Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands

“Aslan, heel!” Bailey bellowed.

His Command gave the barg pause, but then it apparently decided its curiosity of Nick superseded its need to obey its master; it resumed its sauntering march toward Nick.

“It’s okay,” Bailey assured the quivering boy. “Don’t be afraid. He won’t bite.”

“Okay. I feel much better, thanks,” Nick retorted from behind Duchaine. “Why do you have a mythic pet anyway?”

Though his words and manner suggested nothing was amiss, Bailey’s air of confidence did nothing to comfort Nick, even when he explained. “It’s taken years but I finally managed to tame old Aslan here.”

“Pfft,” Duchaine sputtered. “I told you before, you can’t tame mythics.”

Nick’s soul sagged. Even the great Agabus Duchaine thought this was insane.

“Hold out your hand,” Bailey suggested. “Let him sniff you. Once he has your scent he’ll lose interest.”

Yeah right, Nick thought. Those gargoyles still seem interested, no matter how many times I pass them. But then he began to follow a thought trail on his previous encounters with disgruntled mythics. His fear slowly morphed into a resolve to go on the offensive. He’d given that golem pause for thought, for crying out loud, why not this barg?

He walked out from behind Duchaine, picturing the scene with Harry Potter in the Little Hangleton graveyard to spur him on, and then, filled with this inspiration, faced the mythic.

My will is stronger, he visualized the outcome he wanted for this encounter. My will is dominant. I will not be cowed by some alien mutt. And then, funneling his will and vision into his words, Nick spoke in a Command: “Aslan, heel!”

Simultaneously experiencing an expulsion of power and a loss of energy, Nick watched as the barg hesitated, its muzzle and mesmerizing red eyes inches from his hand. Apparently giving it pause was enough; the mythic shook its shaggy head and sat, wagging its tail. Hesitantly Nick reached out and petted it, letting it sniff his hand first. Somewhat surprised not to have it bitten off, he finished up by scratching its head.

When he looked back up, the room was silent and everyone was staring.

“What?” Nick said. He was weak. Controlling mythics was exhausting magical work. How much easier would that have been, he mused, if I’d had a frigging Taser or a tranquilizer gun?

“That was impressive,” Bailey confessed.

Nick could’ve sworn he detected a hint of concern in the old man’s tone. While Bailey led Aslan out of the room (hopefully straight to the butchers shop), the witch who’d let them in directed Nick over to a kitchen area. Crumb-littered countertops boasted a toaster, toaster oven, coffee maker, hot pan, and various condiments, while sturdy cabinets hung above it.

The woman opened one of the cabinet doors, revealing a cupboard brimming with goodies.

Eyes swelling to tennis balls, head dancing with visions of sugary sweetness, Nick surveyed the glorious smorgasbord. “You need refueling,” the woman said with a lopsided smile. “Pop-tarts, Fig Newton’s, cookies? We have every kind. Warlocks are a hungry lot and we expend a lot of energy up here.”

As if to prove her correct, Duchaine appeared beside her, making the woman look tiny. He reached for a pack of Snow-Balls.

“Got any Nutri-Grain bars?” Nick asked, hopeful.

Like an angel sent from above, the woman dug out an assorted box of his favorite energy boosters. Strawberry bars were shuffled aside. Ah yes, one last blueberry divine, just waiting there for his nourishment. Nick tucked into his snack with abandon.

“What’s your name?” he asked the angel woman.

The woman tutted at him. “Now just because you’re happy, that’s no excuse to talk with your mouth full.” She leaned down over the table to whisper conspiratorially. “You don’t want to follow in this one’s footsteps. Just look at that extra baggage he has to carry.” She grinned at Duchaine.

“Hey,” the warlock said through a mouthful of cookie. “Don’t go bad mouthing me to our new recruit, now. He might actually believe your hogwaller. Besides, you know you like my baggage, Mona.”

Mona left shortly after this disgusting display of adult flirtation, leaving Nick and Duchaine alone. It was nice, Nick thought, sitting in a fine tower, gorging on his favorite snack with his favorite warlock.

