The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  “Will he wake soon?”

  “It is doubtful. His body is using all the energy he has left to stay alive. Oh, Armand, what have I done? This is all my fault! As advanced as my son is, he is still just a boy. I should have never left him alone,” Mortain muttered, dunking the cloth again.

  “Monsieur?”

  “Even if he should survive,” he explained, squeezing the cloth again over Mierta, “my son’s face will never fully heal. He will be scarred for the remainder of his life. I don’t know if he will be able to accept that. He is already too burdened. It’s not fair. My son, oh my poor boy!”

  After fifteen minutes passed, he lifted Mierta again, laid him on the bed and wrapped him in warm blankets. Soaking the cloth once more, he carefully placed it directly over the raw skin.

  Mortain then knelt down beside the bed to pray. “My Lord,” Mortain said, folding his hands in prayer, tears forming in his eyes. “What have I done to offend thee so? First, you took my magic and then you took my wife. I beseech you! Do not take my son. Don’t take him. Please.”

  “Monsieur McKinnon!” Armand called with urgency, having noticed a change in Mierta’s condition.

  “Not now Armand,” Mortain rejected.

  “I beg to differ, Monsieur. Mierta has stopped breathing. I fear he’s dying.”

  “What?” Mortain questioned with disbelief. He gazed over at his son, pulling back the covers for confirmation. Mierta’s chest had gone still and his stomach was no longer moving. “Mierta?” He asked in a whisper, tears falling down his face. He leaned in to listen, verifying he could no longer hear air moving.

  “No, Mierta,” he said, persuading. “It is not your time. Please, son, I beg you, breathe! Breathe! Don’t give in.”

  Mortain gazed up at the ceiling again and held his hands together in prayer. “My Lord, please! He’s just a little boy! Spare him!”

  Promptly wiping away the tears with his hands, he laid his ear over the centre of Mierta’s chest, grateful to hear his son’s heart still beating, though it was now fluttering even more rapidly. He lifted his head, and gently laid a hand over Mierta’s left breast.

  Mortain’s mind hastily concluded, He’s still alive, but only just. His face is starting to take on a bluish skin tone. It is only a matter of minutes before I lose my son.

  He stared down at Mierta’s body, willing his son to take another breath. Only it remained the same.

  “Please, Mierta. Please, son, breathe!” he cried. Then, he began to consult with himself. “What am I missing? Lungs are badly injured, and his throat and mouth are swollen…they must be preventing him from being able to breathe in a lying position. That’s it!”

  He turned and spoke with authority, “Armand, assist me, quickly! My son must be repositioned before it’s too late!”

  “Oui, Monsieur McKinnon.”

  Armand adjusted the pillows on the bed while Mortain carefully lifted his son so he was in a sitting position.

  “Do you believe he is going to be all right now, Monsieur?” Armand questioned, watching Mortain lay a finger on the side of Mierta’s neck, checking his pulse.

  They both watched intensely Mierta for any changes.

  Come on, this has to work! Breathe, Mierta, please! I cannot lose you…

  Mortain sighed with relief when he witnessed Mierta start to breathe again on his own, even if it was shallow.

  “That, I regret, is yet to be determined,” Mortain explained, his face filled with worry. “Mierta must be closely monitored until his lungs heal. There is still a possibility he could stop breathing again or worse, his heart might decide to stop beating. I shall keep vigil and examine him further at first sunlight when I can determine what other treatments may be best for him. The most important thing now is that he be kept quiet and rest.”

  Armand nodded. “Oui, Monsieur McKinnon. I shall go fetch a nightshirt for the young lord. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to assist you.”

  “Thank you, Armand,” Mortain answered, smiling graciously.

  MIERTA STIRRED when he felt something touch the surface of his lips. It was cold and wet. He tried to open his eyes but the lids felt heavy and sticky.

  “No, Mierta,” he heard his father say. “Don’t try to open your eyes. You are still very weak. You’ve been unconscious for two days. Your lips are dry and cracking. I shall give you something to drink, but sip it with caution. Your throat is still very swollen.”

