The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  “Arthur,” Orlynd spoke, trying to figure out why the boy looked slightly familiar to him. He was certain Arthur couldn’t be one of the royal family’s trusted messengers, but then, why was he here? Was he perhaps lost? “Tell me, where ur yir Mam n’ Dad? Ur yis lost?”

  “No, sir,” Arthur responded, “my parents are home.”

  “N’ where is hame? Huv yis travelled far?” Orlynd questioned, becoming more befuddled.

  “Yes, sir,” Arthur replied. “From the kingdom of Vandolay, sir. My older brother was supposed to deliver this to you, but he’s real sick with a rash, fever and a sore throat. Here you are, sir.” The boy pulled a white envelope that had been folded in half from his overcoat.

  Orlynd watched intently as Arthur handed him the note. “Thank yis, Arthur.”

  Orlynd flipped over the letter, discovering it contained a great blue seal of the realm indicating it was something important about a member of the royal family of Vandolay.

  Orlynd sighed deeply. Then he realised why Arthur looked familiar to him. He furrowed his forehead in worry.

  “Arthur,” Orlynd said, placing the letter safely into his bathrobe pocket for safekeeping for later. His worried eyes gazed at the boy. “Yis said yir older brother wis sick? Is yir older brother named, Seamus?”

  Arthur nodded.

  “Huv yis fetched the court physician?” Orlynd asked with concern in his voice.

  “No, sir. The court physician could not come out to our house. He is not seeing people anymore. Mum was crying and said he is really sick, too. She thinks he may be dying.”

  “Blimey,” uttered Orlynd. Multiple thoughts flew through his mind. Seamus had most likely not been seen by anyone else, which made the situation even more perilous. Judging from the state of Arthur’s shoddy attire, his family most likely could not afford the trip to the kingdom of Aracelly to have Seamus seen by the healers at the sanatorium.

  “Tell yis whit, Arthur,” Orlynd replied. “Ah’m going tae help yis git Seamus well again. Jist give me a moment, stay right thir.” Orlynd stood up and went back into the house to fetch some money. After a minute of searching through a dresser in his bedroom where he kept extra cash around in case of an emergency, he returned back to Arthur. He lowered himself down again to Arthur’s height. “Give me yis hand.”

  Arthur did as Orlynd told him.

  Orlynd placed the money in the palm of his hand. “Tell ye Mam nae tae worry. She can git Seamus tae the kingdom ay Aracelly n’ thir is enough tae buy all ay yis new clothes. Oan yis go.”

  “Thank you, sir. Bless you!” Arthur exclaimed.

  Orlynd smiled. He watched Arthur run down the dirt pathway towards the centre of the kingdom. Once he was out of sight, Orlynd went back into his cottage. He sat down on his bed and opened the letter.

  Inside was a summoning, a request for Orlynd’s presence at Coinneach Castle to have an audience with the king of Vandolay pertaining to important matters regarding his upcoming coronation celebration.

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1260 CE

  No! No! No! No!!!” Mierta exclaimed, smelling something burning. He raced down the stairs to discover the cauldron containing his potion, its contents boiling over onto the table. “Ouch!” he yelped, burning the fingertips of his right hand trying to remove the potion from the flames. He set the cauldron down on the table in front of him.

  “What in God’s name?” Anya responded, watching him quickly blow into the pot, trying to cool its contents. “I can assure you, Mierta, you won’t succeed in cooling it down doing that.”

  “Would you please silence your tongue for just a moment so I can hear myself think!” Mierta snapped. “I told you I was engaged.” He muttered something to himself, which was incomprehensible to Anya, before bolting over to the cabinet in order to find something that could help salvage his masterpiece.

  “Mierta, calm yourself. You have yet to hear my proposal.”

  “I do not desire to know what it is,” Mierta answered, making all kinds of noise while searching various tables before squatting in front of the cabinet.

  “I see. So, this is where you keep all of your potions?” the Queen inquired, changing the subject. She raised an eyebrow as she watched Mierta frantically search through the cabinet, occasionally knocking over a bottle of ingredients. She knew what she came for had to be in the cellar, but she didn’t know exactly where.

