Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands

Five or six questions instantly sprang into Nick’s mind, each one vying for release. He swallowed them all. An adult was explaining something—finally. He would not interrupt.

“Back in the sixteenth century,” Duchaine continued, “everyone had wands. Witch’s, wizards, Druids, sorcerers.” He added that last one with a growl. “And the least man among them was more powerful than any warlock alive today. So naturally, with all that power there was a war for supremacy. In those days, a very powerful sorcerer named Algernon Grimwood rose up. Declared himself the Dark Lord, or the Big Cheese, or some such nonsense. Anyway, he did what no one had ever done, what the Department has always feared: he united the lawbreakers. Imagine it; a dozen sorcerers, each with his or her own unique skill set, and every one of them augmenting their powers with wands.”

Duchaine lowered his head.

It was all Nick could do not to explode with a hundred questions. Fit to burst, he waited.

When Duchaine continued, it was with a quieter voice, pitched softly, forcing Nick to listen carefully to hang on to his every word.

“There has always been a Duchaine in the warlock department,” Duchaine’s beard curled as he smiled. “In the year Fifteen Thirty-Six my ancestor Agamemnon du Cain decided the wand was simply too powerful a device and too tempting a weapon for anyone to have. He knew that so long as warlocks had wands, had the formula for crafting wands, sorcerers would get their hands on it and they too would have wands. It was hell, back then. People on both sides were killed daily—by magic. Warlocks and sorcerer’s alike working to rule over the buffers. Old grand pappy du Cain decided enough was enough.

“He took it upon himself to end the Wand War. After conferring with the Elder, the great Magnus de Montfort, and receiving the go-ahead, Agamemnon went to the warlock department one night when he knew all his brethren were out battling the sorcerer’s, and he destroyed the formula for wandcraft. Every scroll and every bit of parchment that offered any clue on how to craft a wand, he burned.”

Nick gasped. Burning the formula. He couldn’t imagine what sort of desperate state a wizard would have to be in to contemplate committing such an act of sabotage. Indeed, the very idea unraveled his fragile impatience.

“How could he do that?” Nick burst. “The wand must’ve been the only weapon they had against Grimwood. I didn’t even know there were wands—”

Duchaine merely nodded. “To be sure, it is difficult to understand. And yes, he did jeopardize not only the warlocks, but the safety of the entire wizarding world, and possibly even the Secrecy Pact. But we must appreciate that he had first conferred with the Elder. Magnus de Montfort has always been the wisest of us, the most powerful. He received constant visions of the future. If he told Agamemnon to destroy the wand, that would’ve been a powerful assurance that he was doing the right thing. It was the kind of assurance I believe would encourage any one of us, had we been in Agamemnon’s shoes.”

“I guess,” Nick said. He knew nothing of this Elder. One more thing to add to his growing list of Things to Research.

“As I was saying,” Duchaine continued. “He burned all the wand lore. And then he broke the spare wands each of the warlocks had made—except for one: his own. What he did next is unclear. My family history on these matters has been passed down for centuries, and only by word of mouth, father to son and so on for hundreds of years. Ever play Chinese Whispers?”

Nick nodded. As a young boy he had often played Chinese Whispers with neighborhood kids. Inevitably, the sentence they whispered around the circle would end up horribly convoluted.

“Well that’s a bit what the Duchaine family legend is like,” Duchaine said. “What we think he did was enter the Iron Pentacle inside the deepest sanctum of the Department, with nothing but his wand. Now, most spell castings and workings do not require pentacles. So we can assume the spell Agamemnon had in mind, was so powerful that he needed help casting it.”

“Help in a pentacle,” Nick said, working it out as he spoke. “He summoned a demon?”

