Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1)

by Michael Watson

  At Dovenell, the Heartroad met its end. The road, easily seen as invincible and eternal, jutted out over the western Rift wall like a jagged, broken smile. Tyrissa looked south for the road to reappear, but it was as if the Rift had swallowed the southern leg of the great road whole. Beyond that, Dovenell was underwhelming, similar to the small towns that lined the Heartroad north of Khalanheim with the addition of a row of docking towers, piers, and warehouses to serve the zeppelin trade. From the height of the Chasm Skimmer, Tyrissa could see that the land here was largely dry grassland painted a wintery brownish-yellow. The east side of the Rift was worse off than the west: desiccated and barren, the great canyon forming a stark division between nations and biomes.

  The passenger cabin had a map of the lands around the Rift set into long horizontal frame, north oriented to the left. Black double crosses denoting mooring towers dotted either side of the canyon, though many on the east side had red slashes marking them as abandoned and condemned. That entire side was labeled as part of the Rhonian Empire but, aside from a pair of towns marked ‘ruined’, Tyrissa saw no hint of imperial ownership when the Chasm Skimmer surfaced before sunset each day. The Empire remained a remote presence despite being technically within sight.

  The Rift widened with each passing mile and by day six the cliff walls had drawn apart to twice the distance at Khalanheim. Shallow canyons began to fork off the Rift, dry tributaries that fed a vast empty river. The dawn and dusk views of the lands above became grim vistas of emptiness to the west and desolation to the east, broken only by the intermittent zeppelin mooring towers. Tyrissa knew they had passed the southern border of Khalan territory but there was no obvious indication of that change, only the feeling that the cataclysm of the Fall was but a recent memory here. Tyrissa supposed that was true for the earth and exactly one woman.

  Through the trip south Hali was even more distant than usual, but Tyrissa couldn’t fault her. The zeppelin’s crew were as differential to Hali as to their own captain. She was a symbol to them and for Hali this might be a sacred pilgrimage, a return home, with all the associated memories and sorrows. If anything, she hid it well behind that mask of youth. Tyrissa tried to put Morgale in place of Hithia but couldn’t summon the understanding, couldn’t fathom the devastation and loss of everything you’ve ever known.

  Tyrissa kept her own excitement well hidden. Hithia was a legend to her, the setting of countless heroic stories in the books of her youth. Even in ruin it held a powerful mystique, though she tried to check such childishness with the reality of their task and the weight of her Pact. Her Pact as a Valkwitch. She had no idea what that really meant, and explaining it to her allies proved difficult. She knew precious little, all of it disjointed. If only she had more time with Giroon before they had to leave, but that was not to be. It would have to wait until they returned. Thinking on it too much caused the excitement of the journey to give way to melancholy. Was this to be her life? To wander from place to place, blown about on the shifting winds of whatever her Pact subtly decreed? When she thought of it that way, Tyrissa wasn’t sure why she ever desired some grand life of adventure. The romanticized visions of her childhood never felt like the heroes had no choice in the matter.

  I could have turned around at any time, given up, let the consequences come.

  Somehow, she was certain that she never would have chosen that path. But that left the question of whether that choice was even hers to make.

  Chapter Forty

  Kressen’s estimate of eight days to New Inthai proved correct and the Chasm Skimmer drifted toward the mooring towers of the southernmost Rift-side town in the early afternoon, right on time. ‘Rift-side’ was a generous classification, as the zeppelin had turned away from the Rift itself an hour ago to fly down one of the wider tributary chasms. Though they had left the Rift behind, the riftwinds continued to push them along and the captain ordered the zeppelin to the ‘surface’ to avoid the narrower lower depths of the canyon. The land to either side bore more life than Tyrissa had seen for most of the trip, covered in short grasses yellowed from the winter and dotted with farmhouses built into half-circle windbreak walls. The occasional stream would tumble into the canyon as a misty tail of water. Ahead, the tributary canyon ran southwest clear to the horizon and was said to be navigable by zeppelin all the way to the city of Enshala.