So naturally, it came to a grinding halt.

Bailey returned, wearing a grim expression, but at least he was absent the barg. He nodded at Duchaine. “Bring the boy.”

On the way down a set of spiral stairs, Bailey spoke in low tones to Duchaine, though not so low that Nick couldn’t eavesdrop on them. Of all the whispering he’d endured from adults, this didn’t even register in the Top Ten Most Offensive. He couldn’t count how many times he’d overheard his parents in a heated tete-a-tete, their words edged with sibilant tones of secrecy.

“I’ve conferred with Vortigern,” Bailey was saying to Duchaine, a dozen steps below Nick. “He’s aware of the test results and of the boys’ inherent connection with mythics.”

Sonofasnitch! Nick should’ve known. That whole deal with the barg had been another test.

Tricky old warlocks, he cursed them their underhanded ways.

The circular stairwell incited a dizzy spell. If not for the Nutri-Grain pick-me-up, Nick might’ve fainted. Perhaps there was an enchantment on the stairs. He wouldn’t be surprised, the Department was known to place enchantments on poor unfortunate people; it probably wouldn’t hesitate to enchant its halls and stairs to make sure spies or whatnot couldn’t get away with snooping.

Fortunately Nick’s group reached the bottom and, once Bailey had unlocked the door, exited out into a bustling corridor painted a calming sky-blue.

Witches shuffled along carrying briefcases or pushing carts overflowing with foodstuffs and various tinctures in vials. Wizards of every ilk strolled through the hall seemingly without a care in the world, their expressions placid, their parcels and burdens light, some merely dangling from their hands on thin straps. The employees of the Department of Magical Enforcement might’ve been collectively high on gypsum weed for all Nick could tell.

He looked around at all the passing adults. No one seemed to be looking at him or speaking to each other, or even aware they were surrounded by their peers. Warmth began to seep in. Nick could feel energy welling inside him, refueling his chi and helping him to relax. As they walked along, past countless gobstones etched with sigils, he began to perceive strange colorful lights surrounding everyone. Some were brighter than others, each one beautiful. Blue seemed to be the common core of each light, though many possessed streaks of other shades and hues. A few pulsed, many were jagged. The aura surrounding Duchaine was dotted with black holes.

Yep, Nick decided, the corridor was definitely filled with the incense of gypsum weed, the gobstones recharging their chi’s. No unhappy workers here.

Time seemed to slow as they marched on from one corridor to the next. Walls and doors and practitioners of the Arts flowed by like a Flintstone background.

Eventually they entered an atrium. Stained glass windows circled the cupola. Nick tried to think how they’d arrived here; he was certain they’d descended, and yet here they were at the top of the enormous building. The sounds of the storm outside returned. Thunder boomed, shaking the fragile glass, while lightning lit up the world like a million candles bursting to life.

Bailey knocked on a door with a chalkboard sign reading: KNOCK AND IT SHALL BE OPENED, BUT DON’T BLAME ME IF YOU DON’T LIKE WHAT IT OPENS UP TO.

The door flew open. In the way stood a black wizard in full Court regalia, burgundy velvet robes and all. He might’ve been Nick’s height, but seemed taller. He might’ve been as beefy as Duchaine, but sleek movements as he ushered them inside suggested a leaner frame. He might’ve been seventy but the crow’s feet and smile lines seemed to come and go at whim.

“Ah, you’re just in time,” the man said as he led out a young female secretary. “I was just finishing up the insurance forms for Molly Whistlethwaite. We’ll be sending out a crew of carpenters to rebuild her cabin, and Miss Winterbourne here was just making sure I properly signed everything.” He had a habit of gesticulating with his long dark hands, punctuating every word with a gesture. As he led the secretary past Nick the man made a ‘that’ll be all’ wave.

“Nick Hammond,” Bailey said, “this is Grand Vizier Vortigern Vinculus. You will address him as Grand Vizier Vinculus. You will listen to whatever advice he is kind enough to bestow and heed his every word. Few journeymen wizards are fortunate enough to meet Grand—”

“Thank you, Master Bailey,” Grand Vizier Vinculus made an open handed gesture as he took a seat at his desk. “No need to frighten the child.”