Duchaine shrugged. “A demon, or an angel. Considering the complexity and unprecedented nature of the spell, and considering he was an Enochian wizard, it is likely he was using Enochian magic at this point. An angel would certainly have the mojo.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then he summoned the entity. Family legend assures us he survived the encounter, which is impressive enough, and that the spell worked. But we’re not sure what the price was. We do know the Battle of Green Creek screeched to a halt when all the wands burst into flame.”

“No way!”

“Indeed, no worries,” Duchaine said. “Though both sides were caught off guard, the warlocks, in their wisdom, had brought their stangs and athames and various tinctures into battle. So when their wands suddenly vanished, they were still armed. Of course, sorcerer’s are never weaponless, but this lot, not the brightest, had spent years honing their wand skills, so their power over the elements had become, shall we say, decidedly limp. They were impotent.”

The warlock chuckled at his own joke.

“It was a slaughter,” he continued, wiping a stray tear. “The warlocks left none alive. Of course, Algernon Grimwood, Lord Ego himself, escaped.”

“Did Agamemnon ever catch Grimwood?” Nick asked.

Duchaine answered only after unleashing a long sigh: “That’s a tale for another time.” He stood and faced Vinculus, looking ten years older. “Is there anything else, Vortigern?”

The Grand Vizier finally turned to face the room. “No. That is all. Thank you for sharing. I appreciate this is a family secret, and I’m certain Mr. Hammond here will be happy to keep it between us.” He shook hands with Duchaine, who nodded at Nick on his way across the room. Once Duchaine was gone, Vinculus paced the office, still holding his copy of Lemegeton.

“What did you think?”

Nick considered carefully before speaking. “I see now why you guys have stuck with the W.A.N.D. Project for fifteen years, even though it hasn’t produced results. You keep working on creating a wand, because you know it’s possible, thanks to Duchaine.”

Vinculus nodded. “He came forward with his family legend when I threatened to scratch the Project after three years of failures.” He continued circumnavigating the office, forcing Nick to crane around in his chair every so often. Was he doing it on purpose? Trying to psyche Nick out? After about five circuits Vinculus finally took his chair. He kept Lemegeton on his lap.

“Questions?”

“Yes sir,” Nick said, anxiously. “Even though Agamemnon destroyed all the wands, everyone—or at least the warlocks—must’ve still known how to craft them. So what prevented them from making new wands after the Battle of Green Creek?”

“Agamemnon, of course,” Vinculus looked down at his lap as he spoke. A fresh bolt of lightning illuminated a strange expression on his face. He’d opened Lemegeton. “For seven days following the victory, Agamemnon took his fellow warlocks aside separately and used hypnosis and potions to erase their memories of wandcraft.”

Nick nodded. He’d expected as much. Hypnosis had long been a favorite do-over among warlocks. Better than killing people, he supposed.

“But what about himself, sir?” Nick asked. “He still had his wand, I assume? And he couldn’t erase his own memories.”

Was Vinculus muttering something under his breath?

The man pointed a long slender finger at Nick. “Clever boy. Right on both accounts. With the Wand War over, Agamemnon found himself the possessor of the world’s sole remaining wand. Can you imagine what went through that man’s mind?” Now his focus lay entirely on Nick.

He knew he had to choose his words carefully. The Grand Vizier was a clever man, a wise man; you didn’t get to be head of the wizarding world by missing subtle hints and tell-tale twitches. The man was clearly probing for weakness.

Nick said, “I imagine he thought about how powerful he could become, sir.” Had he revealed any appalling character traits? He didn’t think so. “What did he do with it?”

“Agamemnon locked his wand safely away,” Vinculus answered. He stared, then.

Nearly jumping off his seat when a booming thunderclap rattled the windows, Nick attempted to dispel his discomfort with a question. “Did he ever take it out? I mean, it must’ve been a wicked bad temptation. With that Grimwood guy still around, doing his evil take-over-the-world type stuff, there must’ve been occasions when Agamemnon considered taking the wand out. Did he ever use it against Grimwood?”

