Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1)

by Michael Watson

  The western end of the Sunrise Span descended to seamlessly merge into the streets of Khalanheim. The cliffs of the city were a hive of activity, with a fleet of zeppelins floating at their mooring towers to the south and a forest of windmills leaning out over the canyon to the north. The knot in her stomach stayed with her well past the line of gates and toll booths at the terminus of the bridge. Though the weighty sensation had faded when she returned to the more familiar area near Liran’s home, Tyrissa couldn’t help but find it somewhat concerning. What she knew about her Pact was still vague and scattered, and after what she felt on the caravan every peculiar physical or mental sensation prompted an internal debate of whether its origin was natural or magickal.

  She turned her thoughts back to her other priority destination for the day. Liran promised her that the library in the university would easily occupy her for weeks, when they only needed a couple days while he sent out feelers for job opportunities. Liran’s directions to the library were simple and mostly mirrored their route into the city yesterday in reverse. Tyrissa followed them for about three minutes, returning to the bustling Crossing Square before diving off the route into the curving side streets of Khalanheim. As soon as she left the main thoroughfares and was away from the crush of people and carts and horses, the city showed a different side. Here in the twisting side streets and alleyways, Tyrissa could see analogues to the paths and ravines of the Morgwood, the sort of navigation she understood, only hemmed in by stone and brick instead of trees and shrubs. She passed hundreds of homes, each subtly personalized but still sticking to the styles of the long connected blocks that lined the main roads. Above, laundry hung on lines strung between balconies, the cloth rippling in the air.

  The people were far more varied and colorful than their homes, many wearing their guild coats in defiance of the day’s heat. The varied guild crests and colors seemed to adhere to an intricate set of rules, the logic of which Tyrissa only had the vaguest understanding.

  The winds from the Rift cut along the cobblestones and bricks no matter how boxed in the little streets felt. The gales flowed in every direction, channeled by the network of alleyways and long blocks of shoulder to shoulder houses, but favored east to west whenever possible. Though she hadn’t quite gotten used to the constant, low howl of the riftwinds, Tyrissa was thankful for them all the same. In the wind’s absence the stench of the city grew thick in the air, a clinging combination of smoke and sweat, of rot and refuse.

  Wonder if I’ll get used to that as well.

  The Khalans had a simplistic naming scheme for the city, dubbing districts after whatever was most prominent in the area with little respect for the poetic. Liran had shown her a map of the city last night, and every neighborhood had a name like ‘Crossing’ or ‘Guildhall’ or ‘Moors’. It was apparent when she exited Crossing for the Fortress district. The streets widened and the houses became more orderly, marching up the hillside like proper soldiers, pressed side to side but with their flat roofs rising like a stairway. The university was simple to find for it crowned the second highest hill within the city. As she climbed the streets that ran up the hillside, Tyrissa could catch glimpses of the white domed top of the central tower with its immense telescope lens protruding to one side.

  She paused in the street at the top of the climb and sent her gaze upward. The university straddled the top of the hill, its outer walls an imposing edifice of gray stone. Though the walls were carved to resemble the style of the long row houses and arcades that lined the Heartroad, the turrets that crowned the corners were reminders of the building’s past and the source of the district’s name: a fortress retrofitted to another purpose.

  Nearby there was an open arched gateway, through which she could see the spacious greenery of the inner grounds. Tyrissa strolled right though the entry tunnel, the guards giving her a passing glance but no trouble. She was just one of many. Within the enclosed yard were winding paths lined by thick hedges neatly trimmed into rectangular blocks. The paths let to a dozen of more recently constructed halls and buildings, most set half into the thick walls of the former fortress. Long rows of cloister-style windows lined the inner walls, some paneled with glass and others open to the air and containing covered walkways.

  The white cylinder of the observatory tower looked smaller up close, and scattered about its base was the evidence of some construction project in progress within. Signs directed any visitors to an alternate entrance, and a cluster of posters advertised some upcoming exhibit opening the third week of Ironskies.

