The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  “Yes, except for a wee matter concerning little Lochlann,” Natasha said. Already preparing for Mortain’s next question, she continued. “No need to worry. I’m certain it’s because the wee thing has a bit of a cold. However, he’s not eating right for me, you see.”

  Mortain nodded and carefully placed Mierta back onto the floor. “Thank you, Natasha. I will be upstairs momentarily to examine him.”

  “Tell us, father, what news of Vandolay?” Mierta asked eagerly. “Was the prince pleased?”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid I bring sombre news,” Mortain frowned. “The Hand of the King will be busy arranging a coronation soon I suppose. King Francis is dead—poisoned by someone in his own court, I suspect. I couldn’t tell them though. If I had announced what really happened, it would have sent the entire kingdom into chaos.” Mortain quickly decided to change the subject. “Now, enough talk of that. Mierta, did you find the book you were searching for in the cellar? I recall I promised you a lesson in compounding chemicals.”

  “Yes, it’s in my room, but I cannot read it,” Mierta responded. “There’s some kind of enchantment on it, preventing anyone from being able to read it. I haven’t been able to figure it out.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” Mierta answered, staring down at the ground, crinkling his forehead. He felt uncertain whether he should ask his father about the spell. But, if it was indeed his father’s writing in the book, then, “I don’t suppose Mum ever told you where I may be able to find the answer to this spell?”

  “Hmm.” Mortain thought. “Yes, in fact, I believe the words you are seeking, my boy, are Arduescha ridícula.”

  “Are do eshca ree dee coo la?” Mierta repeated.

  So, he really does know spells. But how? I’ve never seen him with a wand or a magic book or anything of the sort.

  “Yes, my boy,” Mortain said, interrupting Mierta’s thoughts. “Reckon I heard a warlock state it once or twice in Vandolay passing by.”

  Mierta stared at his father, doubting his story. He decided against inquiring any further; he would wait till later. His inner instinct told him his father was lying anyway. Perhaps once he had successfully compounded materials his father would consider him worthy enough to know the truth.

  “Now, I shall be downstairs shortly. Be a good lad and prepare the containers and ingredients you find written on the first page of the elixir book, but do not start without me. Have Armand help you if you get lost. Where has he gone off to this time?” Mortain wondered, shaking his head.

  “I had him gather some herbs for you in case you wanted to make a remedy for Lochlann,” Natasha added.

  “Bless him. Very well, then,” Mortain said, turning back to Mierta. “Do you have your wand with you?”

  “Yes, Father,” Mierta answered, reaching into his breeches to retrieve his wand to show Mortain.

  “Good,” Mortain replied, smiling. “Well, go on then. Off you go.”

  “Cheers!” Mierta grinned at his father before taking off downstairs.

  “And don’t start without me!” Mortain again called, laughing to himself at Mierta’s excitement.

  “I don’t mean to intrude. But is it true, sir, about the king?” Natasha asked.

  “About him being poisoned? Yes, absolutely no doubt about it. I recall he had been complaining of not feeling well before retiring for the night. I suspect the poison by that point was already inside his body creating havoc. There wouldn’t have been anything anyone could have done to prevent it, except catch the villain responsible.”

  “How long do you think it will be before the coronation?”

  “Coronation? Ah, well, I reckon the Hand of the King is arranging his daughter’s wedding and the coronation as we speak.” He turned his attention back to his wet nurse. “That’s enough discussion for now. Let us proceed up the stairs and check on Lochlann…”

  “SCAMOS LIAS!” Mierta commanded before hustling down the staircase with the elixir book in one hand and his wand in the other.

  Ever since his rather scary encounter with the Kibunika, he had been grateful to have the assistance of both Armand and his mother’s spell book to successfully reverse the damage done in the cellar and transform it to better conditions. They righted the workbenches that the Kibunika had upended and returned the books to the bookshelves. Armand grabbed a broom and swept up all the broken jars and dry chemicals on the floor. Mierta also took this opportunity to clear out some of the dust and debris that had collected over the years of disuse in the cellar.

