The Wand-Maker's Debate: Osric's Wand: Book One (3 page)

“Well gentlemen, it won't be much longer until you will be able to go chase off the last of the fire tellers and head home for the night.” Osric said, with a slap on Toby's shoulder, and he couldn't help adding, “This is the end of my rounds and my feet are killing me!” Then he walked through the large oak doors that were standing open to let the crisp evening air inside. “Hey Kenneth,” he turned back and motioned up the path, “James will be here soon. I made arrangements for after the signing for myself.”

“I knew I could count on you, Sir.” Kenneth laughed.

“How many times do I have to tell you; don't call me Sir.”

“Sorry, Sir!” Kenneth said with feigned fear in his voice. The men laughed as Osric walked into the entrance hall, shaking his head.

The sound of Osric's footsteps echoed back to him from the arched ceiling high overhead. In the short time it took to cross the room, he took in each detail around him. Smooth white granite walls climbed thirty paces into the air to meet the unique stone ceiling. Pale colored stone was intricately layered to create an elaborate scene of wooded hills, yet the stone was so delicate that the sun illumined the scene, adding depth and shadows to the detailed carvings, and its path could be traced across the ceiling to mark the time of day. At mid'day, sunlight streamed in through a great domed skylight, casting a halo of golden light upon the throne on the raised dais in the next room.

Behind him, to either side of the wide oak doors, hung elaborate tapestries. Each told its own story with richly dyed threads. One had been woven by the women of Stanton to depict The First Hunt; Braya with his head bowed and a drogma at his feet, offering its heart to his blade. The other was woven by elven hands and had the haunting illusion of movement in its pastel depiction of Er'amar entering the Grove of Unicorns.

Directly in front of him, a wide staircase led up to a balcony that spanned the width of the room and overlooked the adjacent throne room. The brown marble stairs were wide enough at the top that four men could walk abreast, and they widened gracefully to three times that at their base. Oak hand rails curved majestically alongside the steps, anchored by twisted columns of white marble. The wall behind the stairway, separating the entrance from the throne room, was punctuated by four arching doorways; two on either side of the staircase. A massive crystal chandelier was suspended in midair above the stairs, holding hundreds of lit candles, and torches lined the walls, casting a golden hue to the air itself. Servants went about their business, whisking platters full of food between the throne room and the kitchens.

He ascended the steps to get a good look at the throne room and oversee the Vigiles from the balcony. He noticed a discreet couple standing in the shadows on the far side of the balcony, exchanging whispered endearments over goblets of mulled wine. A young boy sat on the bench before an elegant grand piano. It took a second glance for Osric to realize that the boy was not playing the piano, but rather watching entranced as the keys danced before his eyes of their own accord.

As Osric approached the railing to view the proceedings, he again felt an alarm within him. His muscles tensed, his eyes focused, his hearing sharpened, and it was as though his skin was on fire. Something was not right and the Portentist gift ignited within him. All the joy of the few moments with friends at the door disappeared. As the banquet went on, preceding the greatest peace treaty signing the world had ever seen, Osric gave hand signals to the Vigiles to begin subtly searching the room. He would not be a good custodian of this new post if he did not act when he felt his gift surge within. Having them search in a non-invasive manner would hardly be noticed by the high-society guests.

He watched the ambassadors' tables as they went about eating and drinking. The magical harp in the corner behind the head table was producing a soft, soothing tune, but it grated on Osric's nerves. He needed all of his senses focused on finding the source of the warning that kept building within him. His men were busy searching and he could not get their attention. He knew there was a threat and he must stop it. Something dangerous would happen at any moment.

Time seemed to stop in that moment as he took in the scene. The faces of every ambassador showed joy; representatives of the irua and weasels; who always seemed to side with each other, the councilors for the elves, lions, Wizardly Union, dwarves, and the groundhogs; who had stayed united as long as stories had been told. Down the line, every face, every voice filtered through his gift; no danger was present. He needed to get down into the room and search himself. His Vigiles did not have his gift. They could look right past something, especially if it was small and well hidden. He made the choice, but there seemed so little time.

