The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1260 CE

  What is that?” Lochlann nervously asked. He had seen Mierta experiment hundreds of times on innocent creatures, sometimes out of curiosity, but most times to see how much they could tolerate various spells of torture, but never had he seen him perform on a live human being. He was beginning to believe that his brother was slowly descending into madness.

  “THAT, my brother, is a brand,” Mierta stated between smiles, placing his wand back into a pocket of his breeches. He watched Armand arch his back, screaming, and squirming like a bug trying to get away after being caught up in a spider’s web.

  Lochlann nodded, though not completely convinced. “What does it do then?”

  “Ah. It’s really an easy spell, actually. It’s a mind–binding spell. It makes its bearer lose all of his or her free will,” Mierta explained.

  “How does it work?” Lochlann asked.

  “It activates when the brain receives a sudden burst of…Oi!” He frowned, marching up to Armand. He observed Armand’s entire body twitch. Mierta decided to speak down to him. “Now, I really enjoy a good sound of screaming, but could you stop it now? It really is quite distracting!”

  When Armand didn’t obey, Mierta gestured with his arms and hands. “Oh, come on, it doesn’t hurt THAT much. Quit the dramatics and be quiet!”

  Almost instantly, Armand recovered from the shock to his system.

  Pleased, Mierta said, “There, that’s better. Breathe normally. You are all right now. Go on, then. Put your shirt back on. But, first,” he once again revealed his wand and pointed it towards Armand’s legs, “Zapídra contrarium!”

  Armand regained the ability to move his legs.

  “You can stand up now,” Mierta said, putting his wand away.

  Armand stood as commanded; his movements were slow and stiff and his eyes looked like he was in some kind of trance–like state.

  Mierta grinned, then twirled around and turned his attention back to Lochlann. “Now, as I was saying,” he walked back towards Lochlann and put his arm around him. “Mind–bending spell…it activates when the brain receives a sudden burst of psychic transmissions. Those who are branded have absolutely no control of their actions. Here,” Mierta pulled Lochlann over to Armand, eager to show him the signs of his success. “Look at his eyes.”

  Armand winced when he began to button his shirt.

  “Ah. Yes. Sorry. I forgot to mention to be careful when you button up. The brand will sting.” He laughed in amusement, then turned Armand around and forced him to look at them. Mierta pointed. “Now, Lochlann, notice how the eyes have gone dull. Blimey, it’s an amazing process. His brain is at this very moment desperately trying to fight against its new controller, only it can’t. He can’t resist you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean to say is YOU control the brand. You could order him to do anything, anything at all, and no matter how he truly feels about the situation, he will do whatever you desire. For example,” Mierta turned and frolicked back to the wooden bench. He grabbed some new ingredients, started up a new cauldron, brought it to a boil and then grabbed a new small culture tube and poured some of the solution into it while Lochlann watched in amazement. He was eager to prove to Lochlann just how powerful this spell really was. He returned to Lochlann and Armand. He held the small culture tube in front of Lochlann. “Here. Tell him to drink this. He has absolutely no idea what is in my concoction, but I can assure you he will drink it.”

  Lochlann swallowed hard. He was growing more uncomfortable the longer he stayed. “But what if I don’t want him to do it?”

  “Do you not trust me?” Mierta frowned. “If you truly believe you are my apprentice and I am your master, then you must continue to listen to me and do as you’re told. Go on now, tell Armand to drink that.”

  Lochlann cleared his throat and nodded his head. “All right then. Show me that what Mierta says is true,” he took the small culture tube from Mierta’s hand and held it in front of Armand. “Will you drink this if I tell you to?”

  At that very moment, Mierta locked eyes with Armand’s, his glance piercing Armand’s soul. Lochlann had no idea the true command was coming directly from Mierta to Armand using only his mind.

  “Oui, good Monsieur, I must. It is your will,” Armand responded obediently.

  He reached for the small culture tube and took it from Lochlann’s hand.

  “No, wait!” Lochlann said. “It isn’t my will.”

  Before Lochlann could finish his sentence, Armand bent his head back and drank the solution.