  Reaching the bottom, he sprinted to the middle workbench, slamming the elixir book down on it.

  “Okay,” he said to the room. “Need some better light.” He gathered a set of candles and candlesticks along with a cauldron, nearly forgetting there was anyone else in the house.

  “Yes, I know!” Mierta said, turning his attention to a rat squeaking and squealing from the staircase. “You don’t like how it’s all cleaned up, deal with it! Don’t have time for you to have a go at me right now. I have more important engagements.”

  Shaking the light out of his wand, he pointed it at the first candle, “Síne!” A small fire shot from the wand, lighting the first candle. He repeated with the remaining candles.

  Grinning, he moved on to the elixir book. He opened it to the first page, pointed his wand at it, he chanted, “Arduescha ridícula!”

  He gazed in awe as the letters appeared to travel off the page and dance around in the air before returning back to their haven, allowing the words to become comprehendible. “Ha! Brilliant! Shame I hadn’t discovered this spell before.” He placed the tip of his finger on the page and read the instructions, but quickly became bored.

  “There’s got to be something better than this in here. There must be something more involved here that I can impress father with,” he said, flipping through the book. He read another recipe, flipped the page again before moving on to one that intrigued him.

  “Now, what is this? Acidum salis—never heard of it, sounds exciting. Reckon I can compound this before father even gets down here! Better get busy, I can’t wait to surprise him!”

  “THERE, THERE, now, that’s better,” Mortain comforted Lochlann several minutes later as the young boy eagerly ate for him. “Reckon he was just missing his Dad.” He glanced over at Natasha and joked, “If only all of my patients were this simple.”

  “Yes, sir,” she agreed.

  He turned back to Lochlann. “I’m certain when you’re older you won’t take any interest in compounding chemicals, will you? Sure wish I knew what your future was going to be.”

  Mortain startled from what sounded like an explosion coming from the cellar. He suddenly remembered he had offered to teach Mierta how to compound chemicals, but had gotten distracted by Lochlann’s feeding!

  At first he was annoyed that Mierta had not waited for him, but then his blood ran cold when he heard Mierta’s agonising scream.

  ARMAND WAS approaching the main house when he felt the ground shake underneath his boots. He abruptly stopped when he heard a muffled explosion.

  That’s coming from the cellar! Armand thought.

  Dropping the herbs, he had collected, Armand took off at a run towards the door. He entered the McKinnon estate just in time to see his master running down the stairs, towards the cellar door.

  BRISHEN’S—THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY

  1238 CE

  Orlynd stared up at the red sign containing a dragon, which resembled Lord Kateo, hanging in front of Brishen’s, a pub located in the market place of the kingdom of Aracelly. He could hear the sound of laughter coming from inside and the clanking of pints, which helped drown out the obnoxious sound of hammering, nails and wood being constructed in the distance.

  It reminded him of the times he was a little boy and would come here with his father. His father had always let him pick out a fresh piece of fruit. He could see those same fruit vendor carts, along with the vegetable carts up the road, had passed on
to future generations. However, some other things had remained the same, such as the butcher shop located a bit further up the road, as well as the shop across the street, where witches and warlocks could get ingredients for their various spells and potions.

  Orlynd pushed open the door of the pub and stepped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see several long tables made of rough wood, mostly filled with patrons, on the left. To the right was a bar made of the same rough wood, stretching the length of the establishment. There were a few patrons standing at the bar drinking from flagons and seemingly enjoying themselves.

  As he was taking in the scene, he noticed the noise from the patrons had abruptly ceased as they took turns staring at him. His heart dropped. Even in his own kingdom, he could not get away from the stigma of the O’Brien name.

  He took a deep breath and approached the bar. Just as he passed, the first patron, an older warlock wearing a long brown tunic, turned and spat at Orlynd’s feet. Orlynd ignored the insult and took a seat on a stool at the farthest end of the bar where it was mostly empty.

  Orlynd eyed the man behind the bar preparing food and drink for another patron seated at the opposite end of the counter.

