The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  Déor placed his sword back in its sheath. “Please, my Lady,” he said, reaching out a gentle hand.

  The woman’s crying immediately stopped, but her face was still turned away from him.

  “Are you injured?” Déor inquired. “Do not be frightened.”

  She turned around and let out a shriek. Age had not been pleasant to her. Her face was deathly thin and decaying. The bones of her face protruded and there were patches of baldness on her head. Her eyes were bloodshot and demonic.

  “Be gone, you foul creature!” Déor cried, raising his sword and stepping back.

  She shrieked again and approached him.

  “Why are you here?” Déor recognised her to be the banshee from the stories he was told as a young prince. His family was haunted by an omen; a woman dressed in white. Whenever she appeared, it meant only one thing: DEATH.

  “Have you come to claim my life? Is that why you drew me out here? Speak, and trouble my family no more!”

  She looked into Déor’s eyes. Slowly she brought her finger up to her lips and she spoke in a long drawn out whispery voice, “Klaocala.”

  She transformed and disintegrated into a thick, white glue–like substance as an arrow flew through what remained of her body. Déor gasped and stumbled a few steps back. He reached towards his right breast and grasped the arrow that had punctured his tunic.

  He then saw Eoghan standing with his bow drawn.

  “Y…y…you!” stated Déor between rapid breaths. “You shot me. Why?”

  “You think you’re such a great king? Your people in Deermid’s Fields in Glendalow are starving! All of their potato crops are dying! They begged for a share of your grain, and what you have you done? Ignored them!”

  “Nay,” Déor tried to reply. This terrible news about his people’s crops was the first he had heard. Someone had deliberately kept this information from him.

  Eoghan lowered his bow and walked up directly to Déor and pushed the arrow further into his body. “This is for the two men you killed. Long live the king!”

  The sound of horses from the royal party coming their way echoed Déor’s anguished cry.

  Eoghan ran into the fog.

  “Stop,” King Déor cried as he collapsed.

  Déor grasped the arrow that had punctured his chest. He took in a throbbing breath and pulled the arrow out. The pain was so intense, but the wail that escaped his lips brought him strength.

  The arrow before him was covered in his blood and an unknown substance, which was rapidly changing the colour of his blood to something metallic.

  What evil is this? Déor thought.

  He took a painful breath, while a loud, high–pitched ringing filled his ears. Dark clouds began to form in his vision. He could feel his heart quickly beating as he attempted to stand. Holding out a hand to keep his bearings, he took one step and stumbled to the ground.

  Still clutching the arrow with his left hand, he reached forward with his right and felt the ground beside him. His vision was gone. He paused and then stood again. Taking one more step forward, he faltered, and took several more steps sideways before finding the ground again. He rolled himself onto his back and lay against the red fallen leaves, hoping the feeling would pass. Refusing to allow himself to give in to the darkness, he reached up and grasped the gem hanging from a black string around his neck.

  Slowly Déor closed his eyes, loosened the grip around the arrow, and began to give in to the poison. He felt in his heart his life was forfeit, but he hoped somehow the Bynoch would provide him the strength to continue on.

  A pool of blood quickly formed next to him, and a strange fruit–like aroma filled his nostrils.

  CARA FOREST—THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1260 CE

  Orlynd grew increasingly uneasy about letting the king wander off alone. He convinced the king’s guards to go back with him and find Déor.

  “Yir Majesty!” Orlynd exclaimed. The warlock quickly jumped down from his horse and lowered his hood, revealing uneasy eyes.

  “The king’s been injured,” stated Tierney, turning his attention to the blood seeping from Déor’s tunic. “Your Majesty. Can you hear me?”

  “Let’s huv a look,” Orlynd said.

  Déor groaned.

  Tierney watched as Déor took in a painful breath and slowly opened his eyes.

  He said nervously, “Forgive me, Your Majesty. Your clothing must be unfastened in order to treat your wound. Will you permit us to assist you?”

  “Granted,” Déor whispered.