  The handful of students that passed her by on the hedged paths paid her as little or less mind than the guards at the entrance. Tyrissa felt underdressed compared to them. Wearing informal finery, they had every look of the youth of the elite, their clothing a step above the merchants in complexity and vibrancy, and two above the crowds that worked the stores and stalls that lined the squares and streets of the city.

  The library sprang from the inner wall, an addition to the original shell. It was fronted by a standing row of white columns that she saw so many times across the Vordeum Expanse, but clean and in their proper stately alignment. Inside was a broad tiled hallway that appeared to run in a connecting ring through the outer walls of the university. Ahead, another set of doors let to the library proper, flanked by pin boards layered with a menagerie of paper advertisements. Tyrissa could already feel the hush of study, and winced as her boots echoed against the floor tiles.

  Tyrissa stood in the doorway in awe. Liran’s promise held true, for the library within those doors was a divine sight. Towering shelves reached over fifteen feet high, though the vaulted ceilings stood higher still. The shelves fanned out from the entry area, like the beams of a hand-drawn sunrise.

  Like I’ve died and gone to heaven.

  The thought gave her pause and birthed a slight frown. That expression had an altered meaning for her now.

  Her hand went to Tsellien’s brooch in her pocket. The runes should be simple to translate once she knew the language. She walked the rows, eyes gliding over the spectrum of colored spines and aged covers. Like the city itself, the sheer, staggering volume was the most impressive part. She could wander these shelves for hours without finding what she sought.

  Tyrissa looked around for someone that might be of help, spotting a robed man rustling through the shelves, a small stack of books in his arms. She figured he was staff, given his thin white hair and heavily lined face, like looking at an open book edge on. A square patch on his brown robe marked him as part of the university, crosshatched silver and black with an open book in the center. The same crest adorned the buildings outside.

  Tyrissa held up Tsellien’s cloak clasp. “Hey there! Do you recognize this text?”

  There was a frightening pause and look of utter confusion. She had to admit it was rather forward.

  “That? Hithian Runic. The old, pre-fall script. Still used in some areas near the crater as a secondary written language. Outer ring, aisle six. Language texts.” His tone was professional and dismissive, as if she asked what color the carpet was.

  It was only after speaking with the archivist that Tyrissa saw that the end of each shelf bore slotted labels, organized by subject. She felt slightly foolish, though the labels were rather inconspicuous, especially to an amazed newcomer overwhelmed at the volume at hand. Aisle six wasn’t hard to find.

  Tyrissa pulled out a book titled, Hithian: Modern and Ancient. The book was crisp and clean, a recent printing with a sky blue cover. Hithia was a Vordeum of the modern age, a kingdom ruined by hubris and magicks run rampant. Tyrissa has seen their legacy with her own eyes, felt it in the constant shifts of the air outside. Simply knowing Tsellien was Hithian filled in so many precious small details. She was the child of a fallen, broken people, traveling the world with no true homeland of her own.

  She found an empty desk near the curve of tall windows at the rear of the library and cracked the book open only to be assaulted by pages of charts. Hit
hian Runic was a syllabic language, with hundreds of symbols representing different sounds. Most weren’t even close to what was stamped upon the clasp, with too many flowing curves and flourishes. What she sought was angular and basic.

  Tyrissa flipped to a page with a table of numbers and found her answer. Thirty-two.

  That would make me number thirty-three.

  In the space of a moment one mystery was solved and another took its place; thirty-third of what, exactly? Tyrissa shook her head at the mix of satisfaction and frustration. She was closer and yet no nearer to knowing anything more concrete, more actionable. Perhaps the Pact Witch would be of more help in that regard. Or remove her from this problem altogether. The idea of running away brought a sour taste to her mouth, a betrayal, an act of cowardice.

  I’m not running. Not yet. I just need to know more.