A sly, half-a-grin suddenly materialized on Vinculus’s face. It vanished almost as quickly.

“That is an excellent question. You should ask it of your Bestiary teacher sometime.”

Don’t invoke what you can’t banish.

The Law flashed before Nick’s eyes like a warning sign. Something didn’t feel right here. With the hope of catching a glimpse of Vinculus’s true intentions, Nick extended his senses outside himself, allowing his physical senses to diminish in an effort to boost the perceptions of his inner eye. As his astral self bloomed, the colors in the room faded to blacks and grays, first at the edges of his vision and then shrinking to a pinhole of sight; before long Nick’s perception of the physical world was almost nonexistent, while his awareness of the astral world was enhanced to the point where he was seeing emotions and smelling intentions.

Vinculus was a burgundy wraith perforated by a large yellow hole that roiled dead center in his chest. It reeked of mistrust.

All around the edges of his Sight light streamed, swirling like a supernova, the motion of its reality sounding like a whirlpool sucking everything down to its abyssal foundations. Overwhelmed, Nick relinquished his inner eye.

Like a statue Vinculus was staring, unblinking, directly into his hazel pupils.

“That was impressive,” he rolled his hands around. “Tell me, what did you see?”

On impulse, Nick lied. “Not much. It doesn’t really work that well for me. I think I saw red clouds surrounding you? Maybe in the shape of a lion’s head?”

“A red lion’s head is my family’s sigil,” Vinculus said, seemingly satisfied. He fell silent, then.

Uncomfortable silences. Nick was starting to see a pattern concerning his encounters with powerful wizards. First it was Dean Delacort, then Master Bailey, and now the Grand frigging Vizier was doing it. Fine, I’ll break the silence, then. “And I was only projecting because I was curious if you knew what happened. I mean, if that wand was still around, Duchaine would have it, and it would change everything, wouldn’t it?” Nick had to squelch a grin at his turning the interrogation around on Vinculus.

Vinculus tapped his smooth chin with the tips of his steepled fingers. He nodded. “Ah, what if does still exist? The true question is: if it exists, why would our favorite warlock not bring it out? Why would Duchaine keep the existence of the family wand a secret?” Vinculus glanced over Nick’s shoulder at the sand timer. Alternating his focus between the sand timer and Lemegeton, the Vizier said, “Do you understand why you are here?”

“To help the warlocks succeed with the Project?”

“And why is it so vital we succeed with the Project?”

“Um . . . because . . . the mythics are reproducing quickly, and escaping?”

Nick flinched when Vinculus slammed the book of magic closed and dropped it onto his desk. In a series of shockingly rapid movements, Vinculus stood and resumed pacing the office. “There are eighty-seven thousand mythics on this Preserve according to last weeks’ census, and that’s not including the various mythic insects, scarabs and myrmidon and such.”

“Whoa. That’s a lot,” Nick said, genuinely shocked. “How many arrived on—”

“On M-Day?” Vinculus finished for him, providing a term Nick had not heard before but which he instantly understood, aided by rumors he’d gleaned from students. M-Day was undoubtedly the designation for the day the Mythmage opened the doorways and ushered into their world a horde of mythics.

“One-hundred and fifty-eight was our best guess,” Vinculus provided, his voice taking on a hushed soliloquy sort of tone. He laughed once, derisively. “We should have crushed them then. One-hundred fifty-eight blasphemies. It could’ve been over within days. Duchaine and Michael Delving have each slaughtered at least that many over the years. Now they outnumber us. And, if Sargent is to be believed, though the Fates know he’s got some outer-limit type conspiracy theories, the mythics sense their superiority, and are growing bolder.”

Nick released a small snort of air. He could attest to this Sargent’s theory of the mythics growing bolder. He’d spent the last week personally enduring their boldness.

“Sir?” Nick said, emboldening himself now. “Do you think the Mythmage could open the doors and send them all back, even the mythics that have been born here since their arrival?”

