The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  “And?”

  Orlynd could feel his heart thumbing in his temples. “N’ Ah believe yis will drink it,” he spoke between gasps.

  Francis moved in closer to the warlock, stating sternly yet quiet enough to avoid a commotion, “Do you dare to accuse Lady Anya of such a crime?”

  “Nae, Yir Grace,” Orlynd stated quickly, frightened by the King’s attitude. “Ah…”

  Francis breathed in a slow breath in order to calm himself; however, his face betrayed him. “Heed my warning. In this kingdom false accusation of murder against the crown is an act of treason. You may have been able to convince me you had the gift of foresight, but I’d be careful of what you are uttering. It is one thing to predict events, but it is another to accuse someone of noble blood of treason! Take care warlock or it may be your head that meets the guillotine next,” the king stated, turning his back to the soothsayer. “Now, I am going to enjoy the rest of the evening without further outbursts. Do not make me question your loyalty again!”

  Frozen, Orlynd stood watching the king continue onward. Spectators nearby made their way around the warlock, some even shoving him out of the way.

  “Aye, Yir Majesty,” he mumbled, crestfallen.

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1238 CE

  “MONSIEUR?” QUESTIONED Armand, stopping shortly after entering the main hall. He was surprised to find the cellar door open and Mierta stopped at the top of the staircase. “Forgive me, I did not expect to find you up and about. Your father said you were ill and should be resting.”

  Mierta, cradling the elixir book in his right arm, stared at his father’s servant with a bit of annoyance. “I thank you for your concern, Armand, but I am fine,” he answered matter–of–factly.

  “I am glad to hear that, good Monsieur. I just finished setting the kettle on the stove to brew some of your favourite tea. Shall I bring a cup to your room when it is ready?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Mierta answered with a small smile, wishing Armand would stop talking so he could begin unravelling the mystery behind whatever concealed information was required to access the book. He waited until Armand allowed him to pass.

  “Have I said something to upset you, Monsieur? Armand said, staring at Mierta, wondering what he may have done to offend the young lord.

  Mierta abruptly stopped and turned around. “How long have you known my father, Armand?” he asked.

  Armand, taken aback by the question, glimpsed up toward the ceiling as he recalled. “My parents sold me to your family five years ago.”

  Mierta nodded. “And have you ever seen him go into this cellar?” He questioned, pointing in the direction of the cellar.

  “No, Monsieur,” Armand responded.

  “What about this?” Mierta demanded a bit urgently, revealing the book from under his arm, holding it out in front of him and shaking it at his servant. “Have you seen this book before?”

  Armand glanced down at the book and its title. “No, Monsieur, is there a problem?”

  “Problem?!” Mierta bellowed. “The problem is I can’t read it! Lord Kaeto told me I needed to find this book and I did, but it’s no use,” he said. If he couldn’t figure this out how was he supposed to prevent what he saw in his Right of Wands? He needed to get started now! Mierta’s heart sank; he would have to wait for his father to return and hope he would be able to help.

  “I am afraid I do not understand, Monsieur. Is it in a different language? If it is in French, I can interpret it for you.”

  “Thank you, Armand, but you can’t help me. Not unless you know how to break a charm,” Mierta answered, miserably.

  “A charm, Monsieur?”

  “Yes, a charm, a spell, reckon it makes the contents of this book illegible to whoever attempts to read it. It’s as if something is trying to prevent me from finding out what I need to know, only I don’t know how to reverse it,” Mierta said, beside himself.

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur, I do not know anything about magic, but I believe the spell book your father keeps in his bedroom might be of assistance.”

  “What?” Mierta stated, confused.

  “I’ve seen it myself, Monsieur,” Armand confirmed. “He keeps it underneath his bed.”

  Why would my father have need for a book of spells, yet alone store it in his room? He can’t cast them. It would be of no use to him Mierta thought.

  Mierta concluded the spell book must have once belonged to his mother, and his father had probably decided to hide it until he felt his son was ready for it, just like he had with the cellar key. A grin filled Mierta’s face, realising the spell he was searching for had to be contained in that same spell book Armand had mentioned.

  He spun around, snapped his fingers and pointed at his father’s servant. “Armand, you are brilliant! If I haven’t said it enough, you are absolutely brilliant! You must show me the location where this spell book should be right away!”

  “Oui, Monsieur, as soon as I have finished brewing your tea.”

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  Night had fallen, and the elaborate Great Hall of Coinneach Castle had filled with guests’ eager for a feast fit for a king, along with the music and dancing of a magnificent ball.

  The massive banquet hall floor was made of Carrara marble. A portion of the floor had been set aside for those wishing to dance to the violinist’s wonderful music. Various swords and shields representing knights and warriors from Ivernas’ history were strategically displayed on the walls. Adjacent to each side of the room were two large tables filled from end to end with delicious food selections, including civet of hare, stag, stuffed chicken and a loin of veal. Pheasants adorned with their feathers were positioned in the middle of each table. At the head of the hall was a separate table designated for the king, the prince, Lady Anya, and the High Lord Steward.

