The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  “Now, now, I understand your fear, son, but it is best that you rest. Unnecessary exertion would be ill–advised.”

  “But, all I ever do anymore is rest!” Mierta protested. “It’s not fair. I’m tired of resting! It has been weeks! It’s boring. Certainly it must have been long enough?”

  “Mierta, must I remind you, you have been very ill? You will be of no help to me by jeopardising your own health,” Mortain said, attempting to convince him.

  “Father, I’m fine,” Mierta retorted.

  “My son, you are not fine,” Mortain replied. “Your lungs and throat were so injured it was only by God’s good grace that you survived at all. I know you are eager to try to hone your skill at compounding chemicals, but if recent events have proven anything, it is that you are not ready.”

  “What? But, Father!”

  “I do not expect you to understand, but I’m requesting you try. The fault is not yours. You are after all still very young. No, I admit the fault is mine. The act of compounding chemicals is a delicate matter and should not be done unsupervised. I will forever regret my decision, for the repercussions are irreversible and nearly cost you your life.”

  “Father, please,” Mierta begged, tears forming. “Do not blame yourself. It was an accident. It was MY accident! I went looking through the book believing I could find a recipe I could compound on my own. I thought I could make you proud.”

  I am proud of you; you are my son, Mortain thought.

  “Instead I have brought shame and embarrassment to the family,” Mierta continued.

  No, Mierta…

  “I am sorry. I’m so sorry!” Mierta said, his face full of guilt and regret. “Please, I beg you, do not prevent me from discovering the one thing that I must.”

  Mortain turned away. He could not bear to see the expression on his son’s face when he uttered the next words, “I’m sorry, my son, but I cannot permit you to continue practicing compounding chemicals until you are of the proper age. I cannot risk the possibility of losing you again.” He eyed his son. “You will obey me, will you not?”

  Mierta bowed his head in defeat. “Yes, Father,” he responded, his voice breaking.

  “Thank you, son,” Mortain answered, relieved. “Now, lay your head back down on the pillow. I need to replace your bandage.”

  Mierta nodded and did as his father asked, blinking back tears, determined not to show any weakness even though he felt like his heart was breaking in two. His resolve failed the moment his father pulled a chair over to the bed and started to pull the bandage away from his face.

  Listening to his son sniffing, watching him wipe away tears, Mortain furrowed his brow, trying to hide his worry. He hated hurting his son like this. He felt if his heart could break, it would at that very instant. Mierta was ready, he never doubted it. The fact that he had even attempted to make a potion solidified that he was. However, he reflected with sadness, being able to successfully compound chemicals did not guarantee prosperity. He had to protect his son, and if the only way to prevent Mierta from making the same grave mistakes he did was to forbid him, then Mortain was prepared to do so. Perhaps then Mierta would give up compounding altogether.

  As he gently pulled away the bandage, veins could be seen where thick scar tissue had already formed. He was pleased to see the salve he had been placing on Mierta’s face since the accident had both soothed and aided in the healing process, though he doubted he would see any further improvement.

  “How does it look?” Mierta asked. He didn’t wish to have half of his face damaged for the rest of his life, but it was a punishment he would accept. He began questioning whether being an Apothecarist really was his fate.

  “It is healing as expected,” Mortain said, handing Mierta a small bowl of salve after helping his son sit back up. “This emollient will help soothe the pain from the burns and nerve damage. And if you must step outside, it is of the utmost importance you cover your face with the bandages I have left in your nightstand.”

  “Yes, Father,” Mierta answered.

  “Monsieur McKinnon! Monsieur McKinnon!” shouted Armand, his quick footsteps echoing against the wooden floor as he ran up a flight of stairs and down the hallway. He stopped at the doorframe of Mierta’s room with heavy breathing, sweat starting to drip down his brow.

  Mortain turned his head. “Armand, what on God’s good earth is the matter?”

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur,” Armand answered between heavy breaths. “A pigeon just arrived with this letter. It’s from the kingdom of Vandolay from the king and queen.”

  “Bring it to me,” Mortain instructed, taking the paper from Armand’s hands. He opened it and quickly read over the message.