  “I will be with you shortly,” the chubby man said, acknowledging Orlynd. Everyone knew the warlock by the name of Brishen. He had been the owner of the pub for as long as Orlynd could remember. He was wearing a long dirty white apron over a rough green tunic. His dark brown curly hair and scruffy beard were the same as Orlynd remembered.

  “Here is your colcannon, sir,” Brishen said, setting down a wooden spoon and bowl in front of the patron. “And your ale.” He placed a silver pint mug on the counter and poured ale into it.

  Disgusted to be in the presence of Orlynd, the patron picked up his pint and chugged his ale, setting the empty mug down aggressively on the counter before expelling a loud burp.

  Brishen ignored the man’s rudeness and smiled at Orlynd. “It is very good to see you alive and well, young warlock. News has travelled you have a new role?”

  “Aye. Ah’m the king ay Vandolay’s new soothsayer, though Ah dinnae think Ah’m very good at it. May Ah inquire whit is all thit noise coming fir outside?”

  “Noise?” questioned Brishen, perplexed. “Oh! I’m afraid a wooden gate is being constructed on Dragomir’s orders—meant to keep out outsiders, they say.”

  “Outsiders?!” Orlynd gasped. “Since when wis the kingdom ay Aracelly about keeping people out? We ur peacekeepers. We watch over the stone treaty fir the kingdom ay Vandolay!”

  “That’s true, however, times have changed. Well, ever since that nasty business with the Magulians anyway,” Brishen said.

  Orlynd cringed at the mention of the Magulians.

  “Caught a couple of men from Edesia trying to cause trouble here once. Gave me the impression their king intends on invading our land. Dragomir feels building a gate is the best way to protect our own.”

  Orlynd tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. “Ah’d like tae see them try. They cannae possibly eliminate us.”

  “That’s what the Magulians thought before your father came along, breaking up their families and sending them out to drown in the sea.”

  “Ah see.” Orlynd’s smile turned solemn. “Well,” Orlynd cleared his throat. “Ah should take ma leave.”

  “Already? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. It is at least a three–day journey back to the kingdom of Vandolay. Certainly I can offer you lodgings for the night?”

  Orlynd stood up from his stool and shook his head. “Ah dinnae know where Ah should be, but it is nae here. Ah wonder if thir will ever come a time when Ah’m nae haunted by whit ma father did.”

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1238 CE

  “MIERTA!” MORTAIN shouted at the top of the stairs, hearing nothing but his own voice echo. Watching smoke drifting out of the open doorway, Mortain took in a deep breath and tried to slow down his heart. The aroma of acrid chemicals and burning flesh filled his nose.

  “Mierta!” he shouted again. “Son, you all right?” He listened, hearing nothing more than what sounded like gasping breaths.

  “Father,” Mierta mouthed in response to Mortain’s calls, unable to produce any sounds as he dropped to one knee. His heart was pounding. Each pulse matched the ache he felt in his temples. A deep burning pain seared through his chest every time he took a breath. It was like he was slowly being strangled and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The inside of his nose felt charred and his throat felt like he was swallowing tacks. He blinked, his eyesight blurring, the pain beginning to overwhelm him. Nausea built in his throat and droplets of sweat slid down the side of his face. He wished he could do anything to end the torture. He could not imagine dying would be much worse.

  Mierta attempted to stand and tried to get away from the workbench. He managed a few staggering steps before his body was drained of all energy. He watched puffy white circling clouds fill his vision before everything was replaced by darkness.

  Mortain felt his stomach drop at the sound of something breaking. “Mierta!” he screamed, racing down the stairs. “Mierta, answer me!”

  When he reached the bottom, Mortain abruptly stopped, taking in the horrific scene before him. His son was unconscious; lying sprawled out on his back. What remained of a small culture tube lay shattered next to him, and chemicals dripping from a workbench bubbled and fizzled as they made contact with the hardwood floor.

  Acidum salis, he thought, his eyes widening.