  “Mortain!” Francis exclaimed after Déor and Anya had joined the dancing, and the High Lord Steward had engaged in conversation with the prime minister. His court physician’s attempt to avoid being seen while entering the Grand Hall had miserably failed.

  “Your Grace,” Mortain smiled, turning around. He made his way to the table and bowed.

  “I am delighted you arrived in time for the festivities,” Francis said midway through his meal, smiling, after having helped himself to another sip of ale.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I am happy to be in your presence. Please accept my apologies for missing the jousting event. I heard the prince did well.”

  “I feared you would be delayed by your son’s Rite of Wands ceremony. I presume he has been awarded his magical gift?” Francis asked, reaching for a slice of stag.

  “Yes,” Mortain smiled. “It was not easy; however, I am confident Mierta will succeed as a warlock. Reckon in a few years, I will be anxiety–ridden all over again when Lochlann is old enough to participate,” he said between laughs.

  Francis nodded, satisfied. “I am certain you are capable of raising the boys correctly so that may be. Please, accept my condolences for the recent loss of your wife.”

  “Thank you,” Mortain replied, his expression turning to sadness.

  “I am confident justice will be served and the criminals responsible will be found.”

  Mortain nodded, although he did not share the same confidence. He decided to change the subject and cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I have heard discussion through members of your court you have taken on a new advisor?”

  “Aye.” Francis sighed taking a bite of hard bread. “Celeste O’Brien’s boy, though to be honest, I am beginning to question his loyalty.”

  “I see. May I inquire where the young warlock might be now?”

  “How in Hades should I know? I am not his wet nurse!” Francis barked. “I understand you were good friends with the warlock’s father. Tell me, in your experience, is the boy trustworthy?”

  “Yes, I would believe so,” Mortain replied. “Though
I confess I have had very little association with his son.”

  “Pity,” Francis answered, finishing off a large handful of grapes and throwing the empty stem aside. “I was hopeful you would be able to provide your opinion of the young warlock. Especially after you welcomed the opportunity to…”

  “I’m confident your Highness will determine the boy’s honesty,” Mortain interrupted, his pulse increasing.

  Francis furrowed his brows. “Perhaps. It matters not. I gather there is something else you wish to discuss.”

  “Why, yes, Your Grace,” Mortain said, heat rising to his cheeks. “I request approval, so when the time comes and I am no longer capable of being of your service, my son, Mierta may become successor as court physician.”

  Francis looked up with concern, studying Mortain’s face. “Have you taken ill? Why wasn’t I informed?”

  Mortain shook off the king’s sentiment. “You needn’t be worried, Your Grace. My health is fine. Mierta has proven he shares my love of medicines, and I am eager to teach him everything I know.”

  “I am pleased of this news. However, I must evaluate his ability before granting your request. I do not wish to have someone who is incompetent or has no interest.”

  “I understand,” Mortain responded.

  Francis eyed him before replying, “I have decided when your boy is ready to begin his apprenticeship, you may bring him to my court.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. You are most kind. Reckon that shall be sooner than later. Mierta has already started exploring simple recipes of ingredients to compound.”

  “Is that so? Correct me if I am mistaken, Mortain, but your son is only twelve years of age, is he not?”

  “Why, yes, Your Grace.”

  “Is it your belief that Mierta desires an apprenticeship now?”

  “Yes, that I do believe.”

  “And would it be necessary to appoint an apprenticeship for Mierta? I believe Ezekiel Kavanagh, our local Apothecarist, has recently returned from teaching in Edesia. He should be satisfactory,” Francis said.

  “I am honoured by Your Majesty’s generous offer, but it shall not be necessary. Mierta will be more than happy to learn from his father.”

  “Very well, then, it shall be. I invite your son to Vandolay as soon as it can be arranged. He shall be under your fine tutelage. I expect to see great things from him.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “The thanks are mine,” Francis answered, standing, suddenly feeling ill, contemplating if he had consumed too much ale. “I regret having to take my leave of the festivities. I have enjoyed myself, perhaps a bit too much.” The king grabbed his goblet, “I must admit I am not getting any younger. I shall retire to my chambers to rest. I bid everyone a good–night.”

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1238 CE

  All right, show me where it is!” Mierta spoke to Armand, his eyes twinkling.

  Armand pointed into Mortain’s bedroom. “It’s in there, Monsieur—underneath the bed.”

  Uncertain, Mierta slowly sidestepped into the bedroom, his lips slightly open, as if he were expecting his father to show up at any moment to scold him. The room was twice the size of his own.

  Why shouldn’t it be? He questioned himself. It is the master bedroom after all.

  Glancing around the room, Mierta saw two small tables covered in papers and books. One had a candlestick on it containing a half burned candle in it. The other had a stack of papers with a quill and inkpot which had been knocked on its side.

  “That’s rather unfortunate,” Mierta said to the room. “Ink can be scarce.”

  There didn’t seem to be any organisation to the books or the papers as if it was purposely stacked that way to keep out snoopers.

  “I can’t be bothered with that now. I have a more important book to find.”

  He approached the side of the bed, got down on his hands and knees and peeked into the space underneath the bed. Seeing nothing unusual he stated, “Armand, there’s nothing there. Are you sure?”

