The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  “Preparing arrangements for what, Ezekiel? I demand an explanation.”

  Ezekiel stared at Déor, not feeling the need to answer him.

  “No! That will not happen. Orlynd will survive this, he has to.”

  Ezekiel briefly lifted his eyebrows, a bit surprised by Déor’s reaction. He cleared his throat again. “There is one other thing you can do to help him.”

  “What is it? Whatever it is I will do it!” Déor said.

  “The warlock needs to be undressed and his body cooled. Once the linens arrive, prepare a large basin of water from one of the water closets. Dunk the linens into the water and lay them over him. Be cautious, he may experience a fit if his temperature is lowered too quickly. I shall return shortly.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Déor replied.

  “Anytime,” Ezekiel smirked before bowing and taking his leave.

  Déor turned his attention back to the warlock. “Hold on, Orlynd. Please, stay with me.”

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  Your Grace!” Mortain exclaimed, barging into the private apartment with Mierta following behind him, “We came as quickly as we could.”

  Unexpectedly he stopped walking when he noticed Ezekiel leaning over, finishing an administration of a small tincture to Orlynd. The warlock was still lying in bed, covered only by bed sheets, his chest rising and falling at an even pace for the first time since he had become so ill. It had been two days since the warlock’s initial poisoning, and he still had not woken.

  Ezekiel picked his head up and pursued his mouth in a self–satisfied smirk. “Good afternoon. I am Ezekiel Kavanagh, at your service. His Grace has gone to rest. I take it you have interest in this patient?”

  Mortain smiled politely. “Yes, I am his Grace’s court physician.”

  “Is that so? I do beg your pardon, you are Mortain McKinnon, are you not? Your reputation precedes you.”

  Mortain’s cheeks blushed. “Yes, why, thank you.”

  “And you must be his son, Mierta,” Ezekiel stated matter–of–factly, noticing the large bandage covering Mierta’s left cheek. He raised an eyebrow. “Shame you had such an unfortunate accident with compounding chemicals. Hearing the tale of your circumstances sent his Grace into a bit of a frenzy.” He laughed.

  “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” Mierta replied, frowning, raising his hand to his mouth to cover a cough.

  “Now, now, that is enough small chat, yeah? How is the warlock?” Mortain intervened, not wanting Mierta to be further upset.

  Ezekiel eyed Mortain, before turning his attention back to Orlynd, pretending to ignore Mortain. “The warlock is not fully recovered yet. I’ll admit when I first encountered the boy, I did not expect him to survive, but he has a remarkable resilience about him.”

  “That is wonderful news indeed,” Mortain smiled.

  “Yes,” Ezekiel replied, turning his head and staring at Mierta before speaking again. “I imagine your son inherited his talents from his father.” Ezekiel lifted the goblet, sitting on a nightstand untouched since the original incident. “Mierta, please examine the inside of the goblet. Tell me, what can you distinguish about the poison that was ailing Orlynd? Does the goblet in particular have an unusual odour? Be quick!”

  Mierta glimpsed over the goblet with uncertainty. What if he was unable to come up with the answer? He hated the idea of embarrassing his father, but he also felt compelled to prove he was ready for compounding. He raised the goblet to his nose. A very faint fruity fragrance with a mix of honey suckle, coconut and vanilla filled his nostrils—the three key ingredients to the king’s favourite mead. However, the remnants of the poison were completely hidden.

  “There’s nothing unusual about the fragrance. It just smells like mead,” Mierta reported.

  “That’s correct, well done,” Ezekiel smiled. “The culprit is concealed to the human nose. The warlock would have had no knowledge what he was about to drink was poison. Now, please, investigate further. Do you notice anything that should not be present, but is?”

  Mierta took a deep breath before inspecting the inside of the goblet. At first he noticed nothing out of the ordinary, taking note of the crest of the kingdom embedded into the goblet. Then his eyes grew wide and his pulse increased when he noticed remnants of a yellowish–green substance at the bottom. “Yes!” Mierta answered. “I reckon I have seen this before. It is some kind of flower or berry.”