  Tierney was gentle, but quick. He gasped when a deep gash was revealed. “In the name of the gods what could have caused this?”

  “There! In his hand! An arrow!” exclaimed Aindrias. “Someone’s deliberately caused his Majesty harm.”

  Orlynd ripped off a piece of material from his robe’s sleeve and handed it to Tierney. “Keep pressure oan it,” Orlynd instructed. Orlynd then examined the arrow.

  The blood is the colour of metal.

  He ripped off another piece of material from his sleeve and wrapped it around the arrow. He lifted the arrow close to his nose.

  Nae odour.

  “Your Grace!” exclaimed Aindrias. “I beg of you. Tell us who did this. We will find the villain and see that he or she meets swift justice.”

  Déor blinked. He felt frightened, but he couldn’t recall why or why they were there. Then the king recalled his grim circumstances.

  Spirit…Eoghan…arrow…

  Déor opened his mouth to speak, but his words were incomprehensible. He began to breathe rapidly in a panic.

  Orlynd abruptly dropped the arrow. “Calm, Yir Majesty. Speak nae. Save yir strength.”

  “Or,” Déor whispered.

  “Ah’m here,” Orlynd said, taking Déor’s hand.

  “Orlynd,” Déor said, shivering violently.

  “Hold oan, Yir Majesty!” Orlynd insisted. He placed a cool hand over Déor’s brow and could feel the onset of fever. Whatever was ailing the king was quickly getting worse. With a voice of determination, Orlynd spoke, “If yis need tae tell me anything, look into ma eyes, n say it wi yir mind.”

  With the last of Déor’s strength, he obeyed and fixed his gaze upon Orlynd for as long as he could.

  THE PREVIOUS events from Cara Forest filled Orlynd’s mind. He saw a man carrying bow and arrow, dressed in simple peasant’s tunic with a rope around his waist. Orlynd watched as Eoghan lowered his bow and walked up directly to Déor and pushed the arrow further into his body.

  “Long live the king!”

  The scene went dark and transformed. Orlynd found himself in Coinneach Castle in King Francis’s bedchamber. Before him was the king’s massive ornately carved wooden bed, and on the floor on the foreside of the bed, lay the King Francis’s body. A metallic liquid was still trickling out of the corners of his mouth.

  The young prince knelt beside his father’s body and wept, saying, “Father, wake up!”

  “Ah’m sorry, Yir Grace,” Orlynd said as he reached out to comfort the young prince.

  However, Prince Déor aggressively pushed him away. “Don’t touch me!” he said, turning around, tears falling down his face. There was a mix of pain and anger in his voice.

  “It’s all your fault! You should have known! You only had one responsibility, to protect my father, and be his soothsayer. But you couldn’t do that, could you, because you are a liar and a fake!”

  “Yir Grace, Ah tried.”

  “What use are you to me? You disgust me! Now, get out of my sight before I throw you out!”

  ORLYND FOUND himself in the present. The king had lost consciousness. As he stared into Déor’s face, he realised history was trying to repeat itself. “Ah dinnae fail yis last time, Yir Grace. Ah warned yir father, but he dinnae listen. Ah promise Ah won’t fail yis this time.”

  “I found foot tracks going the opposite direction,” Tierney interjected. “I’m sure I can catch whoever did this on horse.”

>   “No!” shouted Orlynd, his gaze fixed back on the wound.

  They both looked at Orlynd with confusion.

  “Oor king has been poisoned,” Orlynd announced. He turned to Aindrias and Tierney. “Tierney, yis shall git back tae the festivities n’ inform her Majesty whit has happened here.”

  “Yes, Orlynd,” Tierney answered. He watched Orlynd reach into his robe and bring out his wand.

  “And what about you?” Tierney asked.

  “Ah’m taking Déor tae Aracelly. There’s only wahn person who can help him now,” Orlynd replied, climbing onto his horse. He glanced down at Aindrias. “Help me git him oan tae ma horse.”