“I’m not scared of people,” Nick said, instantly regretting his childish outburst.

But Grand Vizier Vinculus merely grinned, nodded at Bailey and waved. Master Bailey turned and left without another word.

With the door closed the chatter and echoing footsteps outside in the atrium died away. The room was clearly soundproof. Nick wondered why that was necessary. Duchaine dropped into a rocking chair situated to Grand Vizier Vinculus’s right, beside a bay window looking out onto the forest.

“It’s nice to meet you, Grand Vizier Vinculus,” Nick said. He’d folded his hands before him, deciding to affect a humble air.

This man before him was the most politically powerful wizard in America. He ran the entire Department, with all its state branches, from right here in this office, and was kept abreast of all the latest news in the Preserve and beyond. There were even rumors he dabbled in archaic Druidic magic to augment his knowledge of the world.

“Ah, what manners,” Grand Vizier Vinculus said, waving his fingers through the air. “And here I was, expecting—because I was so informed—a rude boy of unstable temperament.”He paused, put a finger to his lips, and then pointed at Nick. “Call me Vinculus. There is power in a name, not a title, no matter what these arrogant warlocks will tell you, with their master this and arch mage that and their differing keys for levels of warlock knowledge and experience.”

“Hey, I don’t have a title,” Duchaine said with a smile.

“Only because you stubbornly refuse to be pigeonholed by your brethren,” Vinculus said, gesturing at the door through which Bailey had so recently departed. A long moment passed while Vinculus considered Nick, appraising the boy’s disheveled appearance. Probably the caked mud wasn’t crafting a dynamite first impression.

One of the quartz balls, scrying glass’s nestled in brass mounts on Vinculus’s desk, abruptly glowed. Deep pulsating burgundy light filled the room.

Vinculus tapped the ball once. “Yes?”

“It’s me, Miss Winterbourne?”

“Yes, I figured as much,” Vinculus made an impatient get-on-with-it hand rolling gesture.

“Yes sir,” the disembodied voice emanating from the ball sounded hallow, like someone speaking through a long metal pipe. “A Miss Morgana is out here. She wishes to see you.”

Nick perked up at the name. Could it be Delrisa? Maybe not; Morgana was a common surname among wizardkind.

“I don’t recall setting up a meeting with any Morgana.”

“No sir,” the ball pulsed along with each word. “You didn’t. But the girl does seem rather anxious. Perhaps—”

“Perhaps I need to remind you that I am in a meeting with someone already?” Vinculus began tapping his fingers on the desk. “I am not to be interrupted. Miss Winterbourne, give this Morgana a sprig of spearmint for her anxiety and send her on her way. If she still insists on meeting, then set up a—” he was forced to pause as a ponderous rumble of thunder drowned him out and a subsequent flash of lightning made the light from the ball flicker. “Set up an appointment like everyone else. And don’t touch the crystal again until you see my door open.”

The light wavered before dying out altogether.

“We better hurry this along,” Vinculus rubbed his hands, standing and heading over to his bookcase. As he glanced over the titles, index fingers rolling over the spines, back to Nick, he said, “Mind sharing your family story for young Nick here, Agabus?”

“Of course not,” Duchaine said rather solemnly.

Vinculus added, “And try to be quick about it. I must commune with the Elder concerning the trolls. The situation is escalating,” while taking down an old black tome Nick instantly recognized as Lemegeton.

“Of course,” Duchaine said. “No worries. I’ll skip over the parts where my ancestors were total arrogant dicks. That way I won’t come off as a descendant of dark age dicks.”

By his shelf, Vinculus, still holding the copy of Lemegeton in his right hand, reached out and flipped over a sand timer with his left. As the minuscule white grains slowly sifted down through their narrow glass passage to the bottom of the timer, Duchaine began.

“Centuries ago, during the grimiest period of the dark ages, my many-times-over great grandfather sought to end the Wand Wars . . .”