He regretted the words as soon as they tumbled out of his stupid mouth. A shift in the air pressure, an almost imperceptible undercurrent that had nothing to do with a sudden and terrifying thunderclap rifled the hairs on Nick’s arms. He’d said something wrong. Breeched a poor topic. Broken a taboo.

The Grand Vizier bore down on him, burgundy robes whipping round, snapping at the air.

“Seeking knowledge about the Mythmage is a violation of Decree 187.”

Just when Nick was getting into the flow of conversation, the Grand Vizier had to go and drop this bomb from left field.

“It’s against the law to try and learn about a person?”

Vinculus twanged the sand timer. He turned. “The Mythmage is not a person.” Seeing the dejected look on Nick’s face, Vinculus crossed the office in a blur and was seated beside him before the boy could blink. “I don’t mean to frighten you. Your suggestion was actually very astute. We attempted just that, in fact, years ago. But the Mythmage refused and then eluded us. When we realized he could not be forced or otherwise coerced, we attempted to open the doors ourselves.”

“Wait, you know where the doors are?” Nick said, aghast. He’d figured the doorways to other worlds would be gone, or accessible only to the one who had created them.

“We’ve found three,” Vinculus revealed. “One is the door through which the wraiths came. They lingered around it. We did not approach. The other two are the leprechaun door and the gnome door. We tried every spell and incantation we knew. We even invoked the angel Kadashiel, who is a gatekeeper and therefore very knowledgeable about gateways.”

“He couldn’t help?”

Vinculus shook his head and leaned back into the leather cushions of his chair, letting it catch his slumping form. “Kadashiel told us the doorways were created with unfamiliar, alien magic. He couldn’t even use them. All he could say about them was that they appeared to lead to realities that should not exist.”

The Grand Vizier abruptly stood, nearly knocking the chair over. A smile appeared and vanished so quickly that a hummingbird might have missed it. “You have a way about you, Nick. Normally I am not so forthcoming.”

Outside the storm seemed to be moving away from them, the lightning flashes appearing at longer intervals from the dwindling thunderclaps.

“Our time is almost up,” Vinculus said. “I summoned you here to warn you.”

Nick sighed. “Warn me of what, sir?”

“You are a perceptive lad,” Vinculus said. He was now leaning over his desk, staring at Nick, hands pressed down on Lemegeton. “The Department is concerned. Do you know why?”

Nick knew he was being tested again, but he couldn’t resist showing off. He thought about what Dean Delacort had said about the Department taking notice of him. “I imagine you are concerned about my connection to the mythics I’ve encountered.” Nick was encouraged to continue by the expression crinkling Vinculus’s features. “You’re afraid this suggests a link to the only other practitioner who has ever shown a similar trait—whom I assume to be the Mythmage.”

Rage, satisfaction, and weariness were only three of the numerous emotions Nick detected from Vinculus, radiating as they were like fever heat off his body.

“We have reason to believe your connection with the mythics has something to do with your encounter in the Dreaming. I know what you’re thinking, but it was not the Mythmage who took you. If it had been, you wouldn’t have recalled his name, and you would likely be dead.”

“He can kill you in the Dreaming?” such a thought had never occurred to Nick.

“We’re not sure,” Vinculus said. “But I wouldn’t put anything past that . . . Mage.” He spread his hands in wide gesture. “Anyway, we believe the man who took you, recognized your unique ability with mythics, and that because of this he might come looking for you. To collect you.”

“Oh great,” Nick groaned. “Like I wasn’t paranoid enough before.”

“Don’t worry,” Vinculus said, eyeing the sand timer again. The top half was nearly empty. “We’re increasing security at the school.”

“But what if he does take me?” Nick was not at all assured by the Grand Vizier’s promises of upgraded security. He had been attacked by a shaga near the school only a few hours ago, after all, while supposedly under the watchful gaze of the Department.