  Mierta parted his lips slightly and felt a cool wet sensation as his father spooned water into his mouth. The wetness seemed to disappear as soon as it touched his parched tongue. “Mmmmore,” he managed to croak out.

  A slight smile crossed Mortain’s lips as he heard his son speak. “Just a little more, son. Don’t want to do too much all at once.” He spooned another small portion of water into Mierta’s mouth.

  This time Mierta could feel the cool water go down his throat. Confusion clouded his mind as it seemed to burn him. He coughed in an attempt to stop the burning.

  Mortain crinkled his brow with concern. He set the cup and spoon down on the bedside table. He poured a spoonful of a tincture he had brewed earlier. “It’s all right, son. I shall give you something to relieve the pain.”

  He carefully spooned it into Mierta’s mouth and watched as the potion quickly took effect.

  “Sleep my boy. You’ll be all right, now.”

  TWO MONTHS LATER…

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  Orlynd entered the throne room and made his way to Déor. Sunlight shone brightly through a large round window above the entrance. The sun spot it left on the floor matched its intricate design. Large pillars on either side of the hall stood silently as if they were quietly watching Orlynd approach. Ornate tapestries hung from the tops of the pillars. On the walls behind the pillars were floor–to–ceiling stained glass windows that threw colourful shadows at Orlynd’s feet. He looked up to find Déor sitting on this throne with Anya in a chair next to him.

  “Orlynd, thank you for coming,” Déor said. He stared at Orlynd intently while taking in a deep breath, trying to focus on what he had to say next.

  “Is something wrong, Yir Grace?” Orlynd asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable by the king’s stare. He pulled his hands together and placed them in the sleeves of his robe.

  Déor sighed. “Yes. I never foresaw myself needing to do this, but,” he glanced over at his queen, “Anya and I are seeking your counsel.”

  “Aye, Yir Grace,” Orlynd said, a bit surprised.

  “There is a matter that has come to my attention. The question is how do I know we can trust you?” Déor inquired.

  “Ah’m nae sure Ah understand,” Orlynd replied. “Huv Ah done something tae make yis question ma loyalty?”

  “If I may?” Anya said, gazing over at Déor.

  Déor nodded.

  Anya raised an eyebrow. “What I believe my husband is trying to say is that he has more pressing concerns than taking care of this trivial situation, however, he must get involved. There are rumours of brigands poaching the king’s fallow deer in Cara Forest, located on the outskirts of the kingdom. It is necessary to confirm these rumours.”

  “Aye,” Déor acknowledged. “Truth is I cannot do this alone, and I won’t risk sending just anybody. I have already acquired Aindrias’s assistance. He has proven to be more than worthy of completing this task; however, one man may not be enough if we should run into unforeseen trouble.”

  “Ah’m nae sure Ah follow,” Orlynd said.

  “I require the aide of your wand. Spells would be more effective than swords against bow and arrows. Can I count on you, Orlynd, to protect us?”

  Orlynd swallowed hard. “Aye, Yir Grace. Ah shall wit ma life.”

  CARA FOREST—THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238

  CARA FOREST, full of old and young trees, spread across the vast lands to the borders of the kingdoms of A
racelly and Glendalow. The forest was known for the deep red leaves of its trees. Interspersed between the trees were many ferns and flowering plants. The buzz of insects and scurrying of small animals filled the air. Most of the area remained unknown since the thickness of the trees and uneven paths made it difficult to explore. Nevertheless, the forest was the favoured hunting place of the king and his royal hunting party.

  “Be on your guard. We do not know what we may find in there,” Déor said from his horse. Before proceeding further, he reached into his tunic and pulled out the Bynoch, laying it against his chest.

  Noticing the necklace, Orlynd uttered, “Yir Grace is wearing the necklace yir father gave yis.”

  “Aye. Do you have a problem with that, warlock?” Déor asked in disgust. When Orlynd didn’t respond, he said, “I didn’t think so.”

  After following an uneven dirt path with various twists and turns, Déor abruptly stopped and raised his hand in caution when they heard what sounded like an animal’s shriek.