His Portentist gift prodded him along with an urgency he had never experienced. His heart raced as he approached the stairs at a run and jumped. His legs slid over the highly polished oak railing. Lightning fast, his body propelled down the length of the rail as he tore off his right glove. He slid along on his right hip until he was near enough to the ground for his legs to have a chance to carry him on after the drop. He gripped the railing hard with his right hand, his momentum swinging his body around to face the doors to the throne room. His feet hit the ground smoothly and quickly propelled him through the opening. He could hear a gasp from Kenneth back at the entrance, and his gift enticed him in that direction, as well.
Two pulls? That's a first.
Osric never hesitated; he knew he needed to continue toward the threat. The pull from behind him was peaceful, but the draw from the throne room was danger, and it was his job to deal with it. The strength of his gift was just as great in either direction, and his head felt like it was splitting in two.

The crowd was loud as he entered the room, and many people looked up in response to the way he ran in. He allowed his gift to guide him toward the danger, and it led him straight toward the head table. The pull from behind him was getting closer, and he thought he heard hoof beats coming up the path. Panic rose up inside of him as he rushed deeper into the room. There were so many people there, all joyously awaiting the signing of the treaty. He felt the danger rising, but could not locate the source. The faces of the seated crowd to each side of him lit up with amusement and they began to gasp and point. It all seemed to move so slowly, as he finally spotted the danger. A soft glow was coming from a goblet full of pearls on the head table. The crowd erupted in applause.

“The pearls!” Osric yelled as he slid to a stop and reached for his wand. The exclamations of awe continued from the crowd. He had no time to see why. His Portentist gift told him it was important, yet non-threatening; it would have to wait until he dealt with the threat. He planned to cast the pearls out of the windowed dome, high above their heads. As his hand felt for his wand, despair filled his heart. His wand was gone! He looked down at his side to see if it had fallen. He heard the sound of hoofs seeking purchase on the slick marble, and saw the tip of a ringed horn just miss his shoulder. He was propelled forward a few feet as something collided with his right hip. Light filled the room from the direction of the pearls, and a concussion wave ripped through the palace. Osric felt the cold marble floor, smooth against his cheek, as the blast forced him down.
This can't be the end,
Osric thought, as he felt consciousness fading. Panic, frustration, pain and fear overwhelmed him as everything went black.

2 – The Meadow

Gus was not much for celebrating in his old age. There was no need for him to go to the ratification ceremony, so he would leave it to the young to socialize and celebrate. He felt that a better use of his day would be searching for wand materials.

He preferred to spend his time pondering wand theory as he walked in the meadow, his favorite wand at his left side in a leather pouch that Lady Carrion had made for him. He wasn't carrying anything but a sack for the sticks he collected. Gus was serious about his work; best to carry light and lengthen the time of productivity.

He had a large family to provide for, after all. His species was known for having many offspring, and he was no exception. Gus had lived a very long life, especially for a prairie dog. He had survived three wives, the succession of two Turgents, and a brief yet terrifying excursion in an elven prison cell. Years of gathering raw wand materials had left him slightly kyphotic, and he moved a little slower than he used to, but even hunchbacked he stood taller than any other in his colony. His coat had lightened over the years, and was mostly gray, except for a few dark patches on his shoulders and legs. He stretched his aching back as he placed a perfect stick in the satchel at his side.

It was getting late and his bag was full. The meadow was not far from his colony, but there was one more stop to make before he went home. It was only a short detour, and his empty stomach would thank him for it. He hoped that he could catch Lady Carrion at her evening meal. He did love her food, so much that he made it a regular habit to arrive around meal times. Like all prairie dogs, his typical menu consisted of a variety of plants and insects. However, over time he had developed a taste for other foods. He was frequently invited to dine with his customers, but he had yet to find a chef that could top Lady Carrion's chicken stew. His youngest son, Pebble, shared his love for a variety of fares, and he often brought him home remnants of his dinner.