  From the deck of the ship, Tyrissa watched with wonder as they approached a grand hillside city built of white stone that shone in the distance like the myths and stories of her childhood. She blinked and the grandeur was gone, replaced by the reality of ruin. That spectral vision of a white city on a hill was just that: a ghost of the past. What was left standing was crumbled and rotting from the passage of time, or collapsed into nothing more than piles of white rock dotting a barren hillside.

  Below the hillside stood the actual town of New Inthai, a mimic and unintentional mockery of the traces of beauty above. Some of the buildings looked to be constructed out of the same stone, salvaged from the ruins. Others were no different from what she’d seen in ‘Little Hithia’ in Khalanheim, with slender towers and turrets sprouting from curving, elegant edifices. There were no examples of true Hithian architecture like the Temple of the Four Winds to be seen.

  The sway of the Chasm Skimmer in flight switched to the drift and tug of being moored. Tyrissa hurried below deck to the exit portal, her belongings already in hand, as the unexpected passengers now expected to be off and out of the way before the cargo. As she crossed the boarding platform into the mooring tower, she saw that there’s was only one other ship floated above New Inthai’s piers, a smaller zeppelin with the name Jaunty Jolene embossed on the side of the hull. Kexal set a quick stride through the mooring tower, this one with a curving ramp leading to the ground floor in addition to a winched lift, not stopping until they were away from the piers that hung precipitously over the canyon. Tyrissa sighed with relief as her feet hit solid ground, sending what earth energy she had to her feet. She’d grown so used to the subtle anchoring of earth magick that she felt unbalanced without it.

  The port was quite small, only three mooring tower and a cluster of warehouses, and quickly gave way to the main street of New Inthai. The town stretched along a wide boulevard of white bricks that ran parallel to the tributary canyon. Kexal led them along the main drag, passing teahouses, row houses with turrets and towers, and more traditional Khalan-style arcades. They stopped in front a large inn called the Leaning Tower on the north side of the road.

  Kexal exchanged a wave with the aproned innkeeper sweeping the floorboards of the veranda that wrapped around the ground floor of the inn. A look of gradual recognition spread across the man’s face.

  “Been here before?” Tyrissa asked.

  “Once or twice. Former Hithian territory ain’t a bad place to hide if you’re on the run. Not much law to be had outside of the scattered towns and the trade routes. Plenty of places to lay low.”

  “Like the crater?”

  “Well, I haven’t been there, though that’s about to change. We already got a good idea where Vralin is but it won’t hurt none to ask around town. The five of us will—”

  “I must see to a… tradition,” Hali interrupted. She held out her pack to Garth, who reluctantly took on an addition to his already bulky load. Hali turned to the ruin-studded hill looming above the town to the south and pointed out an out-of-place thicket of trees growing at the crest. Despite the time of year, the grove was in full summer greens. “I’ll be there, under the trees. Have Tyrissa fetch me in an hour or two.”

  Tyrissa’s reflexive frown at being volunteered was prevented by her own desire to see what lay up there, and more importantly, the view into the crater beyond.

  “Understood,” Kexal said. “The four of us—”

  “I have something to take care of too,” Tyrissa blurted out. This was Tsellien’s hometown. She had to look for next of kin. “I need to find someone.” And deliver ill news.

  Kexal’s e
yes snapped between the two women a few times. “Well, I know you won’t hear otherwise from me. Go on. We’ll meet back here by evening. The three of us will take care of the business of actually gettin’ into the crater. You know, the work.”

  “Great,” Tyrissa said, holding out her pack to Kexal. He grumbled as he took it.

  Tyrissa knew just where to start. She hurried back up the main boulevard to one of the teahouses with a line of small tables out front. Three gray-haired Hithians sat in a triangle around one table, two women and one man. The man grinned around pipe, its smoke curling up and drifting out into the street. They spoke in Hithian, the language as beautiful as the hints of old pre-Fall architecture in the ruins above the town. Tyrissa waited for a break in their conversation and all three turned flat gazes at her, not hostile, just curious.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said hoping at least one of them spoke Common, “I’m looking for a member of the ar’Ival family.”