  “No,” Mortain whispered, his face going pale.

  Hearing the shock in his father’s voice, Mierta grew concerned. “Father, what is it? What’s wrong? Has something happened to the king?”

  Not Orlynd, not my good mate’s son. Please, by God’s good grace, let this be a mistake!

  “Monsieur, are you all right?”

  Mortain lowered the letter, folding it in his hands. “I must prepare to leave. The king’s young soothsayer has been taken seriously ill, and I must tend to him,” Mortain answered matter–of–factly, quickly standing up to start preparing for the journey.

  Even if I leave now, I will never make it. It’s hopeless! Orlynd, hold on!

  “His Majesty is sending a carriage, but time is not to be wasted. I shall go by horse and meet the carriage.” He stopped when he heard Lochlann crying from his crib. “Oh, good gracious.” His voice was full of anxiety. “Armand, please fetch Natasha and have her tend to him.”

  “Oui, Monsieur,” Armand replied, leaving the room.

  “Mierta, hand me back the key to the cellar.”

  “What? Why? Can’t I come with you?” Mierta said, standing up. “You promised me an apprenticeship!”

  Mortain turned back. “Yes I did, Mierta, but this is not the time or the place to discuss it.”

  “So, that’s how it’s going to be then, is it? You’re going back on your word,” Mierta accused.

  Mortain sighed. “Mierta, you are too young to understand. I promise to explain everything to you, after I return, all right? Hand me the key, please.”

  With heavy steps, Mierta stomped over to his dresser, removed the key and threw it onto the floor in front of his father’s feet.

  “Mierta!” Mortain scolded. “Whatever has gotten into you? Pick up that key this instant!”

  “No! You lied to me!” Mierta alleged. “You never wanted me to have an apprenticeship.”

  “Now, be fair, you know that is not true. I understand you are upset, son, but you must understand.”

  “You promised me an apprenticeship,” Mierta interrupted, repeating himself, tears forming in his eyes. “Why would you lie to me?”

  Baffled by his son’s reaction, he eyed him carefully. “Mierta, listen, I haven’t. You still will get an apprenticeship. But right now is not the time. Any delay will jeopardise Orlynd’s life.” He could see his son’s body trembling, and Mierta’s breathing had become rapid and shallow again. He could clearly hear the sound of his lungs whistling. Their discussion about the apprenticeship would have to wait.

  “Mierta,” his voice getting anxious. “I need you to slow your breathing and calm yourself. You are making yourself ill again.”

  “I…I…I can’t,” he mouthed between a series of harsh coughs. He leaned over, gasping, trying to catch his breath. He could feel blood rushing to his head and his heart pounding from the exertion. As his eyes watered involuntarily, Mierta feared his lungs were going to close on him again.

  Placing his hands on his knees, Mierta willed his breathing to slow. With each intake of breath, he was able to breathe a little deeper. After about a minute his breathing had returned almost to normal.

  “Monsieur McKinnon! Monsieur McKinnon!” Mortain could hear Armand running up the stairs again.

  “W
hat is it this time, Armand? Can you not see I am engaged in trying to help my son?”

  “Oui, Monsieur, my apologies. That’s why I came back so quickly to see you. Another pigeon has delivered a letter. It’s for Mierta. I read it over, sir, and there’s no mistake of it. He’s been summoned, too.”

  “What? This is preposterous! I will never forgive the king for this.”

  “What?” Mierta tried to ask between coughs. “What’s wrong?”

  Mortain turned back to stare into Mierta’s confused face. “It would appear the king doubts your condition, my son,” he said, placing the letter in Mierta’s lap. “You have been summoned to court by the king of Vandolay. Any misgivings his Majesty may have shall be proven for naught. While I do not feel it is safe for you to travel, you have been summoned, therefore must appear.”

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  What is taking so long?” Déor uttered impatiently, pacing back and forth. He had taken Orlynd to the blue bedroom, named after the colour of the painted walls, located directly behind the drawing room of his private apartment.