  “Yes? Were you expecting them to be somewhere else?” he asked with a tone of annoyance.

  “Mierta, would you stop being so cross! I am merely admiring your work,” she replied, trying to discover the location of a particular potion. Perhaps she would not even need to ask for Mierta’s assistance.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re only interested in my business when you want something.” Mierta’s eyes brightened and a huge grin appeared on his face when he discovered a single stirrer located towards the back of the cabinet.

  “That’s absolutely ludicrous,” Anya said.

  “Is it?” Mierta challenged, grabbing the stirrer and walking back to the cauldron on the table. He rapidly stirred the potion.

  “Mierta?” Anya stated, watching him. “Mierta, are you even listening to me? I need your help.”

  He raised a hand up to silence Anya.

  Shock displayed over her face and he lowered his hand. Anger was quickly building inside her. How dare he tell her to be quiet!

  About a minute later, he placed the stirrer down, and carefully dipped his finger into the concoction. He placed the tip of his finger into his mouth, tasting a small sample of the mixture.

  “Still not cold enough,” Mierta spoke to himself, dissatisfied, finishing licking the contents off his finger. He thought he could detect something off about the concoction, but he decided to ignore it. Instead, he reached into his breeches pocket for his wand.

  “What on earth are you doing, now?” Anya pondered.

  “I’m being clever, or you could call it cheating. It’s still too hot,” Mierta said, raising his wand just above the opening of the cauldron. “I have to get the temperature just right.” He made a clockwise motion with his wand and commanded, “Tíofria!”

  A large amount of cloudy white mist rose from inside the cauldron as the contents cooled to just below room temperature.

  Anya stared, uncertain of how to respond. Mierta was one of the most talented warlocks she had ever been associated with and rarely had she seen him so distracted. She sensed an urgency that was completely unlike him.

  “Mierta,” she began, carefully taking his hand into hers as she watched him continue to stare at the cauldron. “What’s wrong, and don’t you dare lie to me and say it is nothing. Speak. I am your queen and your friend. Allow me to help you.”

  “You can’t,” Mierta frowned, shaking her hand away. “Whatever you are plotting in that little head of yours isn’t going to happen. I’m not interested in any help you can give.” He paused as his emotions were starting to become too much. His voice quivered as he revealed, “My father has Shreya.” He turned to Anya when he heard her gasp.

  She covered her mouth with her hands.

  Worry displayed across his face as he continued. “I reckon he became exposed when he recently journeyed to Edesia to visit an old mate.” Then he lowered his glance, his face hardening. He turned his face away and started concentrating back on his potion. “Lochlann doesn’t know yet, so don’t inform him. He doesn’t need to know, not yet.”

  Anya lowered her hands and uttered, “Your father has the plague? I have been exposed!”

  “Nonsense,” Mierta answered. “You haven’t been exposed long enough to be infected. Only my father and I have.”

  She glared at Mierta. “How dare you be so careless and allow me to enter your home during such circumstances! I slapped you, I touched you. It is my royal duty to protect my kingdom from illness. I am their rock, their leader. This entire estate should be quarantined immediately! You have permitted death to
penetrate the lands of Iverna.”

  “NO!” Mierta yelled, slamming his hand against the table, startling Anya. His body trembled and a tear started to form in his eyes. He told himself he would not display his emotions, and he would not show weakness, especially to Anya. “I can reverse the disease.” He blinked the tear back, took a deep breath and calmed himself. “Before you showed up I was constructing a potion to slow down the symptoms.”

  “How?”

  “With this!” Mierta exclaimed, raising his hands out in front of him as he displayed his masterpiece. “It’s a mixture meant to lower fevers and stop the most enduring coughs. Comes from a formula I created during my apprenticeship.” He reached for a small culture tube on the table and poured some of the liquid from the cauldron into it.

  Mierta eyed it carefully, hoping this mixture would work, then tilted his head back and raised the culture tube to his lips.