  Prove Yourself Worthy. The words remained a weightless but quietly dominating presence in the back of her mind. It wasn’t a one-sided agreement, she had a power within her. The interplay of frost and flame in the wastes proved that much. Exactly how to use it was another matter. She’d spent many of her quieter hours on the caravan racking her mind for details from that silvery space between life and death. She gave me life, called me ‘daughter’. I’m her heir in this world, her successor. Tyrissa thought back to the frosty vision of the Other. She had the same emblem on her shield, but no rune or text below it. The number must be a personalization on Tsellien’s part.

  With her primary task complete, Tyrissa lingered in the library for many more hours, time vanishing into the stacks. Economic texts took up a majority of the collection, but she was able to find a small section dedicated to Pactbound, the elements, and domains. The section on magick seemed a footnote appended to the sciences, adjacent to books on elchemy, magick’s predictable and mundane cousin.

  Half the books had titles in the Common tongue, but their contents were often in an unrecognizable dialect. Many were in poor condition, showing considerable age and use. Nearly all bore a grandiose printed seal of a great mountaintop palace, the roofs of a city spread out below like ocean waves below a shoreline cliff. One word was clear on the seal: Rhonia, the empire east of the Rift.

  Elemental Theory was the only text both in a dialect she could comprehend and in a condition such that Tyrissa didn’t fear that it would crumble in her hands. Even this was difficult to read, with many references to places she’d never heard of, and the occasional archaic wording or spelling. The formatting was awkward, clearly a reprint of an old illuminated manuscript. The margins sometimes didn’t match the previous pages and the illustrations were a drab monochrome, the finer details lost in the re-printing process. Most impressive were the opening pages with their graphic of an octagonal disc, a different element at each vertex. Light crowned the topmost vertex, with the other elements running clockwise: Fire, Air, Death, Shadow, Water, Earth, and Life. The traditional rival elements stood in opposition on the disc and each of the eight sent a ray of energy to the center, the vines and waves and winds merging to form a detailed shining orb that contained a landscape populated by tiny people and animals.

  None of these powers fit her. The diagram was incomplete. Where did daemons and angels fit in, the gods above and below? Was there such a thing as a Divine Pact? If she was like Tsellien, who was a sister to the supposed divine heroine of the Cleanse, what did that make Tyrissa? The stories were full of heroes and villains empowered by the classic eight elements, but not one like her.

  Questions and more questions, Tyrissa thought with a sigh. She replaced the tome, promising herself to come back to the library as often as possible. She had told Liran that she would be back by sunset and there was still so much more of Khalanheim to explore.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tyrissa lingered in the patchwork shade of a mature maple tree and stared down the staid, boxlike guildhall across the street. Two long banners hung from the building’s three story roof and rippled gently in the riftwinds, splashes of color against an otherwise stately façade. The banners, bright red fields fringed with a red and white checkerboard pattern and bearing a stylized white spear point at the center, claimed this particular hall for Kadrich’s Cadre. The Cadre was one of a few Khalan security guilds descended from the mercenary companies of old and, hopefully, Tyrissa’s employer for the near future.

  She followed Liran’s directions to the letter this time and had some time to kill before heading inside. It had taken some effort to suppress the urge to wander, especially toward the unique and tantalizing spires that rose above the rooftops to the south. Her explorations of Khalanheim hadn’t yet reached this side of the city and, from what she could see in the immediate area, she wasn’t missing much. The Cadre’s hall was but one among many in this district, though its stonework showed the cracks and weathering of a long history. This part of the city (dubbed Guildhall, naturally) was all business and administration, where the legions of well-dressed clerks, bankers, and organizers worked behind the scenes to help turn the gears of Khalanheim’s economy. Here the streets were more often composed of tightly placed bricks of smoothed granite instead of the common cobblestones of the rest of the city with all their buildup of dirt and straw and worse between the stones. The trees, or rather, the mere presence of trees, were the highlight of the area. This road, the Avenue of the Compact, was split in two by a long line of well-manicured trees, their branches shrouding the roadway with a vibrant autumnal canopy. It was a nice change, as much of the city was bereft of nature.

