The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

“Round up some of our best soldiers and make way to Glendalow and arrest the brigand.” Anya reached into a dresser drawer and pulled out a small pouch containing money. “For your trouble.”

  “You are very generous, Your Majesty,” Tierney said.

  Anya smiled again. “And don’t forget that,” she said, making a small twirl. “Thank you, Tierney. Now, please, leave me.”

  Once Tierney had left, Anya collapsed onto her couch. At that very moment she realised her plan had backfired. Instead of eliminating the king, she had only quickened the timing of the prophecy. Everyone knew of the prophecy: a person of royalty would fall in love with a resident of the kingdom of Aracelly, resulting in not one, but two, identical heirs. This would bring forth the beginning of a dark period to all the kingdoms. And most importantly, her reign would be over.

  “No,” she sobbed.

  Rage filled her heart. She would see that the prophecy would not come true. If she had to kill Déor and his future concubine, she would.

  She picked up her hand mirror and smashed it across the table. Then she knocked the table and its contents onto the floor.

  At the same time, several soldiers who stood guard in the hall outside the queen’s private apartment tried their best to not show any reaction, completely oblivious of the real reason Anya was upset.

  As each smash became louder, they couldn’t help but cringe.

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1260 CE

  In the cellar Mierta quickly prepared a mixture in his flask, calculating the proper amount of ingredients. He had just finished pouring it accidentally into the wrong cauldron when he heard Lochlann’s voice from the top of the stone stairs.

  “Mierta? Are you down there?” Lochlann called.

  Mierta turned just in time for the contents in the cauldron to erupt all over his freshly cleaned royal blue robe. He stared towards the direction of the staircase with a very irritated expression.

  “Yes, I’m down here!” he shouted.

  The noise from Lochlann’s footsteps became louder as they echoed against the stone steps. Lochlann could hear Mierta swear between moments of self–inflicted pain while he worked unsuccessfully to remove remnants of the potion from his hair without burning himself.

  He stopped on the bottom step, catching a glimpse of Mierta removing his soiled robe and tossing it into a corner. Lochlann raised an eyebrow and covered his mouth, trying not to chuckle at Mierta’s predicament.

  Mierta pretended to ignore Lochlann. He unfastened the belt around his long cream coloured tunic, allowing it to fall against the floor. He lifted his tunic over his head. Patches of skin that had already changed over to an angry pink were revealed.

  Lochlann cleared his throat. “We need to talk,” he stammered.

  Mierta grimaced in pain, walking over to the corner to deposit his tunic alongside his robe. He returned to one of his workbenches that had various ingredients perfectly organised in front of him. He started the potion again, this time working only in his breeches.

  “Mierta are you listening to me?” Lochlann uttered with a tone of irritation. “For God’s sake do you not have a change of clothes around here?”

  Mierta whirled toward him, his upper lip curving. The lighting hit Mierta’s face just right to emphasise the few veins that could be seen on the left side of his face where scar tissue had formed. His eyes looked frightening, like they could pierce Lochlann’s soul at that very moment. “I will find a change of clothes as soon as I have removed these burning chemicals from my skin or have you failed once again to notice I’ve had a slight accident!”

  “My apologises,” Lochlann responded, intimidated. “I shall fetch you some clothes from upstairs.”

  Mierta continued to intently stare at his brother until he disappeared into the staircase.

  Idiot. Mierta thought.

  He walked over to the cabinet and pulled out a small vessel of salve to help with the burns. He carefully applied the ointment between several intakes of sharp breath.

  Shortly afterward, Lochlann returned, holding a long and fancy silk crimson tunic. Mierta reached out for it, taking it from Lochlann a bit aggressively. He did not thank him for the attire. Mierta rolled up the sleeves and walked back to the workbench to stir his potion.

  “Now, you wanted to talk, yes? Well, I’m very busy. I need to calculate the correct ingredients.”

  “It’s about the queen,” Lochlann nervously confessed. “I did something I am not proud of and I am desperately in need of your guidance. I believe I—no, WE—may be in danger.”