  Déor laid the warlock on the bed and helped loosen Orlynd’s robe. He pulled back the blue sheets and stopped, distracted by the sound of Orlynd’s breathing as his chest rose and fell rapidly, yet shallowly. Orlynd’s condition was quickly declining and there was little he could do.

  “A king should not be kept waiting,” Déor spoke, slamming his hands against the edge of the bed.

  He started pacing the length of the ornately carved mahogany bed. The thick woven rug that covered most of the wood floor was soft under his feet. Déor stopped pacing briefly and stared blankly at the large landscape portrait of his gardens on the wall just above the bed’s headboard while a slight breeze from the open window at the end of the room blew in his face. He felt haunted by thoughts of his recent poor decisions.

  The sound of his guard’s voice brought him back to the present.

  “Please, Your Grace must not worry so. I’m confident the healer will arrive soon,” Aindrias answered, trying his best to calm and counsel his king, though he questioned his own confidence.

  “Time is not on our side, Aindrias! Orlynd is getting worse.” Déor felt helpless, watching his advisor fade before him. Convincing himself of Orlynd’s fate, Déor stated, “Thomas has failed me.”

  “I beg to differ. We do not know that,” Aindrias replied.

  Déor paced back and forth again, before stopping. “Do not patronise me, we do know that! My court physician will not arrive in time to aide me. Orlynd’s death will not be swift or painless. He shall suffer greatly and the blame is mine. I do not wish for his forgiveness for I shall never forgive myself. Ever since Orlynd’s arrival, I have been nothing but cruel to him. I never permitted myself to earn his friendship, yet he willingly offered his life for mine. Tell me, Aindrias, why would he do that?”

  “Because it is his duty to protect you as it is mine, Your Grace,” Aindrias answered.

  “Yes, but I am not his king. He is a resident of the kingdom of Aracelly. The dragon Kaeto is their ruler, not Déor of Vandolay,” Déor replied. He brought a chair near the bed and sat down, glancing at Orlynd, his eyes filled with worry. He took a hold of Orlynd’s left hand and was alarmed by the heat he felt coming off it. “His fever has increased.” He stood up again and felt Orlynd’s brow. Alarmed, he turned towards Aindrias. “His skin is dry. He should be sweating out the poison, but instead, it is as if he’s being sucked dry from the inside. Why isn’t he sweating?”

  Aindrias did not respond, his own mind lost for words.

  “Is this my punishment, Aindrias?” Déor sounded exasperated as he spoke, returning back to his seat. “Am I to watch the warlock die for my insensitivity? If so, I beg the gods to grant me my wish and spare Orlynd’s life and take mine instead. I can change. Nay, I will change. I will become a good king, a king that will be loved by all of his people, just like my father was. Orlynd did nothing to displease me. He was only obeying what I commanded him to do.” Déor closed his eyes and prayed.

  An abrupt sound of the door to the private apartment being swung open interrupted Déor’s thoughts.

  Déor looked back with a tear in his eye.

  Thomas bowed. “Please forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty. I have brought the man you have been searching for.”

  Déor breathed a sigh of relief, his heart warming. “Thank you, Thomas. Please, let him in right away,” Déor said, standing from his chair.

  An attractive man with fair skin and long dark brown hair entered and bowed before the King. He carried himself with an air of self–importance with head held high. The long black tunic he wore stretched from his squared shoulders to his feet. He held the orange coloured cape at his waist so it would not distract from his presence. When Déor eyed him over, he got the feeling that this man felt everyone should notice him, not his clothing.

  “Thank you, Thomas. You may leave us, but please watch at the door,” Déor said.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas answered, bowing, before taking his leave.

  Déor waited until the door was closed before turning his attention back to the man. “Are you the Apothecarist my father spoke of who studied in Edesia and taught lessons?” he said. “You may speak freely.”

  “I am,” he replied with a self–important smirk.

  Déor smiled, relieved. “Thank the good Lord. I was beginning to doubt my messenger had reached you.”

  The man smiled slyly. “I shall work on finding a better hiding place next time, Your Grace.”

  Déor was already not liking this man’s arrogance. “What name do you go by?”

