The Rite of Wands

by Mackenzie Flohr

WHEN LILIANA opened the door, she saw Orlynd had climbed down from his horse and was cradling Déor in his arms. Behind them a large crowd of witches and warlocks had gathered, some curious to see what was going on, while others seemed just as anxious as Orlynd. As Liliana made her way down a large flight of white marble stairs, her hair shimmered so intensely in the sunlight she could have been mistaken for an angel.

  “What is the meaning of this? What has happened?” Liliana asked with an authoritative voice, lowering herself to the ground so she could examine the king.

  “His Majesty was shot with an arrow in Cara Forest. It was poisonous,” Orlynd explained with anxiety in his voice as Liliana loosened the king’s tunic and wool shirt. He watched as Liliana pulled the piece of cloth used for bandages from Déor’s chest and took an intense look at the wound near his breast.

  “Strychnos toxifera,” Liliana uttered. “It is a plant often used to create poisonous darts and arrows. But how can this be? He should be dead already.” She placed a finger over Déor’s neck and felt a pulse that was quickly becoming weaker. “He is fading. The poison has already spread through his vital organs. Soon his lungs will be put to rest. He doesn’t have much time left,” she said, raising her wand and positioning it over the centre of his chest. She placed her other hand over Déor’s forehead as she uttered, “Emaculavi el curpas y mehartis!”

  Orlynd watched as a white healing light slowly absorbed into Déor’s body, and Déor’s breathing became stronger.

  Amazed, Orlynd looked up at Liliana. He had heard many stories of her healing abilities, but he had never seen her up close before. He took a minute to study her features.

  Liliana was an extremely beautiful young woman. She had a heart–shaped face and a mole located slightly right of her upper lip.

  “Ah beg ay yis,” Orlynd said unexpectedly, tears falling down his face as he looked up into Liliana’s face. “Yis must save him. The future ay oor kingdoms depend oan it.”

  Liliana looked straight into Orlynd’s eyes and spoke with a sassy voice. “Do not doubt my gift. I will save him!”

  “Is everything all right, madam?” a warlock who had come down the stairs asked.

  “Yes, Leon,” answered Liliana still gazing at Orlynd. “Help me get the King of Vandolay into one of the sick rooms. Gather all of our advanced healers and instruct them to meet me there.”

  “Yes, Ms. Liliana,” Leon replied. He moved towards Orlynd and carefully lifted the king into his arms.

  Liliana waited till Leon had passed her by before turning around to proceed back up the stairs. Abruptly she stopped and looked back at Orlynd intently.

  “Do not fear,” Liliana said. “We will see to it your king’s life is spared.”

  McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW

  1260 CE

  Father? Armand informed me you wished to see me?” Mierta said, taking a few steps into the room.

  He glanced around and observed his father was no longer in his sickbed. Fear filled his heart.

  He turned back to Lochlann who had followed him up the stairs. “No one is to enter this room, but me,” Mierta cautioned.

  He could feel his pulse in his temples and sweat droplets starting to drip from under the pits of his arms. He crept over to the right side of the bed and stopped. There was blood, lots of blood, and his father’s body lay on the ground.

  “Mierta?” questioned Lochlann, entering the room. “What’s wrong?”

  Hearing footsteps behind him, Mierta turned around, forcing Lochlann to stop. “Don’t come any closer! Get out of here! Get out of here, now!” he exclaimed.

  “Where’s father?” Lochlann asked, returning to the hallway. His body began to tremble. Something was wrong. “Mierta? Talk to me!”

  “Shut up, and do not come any closer.” Mierta turned around. He stood still staring down at his father’s body. There was blood, far too much blood. There wasn’t a doubt in Mierta’s mind his father was dead. “He’s over here,” Mierta responded, fighting tears from forming.

  “What? You mean, unconscious? Is he all right?”

  Mierta took in a deep breath. He attempted to calm himself only it was useless.

  “I do not know,” Mierta answered, his voice breaking. “I’m going to have a look.”

  With dread, he slowly approached his father. Attentive of the blood, Mierta lowered to his knees. As he moved closer, he observed his father was still, positioned on his side. His eyes were open, but no movement could be seen. Mierta moved a hand to his mouth, arranging it into a fist, preparing himself for the worst. He placed a finger over his father’s neck. The body was still warm, but there was no pulse.

  No, Mierta thought.

  He bowed his head while laying a hand over his father’s shoulder. His father had gone to be reunited with his mother and the man his father considered to be his best friend.