Vinculus, still leaning on Lemegeton, as if siphoning strength or wisdom from it, lowered his voice. “If he does manage to reach you, don’t resist him. Let him take you. Use the situation to learn everything you can about him. About what he is planning.” He paused to inhale. “You saw how I used the scrying glass as a communication device? Well, that is third-year journeyman magic. But I think you can handle it. You should ask Priestess Carnivales to teach you how to craft and use speaking stones. The Mirrorman is sure to have a collection of scrying balls at his place. Find a way to contact us through one of them.”

Nick’s hands were trembling; Vinculus was talking like his capture was a done deal, almost as if the Department wanted Nick to get kidnapped. Maybe they did. Maybe they were hoping to use Nick as a spy.

Pride and terror vied for supremacy at this thought.

Just then the ball on his desk glowed blue and Miss Winterbourne’s tinny voice filled the air. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt—but it’s an emergency. A horde of trolls has invaded Keeseville by the Ausable Chasm. There are already reports of fires—”

“Let them have it,” Vinculus shrugged. “Keeseville was dissolved years ago—”

“Actually, sir,” Miss Winterbourne said in a shaky voice, “a small wiccan clan moved into the village last month. And now there are reports of captures.”

“Dammit,” Vinculus swore. “Alright, Rachel, send out Mage Squads Three and Four, double quick time. Tell them to bring those new ultraviolet flashlights Luc’s been working on. This is a prime opportunity to test them out on live trolls.”

“Yes sir,” Miss Winterbourne said, and the ball promptly flickered out.

A few moments later Vinculus said, with some heat, “You see? Prime example. Last week they wouldn’t have dared invade a village of Wiccans, for fear of breaching the treaty. But now their king has gone missing, and all of a sudden the blubbering idiots ransack whatever they please. That’s why . . .” He was quiet for some time before crouching down next to Nick.

“I know a Gypsy woman who does nothing but practice the mantic arts. All day long she casts runes, peers into pensieves, reads tea leaves. She performs arithmancy, bibliomancy, even I Ching! Point is,” he quickly said, noticing Nick’s impatience, “this Gypsy woman claims that everything is telling her the same thing: that an old enemy of the Department will soon decide the fate of this Preserve.”

“What can I do about it?”

Vinculus’s golden-ringed eyes washed over Nick. Finally he said, “We can’t locate him. We don’t know what he’s planning. And there is more reason to fear the Mirrorman than anyone realizes.”

“What reason?” Nick whispered.

Vinculus stood. “I must confer with the Heads about this troll uprising. You come visit me again . . . and maybe I’ll share with you what few know about this Mirrorman.”

Yeah, you mean if I get kidnapped and survive and do recon work for you, Nick mused.

The Grand Vizier nodded as though perceiving Nick’s thoughts, and then waved him out.

Once outside the door, Nick’s stomach clenched. He glanced around quickly. Against the opposite wall a complimentary coffee kiosk filled a tall table; a wastebasket hunkered beneath the table. Nick ran across the atrium, snatched out the basket, and hurled up the Nutri-Grain bar he’d consumed earlier, along with a nice supply of bile.

He didn’t think for one second that his nausea had anything to do with bad food.

The Department, it seemed, was led by a man every bit as intent on using Nick—while keeping him in the dark!—as all the other adults, teachers, parents and leaders. What was it that made them all so afraid to share things with him? Maybe it was time he struck out on his own, take that geneticist up on his offer.

A few minutes later Duchaine returned to find Nick settled on a bench in the atrium, head down, hands clutching at his sour stomach. “You ready to go?”

When Nick didn’t answer, the warlock patted him once on the back. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you. Some people’s first encounter with Vortigern is . . . unsettling. But listen, it is what it is. You should realize by now, that a wizard always knows more than he shares. That’s just the way it’s always been. It’s what makes us so wise.”

“Yeah, if by wise you mean annoying,” Nick grumbled.