  “I shall accompany you. It is my duty to protect the king,” Aindrias said.

  “Nae,” Orlynd protested, “We will be able tae travel much faster if it is jist oan horse.”

  Aindrias nodded, lifting Déor towards Orlynd, who wrapped his arms around Déor in order to keep him from falling. “Thair healer, Liliana de Caitie, can save his life. Thit Ah’m certain.” Orlynd’s expression showed determination. “The days ay the prophecy shall commence. It has been foretold.”

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1260 CE

  Night had fallen and the banquet hall of Coinneach Castle was filled with guests celebrating the day’s festivities. Witches and warlocks from the kingdom of Aracelly, and men from the kingdom of Vandolay and Glendalow attended.

  The queen’s court enjoyed dancing to the fiddler’s music while other guests enjoyed food and wine. All seemed to be genuinely pleased to be in attendance, except for the queen.

  “His Majesty has still not returned from the royal hunt,” chided Ciarán, sitting to the left of his daughter. “Certainly he will be disappointed to be missing all these celebrations in his honour.”

  “Is that worry I hear in your tone?” mocked Anya. She sneered. “I am certain my husband will not be delayed much longer. Tell me, what news of Glendalow?”

  “The plan has been a success. The potato crops are turning black and shrivelling up in Deermid’s Fields. Even the ones that looked salvageable have gone bad. I sent word that the king was displeased with their inability to properly grow their crops and as a result has raised their taxes.”

  Anya, most pleased at the news, nodded her head slowly.

  “However, the people have objected. There is talk if Déor doesn’t change his mind, they will revolt.”

  “Then we shall teach these worthless peasants that when they disobey their king, there will be further consequences,” Anya stated. She leaned back into her chair and grinned. “If they don’t want to pay taxes then their contribution to Déor’s tribute will be increased by 10%.”

  “The crops are already failing; how will the people be able to give more?”

  Before the steward could protest further, Anya raised her hand to silence him.

  “They will simply have to work harder and plant more. And if they should choose to refuse again, the tribute will keep increasing until there is no food left and they have no choice but to sell their belongings, as well as their children off as slaves, in order to survive,” she continued.

  “Forgive me, Anya, but why?”

  “You will never address me in such an informal way ever again. I am not just some commoner, I am your Queen!” She leaned in close to her father. She paused, laughed to herself and backed away so no one would notice the conflict. She calmed herself. “Perhaps, I had not made myself clear. You may be the steward, and my father, but that does not make you indisposable. Do not think I cannot strip you of your title and banish you from my court.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Ciarán objected. “You easily forget you wouldn’t be the queen if I hadn’t convinced Chancellor O’Brien you were a worthy suitor for his Majesty’s son. King Francis would have searched elsewhere for a bride for his son.”

  “Well, now,” she mocked. “King Francis is no longer the king, is he?” She smiled mischievously and then laughed.

  Suddenly a loud commotion came from the entrance of the banquet hall.

  “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!!!” exclaimed Tierney as he quickly made his way through the crowd towards the queen. The guests were shocked by this intrusion upon the celebration. Some protested loudly while others simply shook their heads.

  “What is the meaning of this interruption?” Anya asked.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” said Tierney, lowering himself to the ground. “I come to you in haste with terrible news.”

  Anya eyed him with anticipation. Her heart began to race. Had her plan to kill the king been successful?

  “What is it, Tierney? Speak.”

  Tierney took a deep breath and gazed up at Anya. “We were on the hunt in Cara Forrest. Déor became separated from us.”

  “What happened, Tierney? Stop biting your tongue. What are you not telling me?”

  Tierney looked directly into Anya’s eyes. “A man came out of the forest and shot the king with an arrow. Déor’s been poisoned.”

  Anya stood abruptly. The crowd gasped. She stared forward, displaying no inkling that she already knew of the foul plot to kill the king. Anya swallowed, held her head high, and raised her hand to silence the crowd.