  “What was that?” Aindrias asked.

  “Whitever it wis came fi the west,” Orlynd replied.

  “Follow me!” Déor grabbed a hold of the reigns and urged his horse to gallop faster.

  Ten minutes later, the party stopped again when they came upon blood in the dirt. Déor jumped down from his horse to investigate.

  “Animal’s blood,” he said investigating further up the path. “There’s a trail.” Getting back on his horse, he slowly followed the blood. He stopped when he noticed the blood drops getting bigger and closer together. “We are approaching the creature. I suggest we tie our horses off and proceed the rest of the way on foot. Keep an eye on your back. I gather we aren’t alone.”

  The party walked up the path a short way when Déor stopped short. He could hear the animal whimpering. Raising his finger to his lips to instruct the others to remain quiet before searching to the right of the path, he saw a patch of brown fur with white stripes and spots. Upon further inspection he concluded it was a fallow deer. By the size of the antlers, it was five or six–years–old; an arrow protruded from its side. The animal was bleating loudly, and its eyes were wide with fright and pain.

  Déor sighed and muttered to the ground as he approached the creature. “It is true then.” He knelt down near the deer’s head, withdrew his dagger, and gently lifting the animal’s head, he said, “Forgive me. A swift death is a good death.” He slit its throat.

  All members of the party turned to look when they heard the whooshing of an arrow as it flew past Déor. It landed on the ground beside him.

  Déor stared at the arrow before noticing a young man, standing a few feet away dressed in a simple tunic.

  Realising he had been seen, Eoghan quickly lowered his bow.

  “Brigand!” Déor called out angrily, releasing his sword, Ruairí, from its sheath before charging.

  Preston, another brigand, jumped down from a branch in the tree Aindrias was standing beside, stabbing him in the side with his dagger.

  “Aindrias!” cried Déor, stopping when he heard his guard cry in pain.

  Preston proceeded to kick Aindrias in the stomach, knocking him to the ground.

  Gavin, still hiding in another tree, readied his bow and arrow, targeted Déor, and pulled back on the string.

  “Gulpe ursígo!” shouted Orlynd as he ran forward towards Déor, knocking the arrow down before it was able to hit the king.

  Déor gasped. He glared towards the direction the arrow came from, quickly pulling a star knife from underneath his belt, which he flung at Gavin in an attempt to dislodge him. Déor watched as Gavin tumbled from the tree branch to the ground, his neck pierced.

  “Gulpe ursígo!” Orlynd shouted again, startling Déor, in order to protect him against another of Eoghan’s arrows. Orlynd quickly raised his wand again. “Vorbíllion!”

  They watched as Eoghan was sent flying backwards, hitting the ground hard, and appeared to have lost consciousness.

  Preston stood over Aindrias, the guard’s sword in the brigand’s hand, its blade touching the edge of his neck.

  Aindrias glanced up into the man’s eyes. Preston pressed the blade’s edge lightly into Aindrias’s neck until there was the beginning of blood. One swing of the sword and everything would be over. There was no hesitation in Preston’s face. Aindrias swallowed hard and closed his eyes, ready to admit defeat.

  He heard a swish, the sound of blood gushing and something hitting the ground beside him. Aindrias opened his eyes to see Preston’s head, which had been sliced from his body with one swing from Déor’s sword, lying beside him.

  “Come back and face me, you coward!” Déor shouted as Eoghan quickly fled the scene. “You shall hang for this!” He turned. “Aindrias!” exclaimed Déor, turning, noticing the blood soaking through the side of Aindrias’s tunic. “You are injured. I am afraid I do not know much about healing practices.”

  “Do not let it trouble you, Your Grace,” Aindrias said between groans. “I have taken worse wounds from a dagger’s blade than this. I assure you my life is not in peril.”

  “I’m relieved. However,” Déor said, turning his attention to the warlock, “Orlynd, do you know any spells that can help relieve Aindrias’s pain while on the return journey?”