  This news caught Mierta’s attention and he abruptly stopped preparing the potion. He adjusted his black breeches. “Danger? What kind of danger? What have you done?” He paused and tried to retain his focus. He picked up a small vial of clear liquid and poured it into a flask, causing chemicals to bubble and sizzle into the air.

  Lochlann swallowed hard and then continued. “Anya persuaded me to deliver some type of poison to a brigand in Glendalow. I believe his name was Eoghan. Anya was attempting to create some kind of setup so Déor could be eliminated during the royal hunt. She implied you were the one who created the poison for her!”

  “Poison?” he asked, already predicting what Lochlann’s next question would be.

  Worry filled Lochlann’s voice. “Please, I beg of you, tell me it’s not true.”

  Mierta thought for a moment, then answered slowly, as if hesitant. “Poison? Why, yes, I do recall making a poison for the queen.”

  “Mierta, I fear we will lose our heads. Everyone will know it was us!” Lochlann exclaimed.

  Mierta laughed with amusement and turned around. “Oh, Lochlann. You, my brother, are a fool.” He grinned and turned back to his potion. “What I meant to say is I did provide a poison for the queen, but it wasn’t my concoction.”

  “Then why would she say you had?”

  Mierta spoke towards the table with a bit of a snarky tone. “How else do you think the late king died?”

  Lochlann’s face turned pale. “I don’t understand,” he muttered.

  Mierta spun around, approached Lochlann and wrapped an arm around him. “Why, of course you do. Quit your gawking and listen to me. Remember the stories growing up? Once upon a time, King Francis, one late, cold night went to his bedchamber not feeling well,” he said, continuing the story while gesturing with his right hand. “He proceeded to undress when suddenly he saw something—a white form, or so he thought it was. It was actually a hallucination.”

  He paused, changing the inflection of his voice, and making it sound quieter. “The king glanced forward. He pointed towards the spirit. His pulse raced and his pupils dilated.” Mierta raised his voice. “’Be gone, you despicable creature!’” He paused. “As soon as he uttered these last words, Francis gripped his chest, unable to catch his breath, and fell to the floor, dead.” Mierta let go of Lochlann and immediately slapped his hands together. “His heart would beat no more, and yet there still was blood dripping out of his mouth. The End. Or was it? Ha!” Mierta turned back to his potions, an expression of achievement filled his face.

  At that moment Lochlann had a realisation. “Rumours stated King Francis had died of fright, but what you are saying is that he was poisoned?!”

  “Precisely,” Mierta answered, his eyes beaming. “Anya wants Déor dead, and will do whatever she needs to in order to see it come to be. All she requested of me was I give her poison in exchange for some new test subjects. Understand, this was the same poison that had previously been used in the castle, but what Anya didn’t know was what I had given her wasn’t fully effective.”

  Lochlann looked at Mierta disapprovingly.

  Mierta’s jaw opened and his face showed disgust. “Did you honestly think I was that stupid?” Mierta took a moment to compose himself before he started speaking again, this time with confidence. “Even if her plan should fail, and trust me, it will fail, as my elixir wasn’t fully potent. But, it still will cause His Majesty
to become very ill. There is a chance he could still die and then there will be trouble. Oh yes, there will be lots of trouble, but you, my brother, will come through for her in the very end. Why? Not because you are desperate for her love or affection,” he teased, “but because you are destined for greatness.”

  Lochlann huffed. “Do not flatter me. I do not have the talent to create potions. I could be the advisor to the king and queen, but I am not a soothsayer. And I do not have the discipline to master the dark arts like you have. There’s no way I can be intended for greatness when I do not even have power.”

  “Ah, power can be a tricky thing,” Mierta answered as he stirred his liquid. “Anya seeks it, desires it in fact, to conquer and rule the world.” He then poured a small amount of potion into a small culture tube and drank some of it. He licked his lips. “Mmm, that is brilliant.” He set down the culture tube, and then cleared his throat. “What Anya needs are subjects that will never betray her and do whatever she commands.” He twiddled his fingers. “I reckon we can manoeuvre right into Anya’s plan unsuspected,” Mierta muttered to himself.