  Lochlann’s face turned to horror. He realised in his heart at that very moment, he had actually wanted Armand to drink the potion. Was he becoming evil? He had no idea what was in the solution. For all he knew, Mierta had only been using Armand as a way to eliminate him from revealing any of the information he may have overheard, and he, Lochlann, had just fallen into the trap.

  “Ha!” Mierta clapped, bringing Lochlann back from his thoughts. He strutted over to Lochlann. “Brilliant, what a very clever way to make an order. You wanted to see what would happen and you got your wish. Now, what will be the result, hmmm? Will he die? Will he turn into some fascinating creature?”

  Lochlann could only stare at Armand, afraid and curious at the same time.

  However, before he could answer, Mierta took over the conversation. “Relax. All he drank was some truth serum. I decided I better start working on one for Anya when she sends for my presence, and believe me, if what you told me was the truth, she will, once this brigand, Eoghan, is caught.” He spun around. “Now, there is one other thing you must understand, and understand it well. Armand will be forever loyal to you. He will never betray you, and he will always do what you ask.” He turned back to Armand, who no longer looked to be caught in any kind of spell. “For example: tell me, Armand, who do you serve?” Again he made persuasive eye contact.

  “The warlock, Lochlann, good Monsieur,” Armand answered.

  No. This cannot be, Lochlann thought.

  Mierta smiled, further pleased at himself.

  “But, what if I don’t want him to serve me? I can’t force him, that’s not me. I beg of you Mierta, how do I break the brand?”

  Mierta laughed. He began to strut away, his laughter becoming even more apparent. Then he became serious, and turned back to Lochlann. “There is only one way to break the spell.”

  “And that is?” Lochlann asked desperately.

  Mierta smirked then spoke matter–of–factly. “Your death.”

  Unbeknownst to them, at that exact moment, their father had gotten out of bed, desperate to find Mierta. Then a severe coughing attack racked his body, causing him to vomit a large amount of blood. He collapsed onto the floor. Dead. In his clenched hand was a letter revealing a disturbing secret he had been keeping most of his life.

  CARA FOREST—THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY

  1260 CE

  Froebel! Ah goat tae help him,” Orlynd mumbled, jolting awake and quickly sitting up. He took several quick breaths and attempted to calm his racing heart. He gazed around him with confusion.

  He was still in the Cara Forest near the end of a red clay road he had been following by horse for several days.

  It was now daylight, but he vaguely remembered setting camp the previous evening when fatigue overcame him, prohibiting him from being able to travel any further. He had made a small fire and had carefully positioned Déor against one of the trees in order to prevent him from injuring himself further.

  The only sounds were of birds chirping, mosquitoes buzzing, and small animals scurrying through the underbrush.

  Orlynd breathed a sigh of relief. He carefully reached up and touched his brow, noticing he was covered in a cold, damp sweat. He had had the dream again, only this time it hadn’t felt like a dream. This time it had felt real.

  Orlynd’s mind flashed to Froebel as he lay dying in his twin brother’s arms. He recalle
d his appearance. He had the same colour hair as Déor, and his twin, Friedrich, was dressed in the kingdom’s royal attire and had Déor’s eyes.

  However, there was also a distinct difference. Never in the king’s lineage had there been a warlock, and yet, in Friedrich’s hand, had been a wand.

  There was no doubt in his mind, the lad was a warlock, and possessed the wand that belonged to Lady Liliana, the healer witch from Poveglia. Yet it was impractical. Based on the rules of the Rite of Wands, a wand could only serve one witch or warlock. It could never serve another. Which meant, yes, he was certain—Friedrich and Froebel, born of witch and man, had to be the king’s heirs. But that didn’t explain why they had been able to possess her wand. They were the mirror twins the prophecy spoke of. The prophecy had come true. And if this had been a true omen, their future was in peril. There was still a chance this future would not happen. Fate could be changed. This vision could never happen. This vision would not happen.

  Determination filled Orlynd’s heart. He would see to it that the royal line of Vandolay would remain safe, and he would start doing that by finishing the task before him—getting the king to Poveglia.