  “Ezekiel Kavanagh at your service, Your Grace,” Ezekiel answered matter–of–factly, clearing his throat. “I understand someone in court has become seriously ill. Please, show me where the patient is.”

  Déor nodded. He led Ezekiel over to the bed. “It is my advisor, the warlock, Orlynd. It is my belief he consumed mead that was poisoned at the celebration of my coronation,” he explained. “I suspect Orlynd somehow found out about it and switched his goblet with mine.”

  “I see,” Ezekiel replied, listening intently. When he reached the bed, the first thing he noticed were blisters that had started to form over Orlynd’s face. They appeared as if they were on the verge of exploding. He also took note of Orlynd’s uneven breathing.

  Ezekiel calmly placed a finger over the side of Orlynd’s neck.

  “Please,” Déor spoke with a voice full of anxiety, interrupting Ezekiel’s examination. “I beg you. Tell me you can save him.”

  Ezekiel eyed Déor before focusing on what he needed to do next. It was obvious he could not allow Orlynd to die. The king could punish him severely for that. Given the advanced state of the warlock’s condition, Ezekiel wasn’t sure there was any cure. Nevertheless, he was determined to find a solution. Ezekiel lifted his head.

  “If I am to save the warlock’s life, it is necessary to determine what specifically made him ill. I require the goblet he drank from,” he spoke calmly.

  Déor nodded, handing the goblet to him.

  Ezekiel raised the goblet to his nose and sniffed it, not smelling anything out of the ordinary. Next, he glimpsed inside the goblet, at first seeing nothing, but on a second, deeper observation, he noticed remnants of a yellowish powder at the bottom of the goblet.

  “You are correct in your assessment. Orlynd has been poisoned. He consumed Atropa belladonna var lutea.”

  “Excuse me, what?”

  Ezekiel smirked. He loved it when he had the opportunity to speak medical verbiage. It made him sound smart. “Nightshade,” he replied.

  “Oh,” Déor’s heart dropped. “I’m certain he has drunk our mead before. Wouldn’t he have been able detect it?”

  “No, he would have only been able to taste mead. However, Atropa belladonna var lutea is swift. He would have soon become overwhelmed by an acid burning in his mou
th and throat. Most people think it’s a good idea to attempt to wash it down with water, only to discover they can’t.”

  “That’s what happened to Orlynd,” Déor murmured.

  “Indeed,” Ezekiel responded. He leaned forward and gently lifted Orlynd’s eyelids. Scanning over his brown eyes, Ezekiel became displeased. “His pupils are dilated. He has lost the ability to accommodate to the changing light. Do you recall if he experienced confusion or trouble seeing?”

  “Yes,” Déor answered, finding it hard not to forget Orlynd’s screaming. He was beginning to feel even further regret.

  “His temperature is dangerously high,” Ezekiel stated, after laying a hand over Orlynd’s brow. “Your Grace, I urge you to command your servants to gather all the linens they can find. I must apply wet towels to the warlock’s body in order to lower his temperature. If that should fail, I will obtain leeches to draw the fever out.”

  “It shall be done,” Déor confirmed. He turned towards the door of his private apartment and shouted, “Thomas!”

  The sound of Thomas’s armour clanking against the wooden floor was heard as he approached.

  “Your Grace,” Thomas said, bowing.

  “Instruct all of the servants in the castle to seek out all the linens they can find and bring them here.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Thomas answered before scuttling out of the room.

  The king anxiously turned back to Ezekiel who was cradling Orlynd’s left hand while placing his ear over the centre of Orlynd’s chest. “Is it too late to save him?”

  Ezekiel lifted his head. “Orlynd’s fate is grim. The poison has already attacked his respiratory and circulatory systems. His heart is being forced to contract harder and faster to compensate for his shallow breathing, and I can do nothing to assist his breathing,” Ezekiel glanced down momentarily towards the bed. “I shall require a visit to my Apothecary to retrieve a tincture from the Calabar bean, which will help to slow his pulse and reverse the spread of the poison. The next twenty–four hours are critical. If he should make it through the night I’m confident he will recover. However, it is recommended to prepare arrangements.”