  This led to on a rapid exchange in pure Hithian among the three. ‘Tsellien’ was the only word Tyrissa recognized, the only one she needed to recognize. Tyrissa carried the slain Valkwitch’s emblem in a pocket, not wanting to show it unless she had to. It was something of a trophy from the dead. That could go over poorly.

  “You know Tsellien ar’Ival?” said the woman on the left.

  “Yes. I’m a… student of hers.”

  That brought a smile to their faces, their eyes lighting up at the mention of their hometown heroine. A barrage of questions followed. Is she here? Is she well? They called her ‘Wind-Kissed’ among other titles, most in the Hithian language.

  Tyrissa dodged their questions and said, “I need to find her next of kin. It’s important.” Those words brought a cloud over the three. They understood.

  “Her brother Srahoun oversees the merchant house,” said the same woman, the mouthpiece of the group. She motioned back down the road, toward the zeppelin port. “The red building near the moors.”

  “Thank you,” Tyrissa said with a little bow. She hurried back the way they came through town, retracing her steps back to the port. They had walked right by the merchant house, a stout three story brick building in the Khalan style. Tyrissa’s eyes glossed over such places now, they were so common in Khalanheim. Judging by the signage, this place combined the services of five trade-related enterprises that would normally be separate buildings in the Khalan capital. She strode up to the main entrance to see if she could meet with Srahoun ar’Ival right away.

  It wasn’t hard. Tsellien’s name opened doors in New Inthai.

  “Tyrissa, was it? You’ve word of my sister?”

  Srahoun was about Tyrissa’s father’s age but had the light brown eyes and facial features to mark him as Tsellien’s brother. He kept a simple office of tan colored wooden furniture, the walls decorated with maps of the Rift and areas north and west of the Hithian Crater. There were echoes of Liran in the organization of his desk, a constrained chaos of stacked papers and ledgers.

  “Yes. Umm—” On the flight south she had practiced a dozen different things to say and now words failed her. Tyrissa simply pulled Tsellien’s cloak clasp from her pocket and placed it on the desk between them. Srahoun slumped back in his chair with a soft sigh.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” He picked up the emblem, turning it over in his hands. His face was stoic, accepting.

  “This past summer, in northern Morgale.”

  “Saving the world?”

  “A piece of it, yes.”

  He nodded, eyes never leaving the winged shield.

  “The last time she visited here, a few winters ago, she spoke of this happening, of a young woman bearing bad news and her spirit. You are her heir, yes?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you need anything from me?”

  “How long has Jaunty Jolene been docked here?”

  “Five days. She limped into port, her elchem turbines strained to near breaking. They’re waiting on supplies for the repair.”

  Tyrissa repeated ‘five days’ as a whisper. The strained engines would explain how they gained a day on them. Vralin would be well set up in the crater by now with that much of head start.

  “Anything else?” Srahoun asked.

  He was well connected and could supply them with equipment, or a route into the crater, or something else useful. Yet, Tyrissa didn’t want to impose. Let Kexal be his resourceful self.

  She shook her head. “Nothing material,” she said. “I know almost nothing about her. The… succession was unorthodox.”

  “’Unorthodox’ would be my youngest sister in a word. Ellie was born special. Different. The priests originally said she had the blessing of the winds, but it was obvious it was something else entirely. She grew fast, learned faster. Started calling herself ‘Valkwitch’ by the time she was eight years old. A child’s fancy that wouldn’t go away, but grew in complexity and insistence. She shorted out a zepp turbine with a touch to prove just how different she was. Took us months to find out what that even meant.”

  “I can relate,” Tyrissa said.

  “By the time she was grown, about your age, she spoke of traveling the world and saving it from itself. We had no doubts.” He held up the cloak clasp. “She had this made and set out. Our first Windmage in generations left with her.”

  “Vralin.”

  “Yes. Such fortune to have not one, but two powerful Pactbound in the same group of children, though Vralin gained his abilities the normal way. Went on some damn fool misadventure and came back changed. He could have become a like a king and united our scattered peoples. Instead he followed Tsellien,” Srahoun barked a short laugh. “Can’t blame him. Such are the choices of a young man in love.”

  “In love?”