  “Oui, Monsieur. I’m certain it is under there,” Armand assured. “I’ve seen him placing something under there. Do you think there may be an invisibility spell on it?”

  “That’s rubbish. My father is a court physician, not a warlock. He would have no interest with enchantments,” Mierta countered, beginning to get agitated. Staring at the edge of the bed, contemplating Armand’s suggestion, he decided he would have to crawl underneath and investigate further. He removed his wand from the pocket of his breeches, got on his hands and knees and turned towards Armand. “I’m going to have a look. Stay there.”

  He reached under the bed again and said, “Scamos lias.” His wand lit up and he crawled underneath. Quickly adjusting his body into a kneeling position, he promptly hit himself on the head. “Ouch!”

  “You all right, Monsieur?”

  “I’m fine,” Mierta answered. “Bed’s lower than it appears.”

  I’m such a klutz, Mierta thought to himself.

  “Be careful, Monsieur,” cautioned Armand.

  Mierta lowered himself just enough as to not knock his head again and started looking around. He noticed a board, which appeared to be just slightly higher than the others around it. Running his hand over it he realised it was indeed out of place. “Armand, you clever fellow! There’s a board here that’s positioned just slightly at an angle. I reckon the spell book is located right underneath it!”

  Mierta tried to grasp the board with his hands; however, there was just enough of the board for him to get his fingernails on. He pulled gently at first, unsuccessfully. Repositioning himself, he pulled a little harder. The board stubbornly refused to give.

  “Blimey!” he exclaimed, starting to feel sweat form on his brow. “It hadn’t occurred to me that it would be this difficult.”

  “What’s that, Monsieur?” Armand asked, only catching pieces of what Mierta had said.

  Mierta poked his head out from underneath the bed. “I cannot get a proper grip on the board. I reckon it’s stuck,” he said, ducking back under.

  “Do you need assistance with it, Monsieur? I can probably loosen it for you.”

  “No, no, I got it,” Mierta answered, moving directly over the board. He braced his back against the underside of the bed, and using both hands, pulled one final time. “Argh!” he exclaimed, finally getting the floorboard to loosen its grip. Embarrassed, he gazed in both directions with just his eyes, before he lifted the board with ease.

  “You all right, Monsieur?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m fine,” Mierta answered, placing the board down beside him. He then stared down into the darkness. An aroma of grass, acid, and a hint of vanilla over an underlying mustiness filled his nostrils.

  Holding his wand over the open area, he glanced down. An ancient looking spell book lay at the bottom of the space. He reached down with his free hand and lifted the book from its grave, blowing the tiny particles of dust into the air. The cover was made of leather which had been dyed blue. The binding was hand stitched and the book was held closed by a small silver latch. The cover contained a variety of designs. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the swirls and squiggles on the front cover, however, there was a beauty to it nonetheless.

  On the back, he saw two identical dragons facing each other.

  Kaeto! I wonder what happened to the rest of his kin.

  Mierta imagined the book had once been magnificent, but what remained was a shell of what it used to be—cracked, threadbare, and peeling with age. The pages within were quite yellow; Mierta was almost afraid to open the delicate tome.

  As he held his wand over the spell book in his hand, he felt what only could be described as a sudden sense of comfort.

  “Mum?” he uttered, staring at the cover, furrowing his forehead.

  Why was this buried under here? Is there some secret in here no one should know? Mierta contemplated. There was no doubt in his mind, this had to be the boo
k he had been searching for. However, further investigation of the book’s contents was needed, and under the bed was not the place. He replaced the board.

  With determination in his eyes, Mierta shook the light out of his wand, placing it back into the pocket of his breeches, and gathered the book under his arm.

  This book, whatever the reason, would no longer be permitted to be hidden from him. He would hide it too if he had to, though he wasn’t sure exactly how he would do so.

  Perhaps there is an invisibility charm in this book I can master, Mierta pondered. However, he shortly realised a new problem would arise—even if he could cast such a spell on the book, it would become hidden from him too. Instead, he decided to trust his inner feelings.

  He slid from underneath the bed, stood up, and brushed the dust from his breeches. He stared at his family’s servant as he approached him. “Thank you, Armand, for your assistance. I trust you won’t inform my father I have found this book.”

  “Oui, of course, young Monsieur,” Armand replied.

  “I’m going to take it to my room now. I need to rest,” Mierta stated.

  Once he had reached his room, he closed the door behind him and hurried onto his bed.

  Grinning, he plopped the book down and opened it. His grin was soon replaced with a frown of surprise and disappointment at what he discovered. The opening page, had been ripped out, leaving behind a rough edge.

  Mother, what happened? Why was this page removed? Mierta questioned himself. He turned to the next page.

  Words were written in quill ink next to an illustration of a dresser drawer being open: Obrate combriando.

  “O bra te com bree on doe?” Mierta sounded out the word, scratching his head. “I reckon I should give it a go,” he spoke out loud. He brought his wand back out and pointed it towards a dresser positioned across from his bed. “Ohbratay combriando,” he said. When the wand did not respond, he tried again with more confidence, “Obrate combriando!”