  “I’m sorry,” Mierta whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

  He had been so close to discovering a cure, but it hadn’t been enough. Mortain had been too ill. Even so, he had failed. The future he had seen in his Rite of Wands was coming to pass. Last thing he expected was that it would begin through his own family.

  As he wept, he continued to look over his father’s body. The front of his long white nightshirt was covered in blood. It looked like his father had vomited and then died shortly afterward. The metallic cloying smell was filling the air. It reminded him of the time he had sliced open a piglet from the chest down in order to understand pain tolerance as it squealed in agony. He recalled wondering whether his had mother felt the same pain while she was being murdered.

  Rage towards himself filled Mierta’s mind. He had failed not only to save his mother, but now also his father.

  Then, he noticed what looked like a crumbled piece of parchment sticking out of his father’s hand.

  Crinkling his brow, he carefully reached for the parchment, and smoothed it out in his hand. It had not been written too long ago for the ink had partially smeared; however, the writing was still legible.

  It read: “His real name is Verlyn.”

  What? What kind of bollocks is this? Who is Verlyn? What were you going on about, father? Mierta wondered.

  “Father!” cried Lochlann, breaking Mierta’s thoughts.

  Hearing the sound of footsteps behind him, Mierta quickly reached into his pocket, turned around, flicked his wand and shouted, “Vorbíllion!”

  Lochlann was lifted into the air and thrown rapidly backward against the wall. An audible, “Oooof!” escaped from Lochlann’s lips as he fell to the floor like a statue being pulled down from its pedestal.

  Not caring whether he had injured Lochlann, Mierta talked down to him. “I warned you…not to come in here. I do not understand why you refuse to listen! Do you not comprehend the words coming out of my mouth are important?!” There was an edge of pain in his voice. He paused, noticing Lochlann was not moving.

  “Lochlann?”

  Worry filled his face. His pulse was now throbbing in his ears. He quickly inhaled and exhaled a few times.

  “Lochlann,” he stammered, wiping tears from his face.

  What have I done? Mierta thought. I only meant to get him out of the room.

  He rushed over to his brother. Keeping his grasp around his wand, he gently turned Lochlann onto his back. He looked down into Lochlann’s pain–filled face, watching him desperately try to inflate his lungs.

  “Lochlann, listen to me,” Mierta began, regaining control. “Your diaphragm is paralysed. You cannot breathe, but it is only temporary. I will get you relief.” He drew Lochlann’s knees up to his abdomen. “Now, I need you slowly inhale through your nose, and exhale through your mouth. Go on then, and do as I say.”

  Lochlann obeyed.

  A few minutes later, his breathing steadied. Mierta checked his pulse, feeling it stabilise.

  “There. That better?” He smiled.

  He began to stand when Lochlann revealed his
wand from underneath his robe.

  “Palavaríso!” shouted Lochlann, causing Mierta’s wand to fly out of his hand and land directly behind him.

  Mierta briefly stared at his empty hand before looking behind him, noting the location of his wand on the floor. He turned and looked back at Lochlann with bewilderment.

  Lochlann has never been courageous enough to challenge me. Perhaps I misjudged him, and he isn’t as incompetent as I had initially thought, Mierta concluded.

  “What is your problem?” shouted Lochlann, holding his wand out towards Mierta. “You could have killed me!”

  “I’m sorry. I lost control of my emotions,” Mierta said, holding up both of his hands. “Please. Put your wand away!” Mierta watched Lochlann lower his wand and place it in a pocket of his breeches before he lowered his own hands. He looked Lochlann in the eye. His voice sounded hopeless. “He’s dead, Lochlann. Father succumbed to the Shreya.” His emotions were beginning to control him. “You must believe me. The longer you remain in his house the greater chance you will succumb to the same disease.”

  “I won’t just leave you and father behind,” protested Lochlann.

  “You have no choice!” shouted Mierta. “I will accept the task of burying his body.”

  “Mierta, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do. I told you before. I’m infected. Believe me, if anyone should make contact with the blood or merely inhale the particles from this room, they shall become infected, too!” Mierta answered, turning away. How long would it be before he started showing symptoms? A few days? A week?

  “Mierta?” questioned Lochlann.

  Mierta looked back at Lochlann. There was a look of fear in his eyes. “You must return to Coinneach Castle and warn the queen.”

  “Warn her of what?”