  “Pardon?”

  Mierta stopped. He began to laugh to himself. “Blimey! The solution couldn’t be clearer!”

  He turned to Lochlann and smirked. He wrapped his arm around Lochlann again and continued to speak, gesturing with his free hand.

  “You will continue to aide her Majesty, and I will continue to train you. But, in exchange for taking Déor’s life, you will demand Anya makes you her new king.”

  “Me? king? But that’s impossible! My blood is not of a royal. I can never be king,” replied Lochlann.

  Mierta covered Lochlann’s mouth. “That’s not the point. Laws can be re–written,” Mierta said. “Especially when it involves a Dark Lord.” He winked, releasing Lochlann.

  “I don’t understand. Who’s a Dark Lord?” questioned Lochlann.

  Mierta became distracted by the sound of someone stumbling over a rat on the stairs.

  “Never mind. Shh,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “We are not alone.” They heard the sound of a rat screeching at the indignity of its tail having been stepped on.

  Mierta glimpsed back at Lochlann, nodded, and proceeded to point towards the entrance.

  “Who’s there?” Mierta called to the room. “Show yourself!”

  Mierta and Lochlann stood and listened again.

  Mierta tilted his head when he heard the sound of feet running back up the stairs. Someone had just overhead something they shouldn’t, and Mierta was determined to stop the intruder. Lochlann turned to follow, but Mierta stopped him, raising a finger to his lips. He lowered his finger and raised his wand, positioning it at the ready, and chanted, “Zapídra contrarium!”

  A yelp was heard followed by a loud thud as the intruder’s legs became hard and immobile as stone.

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1260 CE

  Mierta slowly approached the intruder from behind. He reached down and flipped the man onto his back. He stared into the face belonging to his father’s servant. “Ah. Armand. I suppose you overheard our entire conversation.”

  When Armand’s eyes betrayed him, he opened his mouth to object, but Mierta replied, “No, don’t say anything. That wasn’t a question.” He then pointed his wand towards Armand’s chest.

  Armand fearfully looked up at Mierta.

  “You see, with just a slight wave of my wand I could stop your racing heart. Allow me to demonstrate.” He gestured with his wand then focused on Armand’s chest. “Sin pectora.”

  Armand grimaced as he felt his body grow heavy and pain filled the centre of his chest. He looked directly into Mierta’s face as Armand raised a hand towards his body. It felt like the inside of his body was being squeezed together.

  “Yes, you are already experiencing what it feels like to have your life fade before your eyes. Your body becomes so overwhelmed that your heart literally stops while you still have perfect blood flow.”

  Armand opened his mouth, desperate to take in a deep breath, but he could not make his lungs obey him.

  Mierta paused, almost enjoying the exhibition a little too much as he watched Armand struggle. He then thought better of it. “But I won’t kill you. No. Not yet.” He sighed and said, “Pectora cepus,” before lowering his wand.

  Armand gasped again. He proceeded with a coughing fit, this time successfully forcing several breaths of air into his aching lungs until his heart returned to a normal beat.

  “I reckon you will be more useful to me alive,” Mierta said. He turned around and began to walk away as he placed his wand back in his breeches. Abruptly he twirled around. “I will tell you exactly how we are going to proceed, and I can promise you this: it is not going to end well for you.” He looked away and frowned. “Which is quite the shame because I really liked you…until you decided to betray me. You have always been loyal and faithful to my family.” He smiled. “But, you, I have a much better use for you. Yes!” He spun around. “You shall be my volunteer. I have to know if the spell actually works.”

  Lochlann looked confused. “But you just said he would be more useful alive?”

  Mierta turned to the warlock. His face showed disappointment as he awkwardly gestured with his hands. “Who said I was going to kill him?” He lowered his hands, and gave himself a moment to calm. “Trust me, Lochlann, Armand is not going to reveal it was my poison, which was given to you on orders of her Majesty the queen,” Mierta declared.

  “Traitors! Your heads shall roll for your treachery,” Armand cried out, “you will pay for plotting to kill the king!”