He had grown quite fond of Lady Carrion since she had arrived in the meadow, and thus, for her he had made an exception to one of his foremost rules. For the first time in his life, he had made a wand out of a spatula. She had wanted one so badly, and he had taken advantage of her generosity many times. She could not afford an Eni spatula wand, so he had fashioned one for her. It was a fine wand, but it drove him to fits to see her carrying it in her belt for all to see, with his bolt on the handle. There was no end to the amount of pestering he had to endure because of that one moment of benevolence. “No, no, no!” He thought out loud. That was the one and only spatula wand he would ever make.

Sticks were the only material to use to create a proper wand. All that other fancy stuff seemed pointless to him. Why you would want to make a wand out of something that already had a purpose was beyond him. Sure, he made exceptions on special occasions; a high paying request, a ceremonial sword, or things of that nature, but those were really just novelties in his eyes. Sticks however, had no purpose, and he thrived on giving them new life. The throngs of admirers that begged him to make a wand out of a hammer or a quill were merely looking for something to show off. They could patronize his competitor, Eni, for all he cared.

Creating a wand from a stick was easy. Interlacing the magical strands to make the constricted shaft for the power to be propelled through was the difficult part. Of course, you had to use sticks that were sturdy and had an appealing shape, then clean and polish them before creating the magical structure within, but that was all just pointless aesthetics to please the buyer. The raw structure of a stick could easily contain the magical strands that those gifted with the ability of wand making manipulated. Only Wand-Makers were able to see the magical strands, and they could draw them from Archana, mold them, and bind them to create a wand.

Gus and Pebble where the only ones in his colony who could see into that realm. He had devised a game to train his son in the art of wand-making. He would locate an item or a creature with a specific pattern of magical strands, and Pebble would have to guess what it was he had chosen based on clues. Pebble was young, however, and he often tried to play the game with his siblings who could not see what he saw. Gus had to remind him often that it wasn't fair to make them guess something they couldn't see.

He was heading south, parallel to the tree line, in the direction of Lady Carrion's cottage. He thought perhaps she would be preparing a potato soup, as the young tubers were most succulent that time of year. Suddenly, a noise from the woods caught his attention, and he turned his head to the left and stood upright in fear; just in time to see an arrow released from a bow. Gripped with anxiety, he was rooted in place by his terror. This is going to hurt, he thought. The arrow struck his leg on the back side of his thigh, nearly severing the muscle. He screamed out in pain and then fell to the ground, swearing at the hunter.

“You imbecile, have you ever shot a bow before today!?” He shouted, as he reached for his wand and began to heal his wound.

“I am sorry, Sir!” He yelled, as he ran up to Gus. “I beg your forgiveness. I am so hungry that my arms are shaking at the tension of the bow.”

“Well, that will happen if you are stupid enough to hunt this meadow!” He frowned up at a very apologetic man. “May Archana place many obstacles in your path as you hunt.” He continued to work on his wounded leg. “How long have you been hunting this meadow anyway?”

“'Bout three days now, Sir. I fell asleep, and I awoke just moments ago and saw you.”

“And you had to bloody miss, didn't you?!” Gus interrupted.

“Well, Sir, you don't present a very large target.”

“I am a full eighteen inches, as you can easily see. I didn't even move!”

“Yes, Sir, but you only weigh about three pounds.”

“I was eighteen inches!” Gus interrupted again. “Now I'll be seventeen and three quarters and lean to the left, thanks to you!” He had stopped the bleeding and was working with his wand to end the pain. He mumbled under his breath as he worked. “They will have to change my name to Eileen. I've never seen a worse hunter in my life. I could have fed a starving man, my pups would have been proud; but no, this idiot had to miss a perfectly easy shot.”

He did fear dying, as anyone in the sights of a hunter would; though he feared aging to decrepitude more. In all of the stories told, very few had made it to that sort of an end. The tales of those who had lived to old age all spoke of the pain they experienced. Some of them lost their mental capacity or control of their bodily functions. There were terrible tales of disease, and the sadness of seeing all of their children die before them, loss of eye sight and being dependent on their family and friends to survive. Gus wanted to die nobly, to nourish an honorable hunter, but he feared it would not happen.