  Orlynd shook his head. “Nae, yir Grace. Ah’m afraid only witches n’ warlocks capable ay performing healing magic huv been trained in Poveglia.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Nonetheless, we will have to do our best. Aindrias, will you be able to ride?” Déor asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Allow me tae dress yir wound until we git back tae Vandolay,” Orlynd said.

  “I was not aware you had the talent to dress wounds,” Déor said, watching Orlynd carefully bandage the wound. “Are there other talents you may be hiding from me, warlock?”

  “Nae, Yir Grace,” Orlynd answered. “Ma father’s best mate wis a healer fi Poveglia. Ah believe he taught him some basic techniques, which ma father later taught me.”

  Déor crossed his arms. “I believe I may have misjudged you, Orlynd. If it hadn’t been for what you did back there, all of our lives may have been forfeit. It would appear there is truth to your words. I suggest we make haste for Vandolay, get Aindrias treated, and get some rest.”

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  Good people of the realm, we thank you for your presence on this day in joining us for food and wine. My queen has something she would like to say,” Déor spoke with a smile as he turned his attention to his wife. “My queen?”

  Anya stood behind a long table, which had been set up for the feast to come. The canopy above waved gently in the light breeze. King Déor and other high members of the court enjoyed the shade it provided. Lesser nobles and their families were seated at tables that had been set up on the grass affording them a sideways view of the main table.

  “Thank you, my king,” Anya said, turning to those present. “We are so fortunate to be gathered here today to enjoy these privileges, for not all are so fortunate. Today we remember King Francis, the accomplishments and victories he brought to this beloved kingdom and mourn his passing. By royal tradition, we also celebrate the life of his son, Déor, your newly crowned king!” The queen’s speech was met with a round of applause and cheers.

  Déor smirked, raising his hand to acknowledge his subjects.

  “This day marks another important event in the history of our kingdom—the beginning of King Déor’s reign. With me, Anya of Glendalow, his queen, at his side, may his reign be long and prosperous! To thank the gods for another year of peace between the kingdoms, the king has decreed all food leftover from the royal hunt will be shared with those in need. Please, join me in raising your cups in a toast to your king! Bring forth the royal goblet!” Anya announced.

  From the left end of the table, Orlynd watched the royal goblet holder appear carrying an empty goblet in his hand. From afar
it appeared like any other golden goblet, but up close the symbol of the family’s crest was distinguishable.

  Orlynd continued to stare, not showing any kind of happy emotion. He did not mean it as an act of disinterest or disrespect; however, he was finding it difficult to celebrate anything these days. He was still the son of an exiled man, and despite the warning he had delivered to King Francis, Orlynd still felt a remnant of guilt for the king’s untimely death. He wondered if Déor felt that way, too? For lately his cruelty towards Orlynd seemed to have escalated. Nonetheless, it was his sworn duty to serve and protect the king in whatever way he could, even if that meant forfeiting his own life.

  The royal goblet holder approached the table, picked up a pitcher, and filled the king’s cup to the top. Neither Déor or the goblet holder—or even Orlynd—was aware of the small dab of yellow powder waiting at the bottom of the king’s cup. Unaware of what was to come, Déor picked up the cup after the goblet holder had filled it.

  “Long live the king!” Anya shouted, raising her cup, gazing over at her husband.

  “Long live the king!” the crowd repeated, toasting the king.

  Déor grinned before tilting his head back and consuming some of the delicious mead from his goblet, the same recipe preferred by his father. He enjoyed how its essence easily travelled down his throat before it was replaced with a bitter taste. Déor pondered why he couldn’t recall experiencing such a bitter aftertaste before, but disregarded it and quickly finished the rest.

  “Look my dear, the cake!” Anya announced, distracting the king from his thoughts.

  Applause sounded from the other attendees. The enormous cake was situated on an oversized tray, which required four sturdy men to carry.

  Déor grinned, stood up and released his family’s most treasured sword, Ruairí, from its sheath. He walked around the table and approached the cake. The cake bearers prayed the king wouldn’t accidentally miss his mark and slice one of them instead.