  Of course. Tyrissa felt it like a punch in the gut. It made sense. It made no sense at all.

  “Madly, though given Ellie’s nature it was a strange sort of love. The kind where they come together and fall apart time and again.”

  “I should go,” she said, surprising even herself. Srahoun made to return the clasp, but Tyrissa stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Keep it. It was a comfort to me these past months, but it belongs with you. I have a more permanent memento of her.”

  “Very well,” he said, placing the emblem aside.

  “I would like to talk to you about Tsellien at length once my… work here is done. There’s a lot I would like to know.” Later. She would tell him everything about Vralin once the Windmage was dead. Once justice was done, his growing betrayal answered for. Srahoun seemed to understand what sort of work she meant.

  “You and those with you are on some grand quest, yes?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  ”Ellie’s heir in the ways that count. You know where to find me, Thirty-Three.”

  Tyrissa couldn’t help but give a small smile at that as she left, the number like a shield against the new weight on her mind. She left the merchant house to find Hali.

  Tyrissa climbed a hillside bedecked in the tumbled ruins of a fallen civilization. This wasn’t even the city of Hithia, not yet. This was old Inthai, a satellite town below the floating capital. Among the scattered ruin were pieces of white stonework that merely looked misplaced: a column, straight as the day it was raised, a set of flagstones still cleanly joined, or the head of a statue with pleasant expression, ignorant of the ruin spread all around it. The air this close to the Hithian Crater was gently infused with air magick and Tyrissa glided up the uneven terrain with the grace of earth, her staff in hand but not needed as a hiking pole. It wasn’t long before she reached the grove of trees that Hali pointed out, a brilliant splash of green against a rocky canvas of gray and white.

  The winds calmed as soon as her boots met the grass that spread from the edges of the grove as if the rocky ground were fertile, wet soil. A serene feeling similar to the pull of Hali’s pact magicks washed over her mind, the signifier of life magick at work.

  From
one element into another. The source radiated from belowground ahead of her but there was no absorption and conversion of life magick. That was still one frontier of her Pact that she hadn’t crossed. One she feared to cross.

  A dense summertime canopy obscured the sun once Tyrissa went a few steps beyond the outermost ring of trees. The gnarled limbs and snaking roots of the grove’s trees ran rampant and unrestrained, as if a segment of ancient forest had been transplanted here and somehow thrived. At the center sprawled a massive, contorted tree taller than all the rest but also widened by a twisting network of limbs like a bramble bush. The serene source of life magick pulsed from its roots and Tyrissa give it a wide berth as she circled around to the far side of the grove, not wanting to disturb the balance of this place.

  The southern side of the grove ended in a cliff that dropped precipitously into the Hithian Crater itself. There were no enclosing trees here, only the open sky. Hali stood near the edge, staring out across the vast crater. The hood of her simple brown robe was down and her hair danced in the winds that flowed out of the crater. Though she had been asked to come, Tyrissa didn’t want to interrupt and kept a polite distance from Hali. She followed the cliff’s edge to a small rise, a boulder covered in grass and moss, and sat down to take in the elemental vista of the Hithian Crater.

  Hithia. Since she was a small girl, struggling through stories where many of the words were beyond her grasp, Hithia held a powerful mystique. It was a land of legend where people lived as angels, floating high above the world on their island city in the sky. The very air itself was their tool, its currents their power, the winds their lifeblood. They crafted a city that shamed all others in its beauty and grace. Those winsome childhood visions were blasted away by what lay before her.

  The Hithian Crater was a miles-wide puncture wound in the earth’s surface. Khalanheim could fit inside with room to spare between the city walls and the ring of sheer, marble-veined cliffs that were thousands of feet tall. The Rift broke through the north wall of the crater. The continental gash continued right to the center, a mile-wide crevasse on the crater floor that pulsed with sky blue light. It burrowed into the centerpiece of the crater, a mountain of rubble with countless bits of intact masonry and carved stone protruding from its mass, the city of Hithia itself. Like the ascent to the grove, the ruins below looked as if the Fall had occurred yesterday and as if the land had been like this since the beginning of time.