Duchaine chuckled. “Your stomach in knots?”

“I think he wove a spell over me while we were talking.”

There was a long tense moment while Duchaine sat still and Nick didn’t dare say a thing. Duchaine broke the silence first. “What makes you think he wove a spell? That’s serious.”

“My stomach,” Nick said. “It doesn’t feel like a bug or bad food. Vinculus never let Lemegeton out of his sight, and at one point he was muttering something while gazing at it.”

Nick was surprised when Duchaine simply asked: “How do you know it was Lemegeton? None of the Vizier’s books have titles. He had them all removed. It’s sort of his thing; he never wants anyone to know what he’s been reading. I think it’s got something to do with his fear of our old Dreaming pal scrying on him.”

For the first time Nick realized he had not actually read a title off the dusty old book of magic. He’d simply recognized it. This didn’t seem like something he should share, so, taking Duchaine’s adage as initiative, he said, “Well, you know what they say about wizards and the things they know,” as way of explanation.

“Touché,” Duchaine smacked him a little too hardily on the back before getting to his feet. “Anyway, you should know, you were right. He did weave a spell on you; it’s called a geas. It keeps you from telling anyone anything about the W.A.N.D. Project. The after effects are rather uncomfortable. If I recall correctly, I vomited in my hat the night we wove the geas over the Project.”

“Duchaine?”

“Yes?”

Nick explained the Grand Vizier’s intentions involving the Mirrorman, and then asked Duchaine what he knew about the sorcerer.

The big warlock puffed his cheeks and blew out a gust of air. “His name is Agravaine.”

“Hmm,” Nick said. “Sounds appropriately villainous.”

Duchaine grinned. “He was a schoolmate of mine. We were best friends, if I’m being honest. You know all those epic fantasy tales, how the innocent farm boy or orphan boy discovers he has magical powers and is whisked off to undertake a magical education, and is destined to destroy the dark lord?”

Nick nodded.

“Well, that was Agravaine. He was born into a family of buffers. When he discovered his gifts, he was thrilled. The Grand Vizier back then invited him to the Institute. Things were good for a few years. But then the spirit of Algernon Grimwood returned and took a vessel from Kevin, our Lore teacher back then.” Duchaine sighed. “It was chaos. No one could stop Grimwood, and for some reason the Elder was not waking. So little Agravaine stood up and defeated Grimwood. No one else understood how he did it at first. But Agravaine defeated Grimwood, sending him back into incorporeal form, but killing Kevin in the process. At first they chalked it up to an accident. But a few days later, Agravaine confided in me. He tried to excuse his actions, putting them down as ‘new magic’, but it was clear what he’d done.”

“Sorcery,” Nick said.

Duchaine nodded. “I went to the dean. I was Agravaine’s best friend, and I betrayed him. I thought maybe they’d try to teach him better, but they said they had to lock him away. He was my best friend and I betrayed his trust. So, I gave him a head start. You should have seen the look in his eyes. I’ve often wondered if he would have still embraced sorcery if I had handled it better.”

For a long time neither one spoke.

Eventually Duchaine clapped and stood. “Ready to go home?”

“Only if we don’t have to get chased by another shaga.” Nick said, still glum with shock.

“Course not.” Duchaine led the sullen boy out of the atrium. “It’s the Chantilly River Barge for us, smooth sailing down south to the Institute.”

“What?” Nick’s voice was a shrill cry. “There’s a river that takes us from the Institute to the Department? And we took the stupid mythic-infested route instead? What the heck for?”

Duchaine nodded at a passing witch. “We were supposed to be hunting, remember? You didn’t honestly think all the supplies the Department buys and sells were brought in on that suicidal staircase, did you?”

“No,” Nick snapped defensively. He decided right then, while feeling like a rube, that if he was going to succeed with his Plan, he had better start acting like a true wizard.

And that meant keeping secrets and playing the game.