  He stood up and began to walk towards Déor, slumped up against a tree. “Yir Majesty,” whispered Orlynd. “Forgive me. Yis cannae continue tae sleep. We must be hasty n git yis tae Poveglia.”

  He gasped.

  Déor’s face was deathly pale and there was a blue tint around the corners of Déor’s lips.

  “Yir Majesty!” Orlynd exclaimed, quickly approaching him. He knelt down beside Déor and placed a cool hand against his brow.

  The fever’s getting worse.

  “Forgive me, Yir Majesty. Ah hudnae even goat a deck at yir wound.”

  Carefully, Orlynd repositioned Déor onto his back. He unfastened Déor’s tunic, unbuttoned his wool shirt, and opened it, so he could check the wound.

  Orlynd’s face turned grim. Déor’s breathing had become shallow overnight, and the wound looked more metallic than ever. It also did not appear to be healing at all.

  Orlynd placed a finger on Déor’s neck and checked for a pulse. He sighed with relief to find a quick though strong heartbeat. Hope was not all lost. There was still time to get the king to Poveglia.

  “No,” whined Déor.

  “Yir Majesty?” questioned Orlynd. “Can yis hear me?”

  Déor let out a high–pitched squeal, which sounded like an old kettle about to boil and let off steam.

  Before Orlynd’s brain could register what was about to occur, Déor’s body stiffened and began to convulse.

  “Hang oan, Yir Majesty! Stay wi me!” shouted Orlynd. He quickly repositioned Déor onto his side. Tears fell down the warlock’s cheeks.

  It’s ma fault. Ah’ve waited tae long. This fit may take him n’ thir is naught more Ah can dae tae help him.

  Orlynd closed his eyes and prayed Déor would survive.

  Shortly, the fit stopped and Déor’s body relaxed. Orlynd opened his eyes and gently lifted his hands off the king. Anxiously, he reached up and checked for a pulse. Déor was still alive, though his pulse had gotten significantly weaker.

  Orlynd stood up and readied his horse.

  “Hang oan, Yir Majesty,” Orlynd said, stomping out the fire. He turned and attempted to lift the king.

  Blimey! He is heavier than Ah realised, Orlynd thought to himself.

  He reached into his robe for his wand and pointed it at himself. “Esallertis!”

  Feeling additional strength in his arms, he turned and easily lifted the king and positioned him back onto the horse.

  “Thit’s better,” Orlynd said. He climbed onto the horse, placed his arms securely around Déor and grabbed the reins. “Stay wi me a little bit longer! Ah will git yis tae Poveglia!!”

  He then gently tapped his heel underneath the horse’s stomach, commanding him to move.

  As they approached the end of the forest, increasing patches of sunlight could be seen glimmering between the trees. Soon they were in the warm sun and on their way to the large wooden gate, which led into the eastern portion of the kingdom of Aracelly.

  The kingdom of Aracelly was an enchanted kingdom, surrounded by a large river in the shape of an oval, believed by many to be the gateway to the heavens.

  The eastern portion of the kingdom containing cobblestone streets and numerous stone buildings of the same height was where most business and entertainment took place.

  The centre of the kingdom contained four main crossing points, each leading to a variety of other businesses including the sanatorium, Poveglia, which was home to its best healers, and the Draconigena Mountain, located on Draconigena Island in the middle of the harbour. Located directly south was a vast area of flatland, which served as home to many of its residents as well as a resource to grow food and raise animals. Directly to the east were miles and miles of farmland and different coloured cottages.

  The gate hadn’t always been there. Travellers’ used to be able to come and go through the kingdom as they pleased, but that was before the great purge.

  The gate itself was very large and made of wood that was worn from years of exposure to the elements. At first sight it appeared to be solid, but on further inspection a small doorway could be seen in one corner.

  As Orlynd reigned his horse to a stop he studied this small door and shouted, “Oan the orders ay His Majesty, the king ay Vandolay, Ah command yis tae open the gate!”