  Mierta’s jaw opened. He pointed a finger towards Armand. “That is a load of bullocks. Lochlann, my brother, did you just hear what he called us?”

  “But, he’s right. We are traitors, are we not? We’re both going to lose our heads for this!” Lochlann cried.

  “Relax, Lochlann,” Mierta smirked. “Armand will not betray us, will you Armand?”

  Armand looked dumbfounded at first, then shook his head rapidly, thinking it might be a good idea to play into their plan for the moment.

  “Good. Now, prove to Lochlann I am correct and that you will still serve me by taking off your shirt.”

  “Pardon, good Monsieur?” questioned Armand.

  “You heard me. Go on then. Do as I say, and take off your shirt or I shall get very cross!” Mierta said, emphasising the last word. He frowned and continued, “I promise I will be done with you soon and then you can be off doing whatever you were doing, like helping my father get to Poveglia.”

  Armand was stunned.

  “You didn’t think I already knew of Father’s plan, did you?”

  “Hang on,” Lochlann interrupted. “Father’s ill? Since when?”

  Mierta glanced over to Lochlann and gave him a look that had “you can’t be serious” written all over it.

  “He’ll be all right, yes?” Lochlann questioned.

  Mierta softened his face and stared at the ground. “Father is already too far gone.” He looked up at Lochlann regretfully. “He is dying of Shreya. He’ll never make it there. I’m sorry. He didn’t want you to know.”

  “But, you can cure him can’t you?” He got up close enough to Mierta to appear threatening. “Can’t you?!”

  “No,” Mierta answered. “I have been trying to create a cure, but I have been unsuccessful. The only thing that can possibly help him is performing a pneumothorax technique and putting his sick lungs to rest. However, the fact remains is that we’ve all been exposed. Even I have become infected.”

  Lochlann stood back and looked Mierta over. “That’s impossible! You aren’t showing any symptoms.”

  “It matters not. It’s too late for me, but not for you. You both need to leave until the plague has passed. I shall write the queen, requesting she find a place at court for you lot.” He paused then abruptly tilted his head, brought it back and shook it, becoming irritated by Lochlann’s ability to distract him.
He turned to Armand. “Now, back to business. Take off your shirt or I’ll be forced to hurt you.”

  Armand hesitated until Mierta had removed his wand from his breeches and had started to twirl it in his hand, waiting for Armand to obey him. Armand’s fingers fumbled as he unbuttoned each of the buttons on his wool shirt and removed it, tossing it aside.

  “Good. Now, lay back,” Mierta commanded and positioned his wand in front of him.

  Armand swallowed hard and then obeyed. He breathed in quickly. His racing heart could be seen each time his chest rose and fell.

  Mierta smiled with satisfaction. “Ah. You see, Lochlann,” he said as he strutted toward Armand. “You can’t be a king without an army.” He pointed his wand again towards Armand’s heart.

  Armand responded by clenching his fists tight and closing his eyes. He had no idea if what was to occur next would be painless, if Mierta would follow through and actually kill him this time, or if it would be something utterly excruciating.

  “And you can’t have an army without subjects that will obey your every word.” Mierta looked up and stepped aside, presenting Armand with his wand. “Lochlann, I gift to you, your new second in command.” He turned back to Armand, “Curtreforéa draco machado!”

  Armand’s eyes flew open and his back arched. He screamed at the top of his lungs. He was experiencing the most horrific burning sensation he had ever felt in his life.

  Mierta beamed as he admired his own work while Lochlann stood next to him horrified.

  “Mierta. Mierta, stop this madness!” Lochlann exclaimed. “You are not yourself!”

  “I’m quite the opposite, Lochlann. You forget my wand’s core contains a werewolf claw, which allows me to master transfiguration. Behold!”

  Lochlann turned just in time to watch the appearance of a dark blue circular tattoo forming onto the surface of Armand’s left shoulder. It continued to form until another image appeared, taking the shape of a magnificent red dragon engulfed by flames. The tattoo quickly came to life as the dragon’s head tilted back and roared, matching Armand’s cries.