  “That is correct. It is the yellow flowered form of deadly nightshade. It originates from a perennial herbaceous plant in the tomato family. Mortain, may I inquire about your plans for your son’s future?”

  “Yes, well,” Mortain began, proud of Mierta’s ability to pass Ezekiel’s challenge. “I would imagine it would only be advisable his father teaches him all that he knows when he is of age.”

  “I see,” Ezekiel said, fixed on Mierta. “And may I ask when will that be exactly? Your son is very advanced for his age and should expect nothing but the best education.”

  “And who would you suggest teach him?” Mortain retorted, feeling defensive.

  “I will train the boy. I admit his limited knowledge has impressed me, Mortain. I will arrange living quarters, food and clothing for him at no trouble to you. I will also provide him a quill, paper and a pigeon by which means he can write. I will release him when I feel his skill is satisfactory, and I will not accept no for an answer. You should expect him to do great things, Mortain.”

  “That is very kind of you,” Mortain replied, indigently, “but I don’t know.”

  Disregarding Mortain’s comment, Ezekiel again addressed Mierta. “That cough of yours, that is a result of your accident, no? I have some medicine at my Apothecary which will help with that and promote further healing of your lungs. Come by and see me later. I do not expect I will be needed here much longer now that his Grace’s court physician has arrived,” he finished, turning to Mortain with a smirk. “I leave him in your good care. I bid a good day to you all.”

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  The next morning the sun shined brightly through the window of the king’s private apartment. The sound of birds singing echoed through the room.

  Déor opened his eyes and wiped the sleep out of them. He stretched and stood up from the chair he had fallen asleep in the night before. He tilted his head slightly, thinking he heard something when he realised he could hear Orlynd speaking, though it sounded breathy and weak, like a whisper. “Orlynd is speaking,” he said, breathing in and out. “Everyone wake up right now!”

  The announcement woke both Mierta and Mortain who had also fallen asleep in chairs.

  Déor, tossed between intense excitement and worry, gazed quickly over towards the bed. He confirmed he could hear the warlock speaking. “What are you saying?” he whispered. He turned to Mortain. “Tell me what’s wrong with him. His voice sounds too frail.”

  Mierta turned his attention to Orlynd. He leaned forward and listened carefully for about a minute. “He’s going on about something,” Mierta responded, tilting his head, trying to understand Orlynd’s words. “It is a series of words. He is repeating them, but I can’t quite make them all out.”

  All three approached Orlynd who was still lying on his back. His eyes were closed, and his head occasionally shifted as if he was suffering from a nightmare. His chest was rising and falling at a quickened pace.

  Mortain lifted Orlynd’s left hand and felt for a pulse, finding it strong and steady. He then checked his temperature, discovering his fever had lowered significantly. He gazed at Mierta bewildered.

  “Has his fever returned? Mortain, I demand an explanation for this madness he is uttering,” Déor said.

  Before Mortain could answer, Mierta leaned in and listened to Orlynd whispering.

  “Well?” Déor asked a bit impatiently.

  Mierta hesitated before
suggesting, “I dare say it sounds like a poem.”

  “Yes? And what is he saying specifically,” Déor inquired, a bit too aggressively.

  Mierta nodded his head nervously. He listened to the words again, then started repeating them. “When dual warlocks of royal blood reflect their image. A time of great peril will commence…”

  Frustrated, Déor rubbed his hands through his hair.

  “When dual warlocks of royal blood reflect their image?” he interrupted. “What utter nonsense could Orlynd be speaking of? There are no warlocks in the royal family. Could he be having some sort of fit because of his treatment? Or, perhaps fallen into madness?” Déor said to himself. He glared over to Mierta. “Is that all he said? Again! Repeat.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Mierta answered. He stared down intently at the warlock, waiting for Orlynd to start muttering the words again when Orlynd’s eyes abruptly opened and the warlock sat up.

  Startled, Mierta jumped back.

  “Orlynd?” Déor asked.

  Promptly, Mierta walked to the edge of the bed and looked into Orlynd’s face. He observed Orlynd was staring forward, his gaze appearing far away.