  Mortain raised his arm to his mouth, careful to not inhale any of the smoke that was filling the room. He trembled as he came closer, observing the damage that had been done to the left side of his son’s face.

  The skin was mostly raw red with patches of peeling burned black skin hanging off his face. Blood was seeping from some of the deep crevasses caused by the acid. Most of the damage was confined to the cheek and jaw area. His eye was spared any damage.

  “Oh, my dear Lord,” he uttered, fear filling his heart. “My poor boy! What have I done?”

  He placed a finger against the side of Mierta’s neck, dreading the worst as he checked for a pulse. He was awarded with a rapid but stable beat.

  “Okay, that’s good,” he whispered to himself, breathing a sigh of relief. “He’s still alive. That’s very good.”

  Mortain glanced around spotting where Mierta had last left his wand on the workbench and promptly retrieved it, placing it in his robe before returning.

  “Hold on, son,” he said, lifting his son’s limp body into his arms and carrying him toward the door, a cough escaping him.

  I have to get us out of this cloud of chemicals before I also succumb. Mortain thought.

  “Armand!” Mortain shouted as he raced up the stairs.

  “Oui, Monsieur McKinnon?” Armand said.

  “Armand, there’s been a terrible accident. I need you to fetch some cloths, a pitcher of cool water, and a basin. Bring them to Mierta’s room at once! I fear his life is in grave danger.”

  “Of course, Monsieur,” Armand answered, concern rising in his voice. He watched Mortain rush Mierta up the staircase to his bedroom.

  Upon reaching his son’s room Mortain laid Mierta on the bed and removed his clothing, leaving on just his undergarments. A blue tint had already taken to the edges of his son’s lips and his breathing was too shallow.

  “Hold on, Mierta,” Mortain urged.

  Mierta’s breathing has been compromised, but his pulse is still strong. I must act quickly! he thought.

  He reached into his robe, grasped Mierta’s wand and held it out toward his son. “Emaculavi el curpas y mehartis!”

  However, the wand would not obey him.

  “No, no, no! Don’t do this to me! I am not a Magulia, I am a warlock! I studied healing magic at Poveglia. It wasn’t my fault. I am a warlock!” Mortain cried, refusing to accept his ability to cast magic had been permanently removed.

  Desperat
e, he placed the wand into his son’s hand, forcing him to grip it. He manipulated Mierta’s arm to aim the wand over his damaged face and yelled, “Emaculavi!”

  Again, the wand would not respond.

  “Emaculavi!”

  After the wand failed to respond a third time, Mortain, disgusted, let Mierta’s hand, barely grasping the wand, drop to the bed. He buried his face into the edge of the bed.

  A minute later, he came up with another idea. He calmed himself and glanced over to his son. Everything seemed hopeless, but deep down he believed Mierta would survive. He had to. He was a McKinnon after all, and there’s one thing McKinnon’s don’t do, and that’s give up easily.

  Mortain decided to give his idea a try. “Mierta,” he said with urgency. “Listen to me. If you can hear me, open your eyes and take deeper breaths. Mierta?” He could hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

  “Here is everything you requested, Monsieur McKinnon,” Armand said, entering the bedroom.

  “Thank you, Armand,” Mortain answered as Armand placed a bowl and pitcher on the nightstand. “Quickly! Bring the basin closer to the bed.”

  Once Armand had done so, Mortain gently lifted Mierta from the bed and positioned his head over it.

  “Now, pour the water over his hair so we may remove any possible contaminants.”

  “Oui, Monsieur,” Armand replied, lifting the pitcher off the nightstand. As he rinsed Mierta’s hair, he became alarmed by the damage to his master’s young son’s face and thought he no longer appeared alive. “Good Monsieur, is the young lord going to be all right? He’s awfully pale and barely breathing.”

  “I don’t know,” Mortain answered, shaking his head. He soaked the cloth in the cold water basin and squeezed it, allowing the water to run down his son’s face. “His heartbeat is strong, but his breathing is of concern to me. There are burns and swelling in his mouth and throat, preventing him from being able to take deep breaths.”