hidden magic. Created by an old warlock from the kingdom of Aracelly, it would preserve the lineage of the royal family.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Déor answered, kneeling as his father placed the Bynoch around his neck.

  The king gazed down at the Bynoch expecting the mystery that had eluded him most of his life would be answered. However, the cha
rm appeared to act no differently for his son than it had for him.

  “This cannot be,” Francis muttered to himself. “The necklace must intercede. He is the last of my line, my only heir. How can my son not be destined to be its master?”

  Francis began staring uncomfortably at his son.

  “May I rise, Your Majesty?” Déor asked under his breath, startling his father from his thoughts when the king continued to stare at him.

  Bewildered, Francis answered, “Yes, of course,” he finished with a smile. “Everyone, your prince!”

  After Déor had retreated to his tent, and Lady Anya had exited the viewing stand, the applause ceased.

  Francis continued, “Good people of the realm, and those visiting, I hope you found today’s tournament entertaining and enjoyable. Our celebration continues in the Great hall for food, drinks and merriment.”

  “Yir Grace!” Orlynd urged, following the king down the stairs, distracting him from his troubled thoughts. He lowered his voice to avoid commotion, watching the spectators make their way past them in the direction of the Great Hall. “Ah beg ay yis for a private audience.”

  “Now is not the time,” Francis said.

  “Yir Grace, yis dinnae understand,” Orlynd uttered anxiously. “Ah must insist. Yir son must nae marry Lady Anya,” Orlynd said, his voice breaking.

  “And may I inquire why?” Francis asked, turning back, quickly losing his patience. “Are you indicating you know something I do not?”

  “Aye, Ah believe so, Yir Grace,” Orlynd answered urgently. “Ah huv reason tae believe yir lives ur in grave danger.”

  Francis’s eyes grew wide. “What evidence do you have of this? Have there been rumours of this ill deed spreading through my court? I demand an explanation. Speak!” he said.

  Orlynd cringed when the king shouted at him. Sweat was beginning to trickle down his back. “Forgive me Yir Grace, but hear me out,” he stated nervously. “When the Lady Anna first made her appearance, Ah foresaw someone pouring poison into the royal goblet.”