  Mierta studied him for a good minute, noticing a remnant of flames displaying themselves in Orlynd’s pupils. “Something is not right. I can see fire in his eyes.”

  “What?” Déor interrupted, suddenly recalling his father speaking of Orlynd having the ability to make predictions when his eyes appeared to have fragments of flames. “Record whatever he is uttering right now!”

  Orlynd spoke again, this time with a voice that didn’t sound like his own.

  “When dual warlocks ay royal blood reflect their image, a time ay great peril will commence. Oan who is coerced will seek the betrayal ay power. The energy ay magic will serve the bearer who brings peace.”

  Orlynd stopped speaking, closed his eyes, and collapsed back against the pillow.

  Déor quickly moved toward the bed, his eyes wide with shock. “Orlynd!” he cried. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears. He quickly turned his attention back to his court physician. “Mortain, please,” Déor stammered, finding his voice. “Is he dying?” His eyes filled with tears, fearing the worst.

  Again Mortain checked Orlynd’s pulse and temperature. “Sire, I do not understand how, but the fever has turned. He is sleeping naturally.”

  “Oh, thank the good Lord!” Déor responded. “When he wakes I must seek his counsel, and apologise for doubting him. I shall be forever in his debt. He is a soothsayer like my father said.” He stood and walked towards the doorway of his private apartment.

  “Your Grace, may I ask where you are going so urgently?”

  “To locate my scribe. I need to make a proclamation clearing the O’Brien name. Send for me when Orlynd is conscious.”

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1238 CE

  Orlynd, please accept my apologies,” Déor began, approaching the bed. “I know you have just woken, but I must inquire about something you said earlier with urgency.”

  “Yir Grace?” Orlynd asked, confused, sitting up.

  “Earlier, you said, ‘When dual warlocks of royal blood reflect their image, a time of great peril will commence. One who is coerced will seek the betrayal of power. The energy of magic will serve the bearer who brings peace.’ Please, I beseech you, what does this all mean?”

  Orlynd gave Déor a confused glance. “Ah apologise, Yir Grace. Ah’m afraid Ah dinnae recall whit yis speak ay, though Ah recall ma father said Ah spoke thit once before.”

  Déor blinked, disbelief in his face. “Yes. My father said your eyes would…” Déor paused and ran his hand though his hair, “forgive me, I cannot think of any other way to describe them other than looking like flames. I doubted your legitimacy, and for that I apologise with the utmost sincerity to both you and my father. I have disgraced his memory. However, I do question your prediction. You spoke of warlocks with royal blood. There has never been a warlock in the royal family. May this perhaps been instead a warning that Aracelly means to invade my kingdom to end my reign? Certainly you must know.”

  Orlynd frowned. “Ah dinnae know, Yir Grace. Lord Kaeto told me nothing about an invasion.”

  “I see,” Déor answered, disappointed. Perhaps Orlynd had spoken something he should not, and now was lying to cover his tracks. After the way he had treated the warlock, he could not blame him if he hated him. “I understand if you do not wish to clarify. I have given you no reason to believe you have earned my love. I admit I have wronged you. I was a terrible prince and I have not been a good king. This will change. I promise you and everyone else in this room, to be a good king, as my father was before me. God spared your life so that I may be able to fulfil this vow. I realise I will not be able to do this alone. I require my conscious by my side, but most important of all, I need the one that shall forever from this day forward be called my friend. Please, Orlynd, forgive me.”

  Mortain and Mierta exchanged uncomfortable glances at their king’s words.

  “Ah forgive yis, Yir Grace.”

  Déor decided to press a bit more. “Tell me, Orlynd, what is the last thing you remember?”

  “The last thing Ah remember,” Orlynd said, struggling to recall, “Ah peered intae the goblet n’ Ah realised at thit moment whit Ah had foreseen in ma Rite ay Wands wid never come tae be. Ah wid nae be thir tae save ma king.”

  “Save me? Save me how? Please, explain!” Déor urged.

  “He can’t,” Mierta stated, interrupting, crossing his arms.