  “Lochlann, I know you do not understand, but please try to follow, this is very important,” Mierta replied. “Father told me he didn’t just go to Edesia to visit his best mate. The disease was already there. Tiberius wrote father a letter, requesting he come to Norhamptone. He thought father could help. By the time father arrived, hundreds of people were infected. Tiberius was one of the first to succumb. That’s how father became infected.” He paused. “Lochlann, the Shreya has come to Iverna. Please, I beg of you, take Armand and return to the kingdom of Vandolay. Remember to stay in Anya’s good graces and do whatever she asks. If we should survive, she may reward you with a title. Then our plan can proceed, and you will be closer to becoming king.”

  “But, what about you?” Lochlann asked.

  “I must focus solely on my work. If I isolate myself I may be able to conjure up a cure before…” He stopped. He half–smiled at Lochlann. “If anything you must understand, it is this. If I do not find a cure, my life is forfeit.”

  Lochlann approached Mierta and hugged him. “Now, you listen to me. You are the most talented warlock in all of Iverna. Father said you were a genius. I’m confident if anyone can conjure a cure, it will be you.” He broke the hug and glanced at Mierta. “You aren’t going to die.”

  Mierta nodded, though unconvinced.

  “I will go to the kingdom of Vandolay as you suggest. I shall go gather some things. Be well, my brother.”

  Mierta nodded again.

  “Lochlann?” he said, looking away. “Please, apologise to the queen. Tell her I send my love and ask her for her forgiveness. I will be unable to perform my duty as her potion maker. Tell her I request she find a place for you and Armand in court.”

  “Of course.”

  He watched Lochlann leave the room.

  A few minutes later, Mierta walked up to where his wand lay on the ground and picked it up. He studied it, confirming it had not taken any damage. He shrugged, placing it back into the pocket of his breeches. Defeated, he approached his father’s bed and sat down on the edge. He pulled his hands up to his mouth and wept.

  Thank you for spending your time reading the first book in The Rite of Wands series. If you enjoyed what you read, would you please leave a short review on your favorite review site?

  The greatest compliment you can show an author is by leaving a review. It not only lets them know how much you appreciate their work; it also opens the opportunity for other readers to find and discover their next favourite book or series.

  Thank you!

  If you would like me to notify you when my next book is available to purchase, please contact me via my website, my Facebook author page, or my author blog on WordPress, and I will add you to my mailing list.

  To the After Hours Writing Group composed of Erin Eveland, R.A. Andrade, Shelly Towne, Lynn Parsons, Ted, and Matt Calabrese—for your insightful feedback and encouragement to keep writing, and to never give up!

  To Max, for giving me the best writing advice anyone could have given – keep going back in the past.

  To Aunt Carol, for the sleepless nights you spent critiquing my story like it was an Honour’s English assignment, and for being honest when my writing needed improvement.

  To Ivette Perez—for assisting me with the phonetics of my spells

  To Donna Lutkus–Phillips, for your assistance and endless patience of being my sound board, and putting up with me when I would do nothing, but obsessively ramble.

  To my amazing editor Lisa McNeilley, for your insightful knowledge, feedback, and leadership to help bring my vision to life.

  To Jacquie New, my multi-talented proof-reader. Thank you for being the perfectionist you are!

  To BHC Press for being an awesome publisher, and creating my brand, front and inside covers, etc. You are the absolute best!

  To the very talented Magical Alley for helping forge and bring to life Mierta’s wand, and creating the coolest wand stand to coordinate.

  To British actor, Matt Smith, for inspiring the creation of Mierta McKinnon. Without him, this series would have never existed. Swoosh!

  Mackenzie Flohr grew up in the heartland of America, chasing leprechauns and rainbows and dreaming of angels. Her parents nurtured a love of fantasy and make-believe by introducing her at a very young age to the artistic and cultural opportunities that the state of Ohio had to offer.

  From the time she could hold a pencil, Mackenzie was already creating pictorial interpretations of classic stories, and by the age of nine, she and a childhood friend were authors and reviewers of their own picture books.

  While following her love of adventure, Mackenzie found a second home, the Beck Center for the Arts Children’s and Teen Theater School. It was there that a world of wonder was only a script and a performance away.

  Yet it wasn’t until she was on a trip to Indiana, viewing a Lord of the Rings exhibit, that the innermost desire of her heart became clear to her. She wanted to write a fantasy of her own, one that could inspire imagination in others and lead them into a magical world of their own making. She hopes The Rite of Wands will do just that.

  Wherever we live and wherever we come from is our individual heartland. Anything is possible and everything can happen. Pure imagination is in all of us—we only need to discover it, and sometimes story telling helps.