  Tyrissa took another few moments in the shelter of the maple tree. A few months ago, she would have considered this opportunity precisely in line with what she wanted: To live a more adventurous life, be it in a security guild, or a band of adventurers, or reclaiming the title Ranger of the Morgwood. A life spent protecting people and places, of seeing more of the world. She knew all along that they were largely fantasies, so it was surprising how true they ended up being. She had seen much of the world beyond Morgale already, and she stood before the headquarters of a storied mercenary guild as an applicant. Of course, what she imagined never felt so formal. She passed a large, brown envelope from one hand to the other. It contained a short stack of papers and application forms that she and Liran had poured over last night. That had been an arduous process of the minutest details, many of which were answered with ‘None’ or ‘Not Applicable’.

  Her expectations had changed in an instant, robbing her of those dreams and replacing them with an alternate version twisted by uncertainty and hesitation.

  Hesitant. That’s something I’ve never been.

  Tyrissa sighed with a mix of resolve and resignation, left the tree’s shade, and crossed the street to the short flight of stairs that lead up to the double doors of the Cadre’s guildhall. She knew she was ignoring the weight in the back of her mind. Ignoring the Pact. Each step felt like putting on a mask, one that allowed her to pretend to pursue a different life. She tried not to feel bitter about the fact that that life was so very recently her imagined ideal.

  The formality only escalated once inside. A receptionist, thrilled by the prospect of another female applicant to the Cadre’s security corps, cheerfully accepted Tyrissa’s paperwork. She was then directed to a small sitting area, the walls hung with more of the Cadre’s banners, where five other applicants waited. They were all were men, of course, but equally fresh faced, the eldest with no more than three or four years on her. Tyrissa could feel the nervous energy coming off of each of them as she chose an empty chair. She figured she should share that anxiety, but found herself feeling calm, as if she had banished all doubt the moment she walked through the front doors.

  Beyond a few acknowledging nods or murmured greetings, there was no small talk among the six of them. They sat in silence, caught a perpetual loop of sizing each other up while waiting for each name to be called into the nearby room for the interview. The five men all wore what Tyrissa assumed was typical formal Khalan men’s garb: long
coats that split below the waist, the fabric dyed subdued colors that she would have called faded if not for their pristine condition. Each looked to be well-muscled beneath their coats, and their hands looked calloused from countless hours of training. For her part, Tyrissa looked every inch the country girl fresh off the wagon or, in this case, the mastodon. Tyrissa turned her head to sniff at her shoulder, checking one last time that she did indeed wash the beast’s resilient smell out of her clothes. ‘You’re a blank slate’ Liran said repeatedly while they went through the paperwork and strategized over her application. ‘You have none of the innate prejudices that come from living in Khalanheim. You don’t know the whole song and dance, the minutia and etiquette. That’s your best asset.’ To put it less kindly: ignorance was her chief virtue.

  One by one, her fellow applicants were called into the interview room by an older man with the commanding voice and softening lines of a retired veteran. After about ten minutes each applicant left looking alternatively buoyed or crestfallen by their performance. Their mood correlated directly with how long the Cadre veteran spoke to them in the hallway.

  Tyrissa’s turn came last. Within the interview room was a tribunal of two: the veteran and another man with the distinct and yet unassuming look of a career office worker. As promised, they bombarded her with questions on her past, her skills, and her associations. The last was the majority of the interview, the questions probing after her time on Khalan North’s caravan and how closely she followed her brother’s business. All the while, a young woman listened from a chair next to a second entrance to the room, watching intently but never interrupting the proceedings. As the questions dwindled to an end, it was that third observer who escorted Tyrissa out and introduced herself.