  “Thank you, Tierney. We will find who is responsible for this crime and see that justice prevails.” She slowly approached Tierney as the crowd bowed. “I seek an audience with you and the steward in my private apartment immediately,” she stated. She then addressed her guests. “I bid the rest of you goodnight.”

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1260 CE

  “IS THERE anything else I can get for you, Monsieur McKinnon?” Armand asked as he brushed a cool wet cloth against the old man’s heavily wrinkled, feverish face.

  “Yes,” Mortain answered with a raspy voice. He reached forward with a shaky hand as he tried to sit up.

  Seeing he was too weak to do it himself, Armand approached the bed and assisted the doctor.

  “Please fetch Mierta,” Mortain said between breaths. “Quickly! I…must…speak with him,” he took a deep breath and coughed several times. “Need…to…tell him. Be quick,” he uttered trying to calm his rapid breathing. “He is…in the cellar.”

  “Oui, Monsieur. I’ll fetch him right away,” Armand said, carefully helping the doctor reposition comfortably in his sickbed.

  “My quill!” Mortain gasped. “No time. Need…my quill.”

  As soon as Armand had left the room, Mortain went into a coughing fit. He felt something warm and moist escape his lips and get caught in his beard. When he looked down towards his pillow, he also saw several drops of blood.

  COINNEACH CASTLE—

  THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1260 CE

  “TIERNEY, TELL me everything you know,” commanded Anya.

  “Of course, my queen,” Tierney replied, then hesitated. He contemplated informing her about Déor’s strange behaviour prior to the attack, but decided not to.

  “Well?” said Anya.

  “Yes, so sorry, my queen,” Tierney apologised. He cleared his throat. “The king stated there was a man dressed in a peasant’s tunic with a rope tied around his waist.”

  The steward instantly recognised the man’s description.

  “Your Majesty,” he began, “the man he speaks of is a resident of Glendalow. His name is Eoghan. He is a brigand. He is already wanted for looting. He has also been accused of being connected to an unsolved crime involving a witch who was murdered in a

  back–alley twenty–five years ago.”

  Anya turned to her father and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I am familiar with him. He has already had previous trouble with the crown for poaching fallow deer in Cara Forest.” She then turned back to Tierney. “Please, continue.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” He cleared his throat again. “Eoghan flanked the king, using the fog to his advantage, and shot him.”

  Anya nodded with understanding. “And Eogha
n? Was he captured?”

  “No my queen. He escaped through the forest.”

  “I see,” Anya said as she walked towards the windows. “And where is the king now?”

  “With the warlock Orlynd, My Queen. They are going to Aracelly.”

  Anya turned suddenly. “To Poveglia I assume?”

  “Yes, My Queen.”

  Anya clenched her fists, but was careful not to display too much emotion. She relaxed her fists and smiled at Tierney. “I am pleased His Majesty is getting treatment. I am certain he will be cured. The kingdom of Aracelly has the best healers. If anyone can save the king, it will be their healer, the witch, Liliana. I’ve been informed her skills are legendary.” She then turned back to her father. “I require the assistance of your new potion maker.”

  “Your Majesty?” Ciarán questioned. “Forgive me. I do not have a potion maker.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I hadn’t informed you. That job has recently been filled. Mierta McKinnon will now be serving Glendalow and Vandolay. As you may recall, his father has served as court physician for many years, and lucky for us, Mierta has inherited his father’s talents. I could not envision anyone else being more capable.”

  “Your Majesty has chosen well,” Ciarán replied.

  “I’m glad you approve,” Anya responded. “Tell him he is to construct a truth serum for me. The information Eoghan provides him may be regretful. However, I trust his skills will force Eoghan to admit his guilt, and we will be able to quickly proceed with his execution.”

  “As you wish. I will send a messenger to his residence as soon as I return to Tarloch Castle.”

  “Excellent,” Anya answered. She waited until the steward had left the room. She then looked Tierney straight in the eyes.

  “I have a request of you that I also hope you will accept.”

  “Anything, My Queen.”