  Anya interrupted before he was able to consume any of the contents, “And if it should fail?”

  Mierta gazed at Anya, annoyed. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t thought that far into the future. I’ll come up with something else.” He delayed no further before ingesting the mixture.

  However, before he was able to swallow, his face displayed distress. His hand grasping the small culture tube abruptly opened, sending the culture tube straight to the floor. Glass shattered at his feet.

  “Mierta?”

  As the flavours materialised inside his mouth, his brain detected something very wrong. It was the most disgusting tasting potion he had ever created. He could not even imagine someone being tortured could endure it.

  Anya became very concerned at the sound of his gagging. “Mierta, what’s happening? What’s wrong?”

  Mierta raised his hands to his mouth, desperate to not further embarrass himself in front of Anya. His body shuttered and jerked awkwardly as he rushed to find an empty cauldron.

  “What is this madness? Are you having some sort of fit?” Anya asked.

  Mierta raced to the cabinet and found one just in time. He leaned over, gasping after spitting out the contents of the mixture. “Castor oil.”

  “Castor oil?” Anya said.

  Mierta lifted his head as he instantly recognised what was wrong with the concoction. “Yes, castor oil. Castor oil is known for its particular odour and taste.” He leaned again into the cabinet to investigate, pulling out a small bottle containing a very light yellow liquid. “Aha! As suspected, it was substituted for needle oil. There was nothing wrong with my potion. It shall just have to be to be re–made.”

  While Anya watched Mierta gather the ingredients necessary to prepare the concoction, she had a fascinating idea. “I believe we can help each other. My father, the Hand of the King, is in need of a new potion maker at Tarloch Castle. I shall appoint you for the job in exchange for a favour. You will have full access to all areas of the castle, including the primary area in which you will be working, the dungeons.”

  “Well, dare I say it would be quite the challenge,” Mierta smiled. Then he realised the dungeons of Tarloch Castle were filled with nothing but prisoners waiting for their deaths. Mierta’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “There are criminals in those dungeons, people who have done terrible things! Why would I want to help criminals?”

  Anya laughed. “My dear Mierta. Sometimes you can be very dense. You need subjects you can test your potions on willingly. Do not think of them as people. They gave up that title and right when they were arrested. What you decide to do with them is up to you.”

  Mierta crossed his arms. “So, you are going to offer me this position in exchange for what exactly? What kind of favour do you need from me?”

  Anya lifted her face snobbishly. “I need to eliminate the king. The anniversary of his coronation is coming up in a few days, and I am confident I can execute the perfect plan to be rid of him with your assistance.”

  “You do realise that if your plan fails you will be tried for treason. We could both end up in the dungeons of Tarloch Castle or worse,” Mierta warned. “I wouldn’t want to witness the loss of that pretty little head of yours.”

  “My plan won’t fail. It’s too perfect not to.”

  “Then what is it?” Mierta asked impatiently.

  “You,” Anya replied, pointing a finger at him. “You are going to help me recreate a potion, and not just any potion, mind you, but one containing the same poison that killed his father. The original potion creator met an unfortunate end.”

  Mierta stared at Anya uneasily.

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1260 CE

  Orlynd walked down a long hallway that ran the length of Coinneach Castle. The walls were stained a dark red and the flooring was made of cherry wood. As he walked down this hallway, he couldn’t help but feel the eyes of the ancestors of the royal family were watching him. If it weren’t for the many strategically placed windows, the hall would have been in complete darkness.

  As Orlynd approached an intercepting hallway, he could hear footsteps coming toward him. And at the very instant he reached the intersecting hall, the warlock Lochlann stepped out of the hallway and joined him.

  Orlynd glanced to the side where the man was walking beside him. He stopped as his blood ran cold.