  “Nonsense! Of course he can. I am the king,” Déor retorted.

  “Mierta is right, Your Grace,” Mortain answered. “Discussion of The Rite of Wands isn’t permitted. Lord Kaeto forbids it.”

  “Then, your Lord will make an exception. If my life is in danger, I should know about it!”

  “With due respect, Your Grace, you already do. Someone deliberately poisoned your goblet. If Your Highness had drunk from the goblet instead, your life may have been forfeit. Therefore, Orlynd’s wish to save you has already been fulfilled. You can ask no more of him.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are right. He has already proven his loyalty and therefore shall be appropriately rewarded,” Déor stated. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a freshly inked scroll. “I, Déor, King of Vandolay, hereby decree the O’Brien name shall be cleared of all wrong–doing, and hence forth be forever welcome in my court.”

  Orlynd was deeply touched by the king’s kindness; however, his mind was not at ease.

  Déor noticed Orlynd’s troubled expression. “I’m afraid that doesn’t mean your father can return since it was my father who exiled him.”

  “Ah understand, Yir Grace, n’ Ah thank yis fir yir gesture. However, thit is nae whit troubles me,” Orlynd replied. He could feel an imminent darkness lingering over the kingdom, and if his Rite of Wands had been accurate, war was still to come.

  “What is it? If there is something else I may be able to do, say the word,” Déor said.

  Orlynd half–smiled at Déor. “Ah suppose it wid be tae much tae ask fir an upgrade in living facilities?” he joked.

  TARLOCH CASTLE—GLENDALOW

  1260 CE

  Help him,” Friedrich, a young man no older than his late twenties sniffed, and peered up at Orlynd. Friedrich was sitting on a grey–stone floor, which was stained with blood. They were in an old torture chamber located on the bottom level of the dungeons of Tarloch Castle. He was cradling his unconscious identical twin brother.

  Whit has happened here? How did we git here n’ how can Ah help them? Ah cannae perform healing magic. Whit am Ah supposed tae do? Orlynd’s mind raced.

  The young man lying on the floor was nearly dead. Froebel, as he was called, was naked. Both of his shoulders had been dislocated. Additionally, a large wound, which began at his left shoulder blade, travelled down his back. It was swollen, covered in pus, and accompanied by reddened skin. His chest
was covered with whip wounds. His fevered face was ghostly pale, and his dark brown bangs clung in ringlets to his sweat–covered forehead. His bluish lips were open and his breathing was rapid and laboured.

  Orlynd’s thoughts became distracted when he heard Friedrich cry, “My healing spell isn’t working! He’s getting worse.” Orlynd observed that the young man was of royal descent, dressed in courtly attire. The crest of the kingdom of Vandolay was on the front of his tunic and a manifested quartz crystal hung from a black string around his neck.

  Orlynd’s eyes fixated on the gem. It contained two crystals bonded as one and was wrapped in a golden wire. But that wasn’t what caught Orlynd’s attention. It was the distinct appearance of the two crystals pulsating with a white light. The smaller of the two was slowly growing dimmer. He had never seen anything like that before. It was an even bigger surprise to see the young man grasping in his right hand a wand crafted of Ziricote wood with a blue obsidian quartz crystal fused at the top.

  A wand. Tis cannae be, Orlynd thought. There has never been a warlock in the royal family!

  “Orlynd?” Friedrich asked with a tone of confusion. “Please, you must help him.”

  Friedrich’s face grew ghostly pale just like his twin’s. “Orlynd, please! Save him.”

  ORLYND GASPED, abruptly opening his eyes. His breathing was rapid, his heart was racing, and his body was moist from sweat. Had it been just a dream?

  Orlynd calmed himself. His room had not changed since the night. This hadn’t been the first time he had dreamt such a dream. What was this dream telling him? Was it a vision? A warning? What did it mean? Ever since he was a teenager he had been blessed, or cursed as he sometimes saw at it, with the gift of foresight. He never knew when, where, or how he would receive a vision nor could he ever be certain if the vision would prove to be true.