  A short warlock with a bent back opened the door slightly, took a good look at Orlynd and then proceeded to close the door, only keeping it slightly ajar. He questioned. “And why would the king of Vandolay request entry into Aracelly, the kingdom of the warlocks?”

  Orlynd took a deep breath and spoke a bit sternly. “Ah’ve come seeking aide fir the king. He has been poisoned n’ will die wi out help fi the healers ay Poveglia.”

  “I see. In bad shape is he?” asked the gatekeeper.

  Orlynd was quickly growing irritated by the delay. “Ah’m Orlynd fi Aracelly n’ Ah’m his advisor n’ soothsayer. It is ma sworn duty tae serve His Majesty. Now, delay me nae further n’ let me pass!”

  The gatekeeper hesitated before replying, “Orlynd the soothsayer, we want no trouble here. How do I know that is the real king of Vandolay and not some imposter? You are not carrying the flag of the kingdom.”

  “Ah sent the king’s guard carrying the flag back tae Coinneach Castle tae alert Her Majesty,” Orlynd answered. He waited for the warlock to open the gate, but again, he did not. Orlynd had had just about enough. “If yis dinnae open the gate, Ah will smash it apart wi ma wand!” Orlynd asserted. “Ah’m Orlynd O’Brien, son ay…”

  “O’Brien? Yes, I know who you are. Everyone here knows who YOU are. And it is my job to keep people like you on the outside,” the gatekeeper answered.

  Orlynd’s eyes were full of furry. He didn’t have time to argue. Déor needed help now! He held out his wand in the direction of the wooden gate and shouted, “Obrate resillas!”

  The gatekeeper glanced towards the gate. Creaking wood and stressing hinges met his ears. He jumped out of the way before the gate was smashed to pieces.

  Orlynd placed his wand back into his robe. “Ah says nae mair.”

  He held his eyes forward, taking a hold of the reigns. He squeezed his thighs and gently kicked his horse, who protested with a neigh. They quickly proceeded through what remained of the gate and onwards towards the heart of the kingdom.

  POVEGLIA—THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY

  1260

  You will be feeling much better now,” Liliana stated to the young four–year–old warlock as the white light faded around his wrist.

  “Thank you, Ms. Liliana,” the warlock said, as he wiggled his newly healed wrist around and laughed with delight.

  “You’re welcome,” Liliana smiled between laughs. She lowered her black wooden wand with a dark blue obsidian crystal connected to the shaft and proceeded to put it back into the small right front o
pening of her purple dress.

  She moved strands of stray hair behind her ears. “Remember to be more careful when you play outside. Listen to your mother and keep yourself out of trouble.”

  The young warlock grinned and practically jumped down from his examination table. “I will Ms. Liliana!”

  Liliana nodded. “All right then. Off you go.”

  “Bye, Ms. Liliana and Ms. Elyse!” He waved at the young witch who had been helping the healer.

  She watched as the young warlock left the room. She proceeded to sweep back her long dark, wavy, brown hair.

  A few minutes later, she stopped and abruptly turned her head to the commotion coming from outside the building of Poveglia. Her blue–green eyes widened and her lips slightly parted as she listened to the noise outside growing more intense. She rushed to the window and glanced out to see a large crowd of witches and warlocks that had gathered. She looked a bit closer, her eyes growing wide, recognising the king of Vandolay slumped forward on his horse.

  “Liliana, what is going on outside?” asked Elyse with a voice of worry.

  Liliana turned. She took a deep breath to keep her composure. She then smiled gently and squatted to meet eye level with the young two–year–old witch.

  “Lady Elyse,” Liliana said, looking into the child’s grey–blue eyes as she laid her hands on the young witch’s shoulders. “Please go and find your grandmother. I must go address the crowd. Later, you can help me change a bandage, okay?” Liliana smiled.

  The young witch smiled and nodded. She turned and ran off in search of her grandmother. Elyse’s shoulder–length blonde hair shined against the lighting of Poveglia as she ran down the white marble hallway.

  Liliana turned the opposite direction and slowly started to walk down the hall, her face growing more worried. She reached into her dress for her wand and raced towards the entrance of Poveglia.