  Lochlann continued to walk down the hallway, when he noticed Orlynd had stopped and appeared to be staring at him. He slowed and turned around. “Um? Excuse me, is there something I can assist you with? Dare I suggest you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

  At first Orlynd didn’t say anything, for he was absorbed in his own thoughts. After a few moments he came to his senses and allowed his racing heart to calm. He breathed deeply and then laughed with embarrassment. “Sorry. Forgive me fir ma rudeness. Ah dinnae mean tae stare. Yis reminded me ay someone Ah used tae know. Ah wis oan ma ain tae huv an audience wi his Majesty. Yis must be new tae his Majesty’s court? Ah huv nae seen yis around here before.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a member of his Majesty’s court,” Lochlann answered, studying Orlynd curiously. “Your speech, is that Lorritish? You must be a diplomat from Edinbraugh, I presume?”

  “Nae,” Orlynd countered. “Ah wis born in the kingdom ay Aracelly. Ah reckon ma Mam wis fi Edinbraugh in Lorrina. Ah’m a member ay the king’s court.”

  “Oh. You’re a warlock like myself then. Shame we have never met before. Perhaps we could share a fine drink at Brishen’s next time you might be traveling to the kingdom of Aracelly?” Lochlann smiled. “I don’t suspect this will be the last time I see you. I live in Glendalow now, but I can never turn down a social invitation. Anyway, I’m here to have an audience, too, but with the queen. I am an old friend of hers, and, you’re a member of the king’s court? Who you are precisely?”

  “Ma name is Orlynd. Ah am his Majesty’s advisor. N’ yis?”

  “An advisor, fancy that. My name is Lochlann,” Lochlann responded. “Forgive me. The queen is expecting me, and I do not wish to delay her further. Perhaps I shall see you again, Or?”

  “Orlynd,” Orlynd corrected.

  Lochlann nonchalantly smiled. “Mm. It was nice to meet you, Orlynd.”

  Orlynd stood still like a statue. He intently watched Lochlann turn and continue down the hallway towards the Queen’s private apartments. There was an extreme uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. The warlock resembled Tiberius minus his religious attire. He had the same dark oily hair with the same piercing brown eyes. However, he was thin, and slightly shorter than Orlynd and maybe about ten years younger. The uncanny resemblance had to be a mere coincidence, for his father had been exiled nearly thirty years ago, and both his mother and younger brother had perished. Yet something about this man deeply troubled him. There was a fear in his heart he could not place.

  It was like Lochlann had said; he had seen a ghost.

  “ARE YOU pleased, Your Majesty?” the Lady of the Bedchamber questioned, adding a five–strand pearl cho
ker around the queen’s neck.

  Queen Anya sat in front of her vanity in Coinneach Castle located in the Kingdom of Vandolay. Singing to herself with an angelic soprano voice, she stared at her reflection proudly in the hand mirror. Her eyes intensely gazed as she observed her Lady of the Bedchamber manipulate her long, ginger blonde hair into a beautiful braided bun. She finished by gently stabbing a tiara into the top of Anya’s bun.

  Anya replied, “Do not ask such a foolish question, child. Do you wish me displeased?”

  Vanessa kept her eyes adverted to the floor and waited until the queen permitted her to speak.

  “A thousand pardons, my Lady,” Vanessa said nervously, displaying her inexperience. “I will not ask such questions again. Please allow me to assist you into your dress.”

  “Granted.”

  Anya stood, staring off into the distance without giving further attention to her servant, as she was assisted into her purple and cream–coloured gown for the evening.

  A small smile crept from the corners of her mouth as she secretly imagined the results of the upcoming celebration of the king’s coronation in three days. She expected the warlock Lochlann’s arrival at any time. She had sent him a letter, urging him to seek an audience with her. She had schemed the most unprecedented plan starring Lochlann as a pawn in her giant chessboard.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door. “What is it?”

  “The warlock Lochlann to see you, Your Majesty,” Aonghus nervously mumbled.

  The page was also a new servant to Anya, a boy of no more than eleven. He guarded her bedroom from unwelcome guests, much to Queen Anya’s annoyance.

  “Let him come,” she answered, raising an eyebrow, as Vanessa finished misting her with her favourite perfume.

  Aonghus opened the door to let the warlock in.