“Good Sir!” James shouted after Osric. When he turned around, James tossed him a piece of dried meat, a thank you for the business he knew awaited him at the top of the hill. None of the food would go to waste that night.
“Thank Archana, and thank you.” Osric said as he walked away and took a bite.
“And thank you, my friend!” James said from behind the meat cart.
Osric was starting to feel as though he should be at the palace. Something was not quite right, but the feeling was not urgent, so he thought it must be nerves. It was, after all, a very important day. Ambassadors from every tribe, tongue, and species in the world were attending. The Ratification Ceremony had been almost a thousand years in the making, and he was in charge of the safety for everyone in attendance. Osric was taking the responsibility seriously.
He had personally met with each of the representatives gathering for the signing and had sensed no danger. If any one of the ambassadors had any desire to bring an end to the treaty signing, he would have known.
Osric took a bite of the meat James had thrown him, and savored the texture and taste as he walked. It had a rich, smoky flavor, and he looked forward to seeing the man again later for a real meal. The rough gravel path would soon turn to gray stone and be easier on his tired feet. Right then, he would welcome any comfort.
The night was not yet over and Osric still had a nagging feeling, something isn't right! His pupils contracted, and his muscles tensed as he slowed down and looked around. He tried to focus with his gift to locate the source of the feeling, but it was vague and he saw nothing out of the ordinary. The feeling passed and he felt his muscles relax and his heart rate slow. Maybe it had just been his nerves, as the time for the signing was fast approaching. He would stay alert for anything unusual, but he hoped nothing would go wrong so close to the conclusion of the day.
He passed an old witch and overheard her teaching a group of children, “We are all granted the same measure of magic. It is how well you use it, and your wand, that make you a better witch or wizard!” She put much emphasis on the word ‘wand', and continued to explain that each of their magical gifts were different, “The gift is what differentiates everyone. You are born with your ability and must learn to master it. For example, a Wand-Maker is the only one who can make wands.” She went on describing different gifts as Osric trailed out of earshot.
He had to dodge out of the way of a woman chasing her children, shouting, “If you don't get back here right now, I'm going to sick a paun on you!” Osric laughed. The boys must have really been misbehaving for her to say that. To imply the threat of a supernatural beast was the way of most mothers, and even Osric's mother had attempted to scare him into good behavior on occasion.
The paun were something of a myth.. They killed quickly, regardless of the size of the group, and never left survivors; or so the story went. The trouble was, nobody had ever actually seen one so their existence was questionable. Still, anytime someone came across a gruesome scene of unexplained death, they blamed the paun.
The truth of the matter was that not every creature lived by the Hunter's code. It was popular, and most societies upheld the practice, but there were the occasional offshoots that killed more than they needed and left the remains to rot in the sun. They killed without honor and refused to thank families for their sacrifice. It seemed unnatural, but it happened.
Shortly afterward, he passed by a heated scholarly debate on why unicorns could not, or would not, speak. Two elderly gentlemen had strong feelings on the subject; it was a common topic at any celebration. Only one fact was known and agreed upon by all; unicorns could not be killed.
He took a short detour around a scuffle over a game of lucky dice. One man felt that the other had used his wand to influence the roll. His Vigiles had that in hand quickly, however, impressing Osric with their prompt response.
At last, he could see the door to the palace. Osric's best friend Kenneth stood to the left side of the entrance. His Profice, Toby, second in command to the Contege, stood on the right. They saw him approaching and quickly ended their conversation, squaring their shoulders and gazing straight ahead. Osric was looking forward to the warmth of the palace. He had to school his expression to hide his eagerness as he walked the last few yards on gray stone worn smooth over the years by the passage of many feet.
“Toby, Kenneth, is it safe to assume that you haven't had any trouble up here?”
Kenneth casually waved his hand in the air and leaned back against the cool stone of the palace wall. “A couple deliveries are all we have seen in the last three hours, Os. Not even a dancing lady or a fire teller. Could you move a meat cart up here at least? We're withering away to nothing while you enjoy the festivities.” He indicated the meat in Osric's hand with a nod of his head, wiping imaginary drool from his chin.
Kenneth was lean with dark features and brown eyes, and his corded muscles were a little too close to the surface of his skin. He kept his long, black hair tied back, and he usually had enough weapons on him to arm a small army. Between the sharp blades and his thickly veined, broad neck he could appear dangerous when he chose. His fellow Vigiles would fear him if it were not for his disarming smile and quick sense of humor.
Whoops and gasps could be heard in the distance where the crowds were gathered. Osric looked at Kenneth with feigned sympathy and took a big bite out of the meat in his hand.
“It's true; it's been all dancing girls and feasting for me today. I'm sorry you missed it.” Then with a wink, “Toby, how do you put up with this guy?”
Toby was several inches shorter than the other two men, but his intimidating presence made up for what he lacked in stature. His smooth, shaved head was oiled to a high sheen, in stark contrast to the thick mustache and beard that shadowed his jaw. A thin scar crossed his cheekbone just below his right eye and two thirds of his first finger was missing from his left hand. He liked to tell new recruits an elaborate tale of how he lost his finger, and nearly his eye, hunting drogmas in the swamps east of Catrain. However, an Empath friend of Osric's had discovered it had really been a drunken brawl with an angry dwarf. An empty bottle of spirits is no defense against a sharp axe. Around his neck was a twist of colored thread his son had made for him, and a gold unity chain adorned his left wrist. Toby's skin may have been hard as nails, but he had a soft spot for his family.
Toby shot Kenneth a sarcastic grin. “After years of listening to Old Thamas grumble about his aching bones and tired feet, Kenneth's immaturity is a refreshing reminder of his youth, Sir.” Toby had been Contege Thamas' Profice for seven years prior to the Contege’s disappearance. After his promotion, Osric was afraid that Toby would resent him for passing him in the chain of command. Toby was more than qualified for the position, and was the obvious choice for Contege. On Osric's first day in his new post, Toby stood across from him, placed his palms flat on the surface of the desk, and looked intently at his new Contege. Osric had tried to appear less nervous than he felt, but after a few moments of regard, Toby smiled and said, “I am sure you are wondering why I am not sitting in that chair. They offered me the position, and I declined. I would much rather leave the joy of dealing with our superiors, and the responsibility for any failure, on your young and capable shoulders. I would be happy to advise you, but let there be no doubt, I do not envy you this promotion.” Osric wasn't sure if he had meant it at first, but Toby had been an able and willing source of advice on everything from new recruit training to social etiquette.
“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.”
“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.
The Wand-Maker's Debate: Osric's Wand: Book One Page 2
