Verra Of Wolves
The Grimoire Series I
Blake Thunderport
Copyright © 2020 Blake Thunderport
Self-published
[email protected]
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
The World
Epigraph
1. New Shores
2. Tholome’s Lock
3. Moon-Face
4. Strawberry
5. Rose Petals
6. Siren’s Voice
7. Offering
8. Underworld
9. Mage
10. Intentions
11. Secret
12. Family
13. Calling
14. Chains
15. Promised Lifestyle
16. Successor
17. Happy Birthday
18. Proposal
19. Black Magic
20. Decision
21. Parlor
22. Reunion
23. Clarity
24. Consequences
25. Destiny
Acknowledgements
Afterword
The World
Second Era of Peace, Year 219
Year 1154 A.E.
Sister, know no shame;
you needn’t hide
your wolfishness
within a sheepish frame.
—Elizabeth Knight
1. New Shores
Nearly three weeks had passed, stuck on a boat with seventeen pirates who counted twenty as they took sail. But who could have blamed the illiterate men? Certainly not me, who asked to get smuggled across the sea, without looking back at the desert continent. Without saying goodbye.
“Oi, Verra.” Someone knocked on the iron bars. “Yer wake?”
Turning around, I recognised the familiar voice of Deg, ‘the sea-leg’ they called him. He was the youngest pirate on board, fifteen or sixteen years old, wishing to forget his past while he hunted down treasures—just like the rest of the crew did. His cabin was across from the prison in which I slept with locked doors for obvious reasons.
“Aye,” I said, proud to answer like a pirate.
“Makin’ fun of us, what?”
I took the key out of my pocket and gave it to him so he would open the door. He was the only one I trusted.
“Are we there?”
“Not yet,” he answered. “Had to detour a bit but worry not, me lass.”
He sat down beside me where we remained silent for a few minutes, enjoying the crashing waves against the ship. They were stronger under the influence of the full moon, rocking the seamen to sleep.
“Ye might try a lad’s cabin if ye like,” he said, unable to find a comfortable spot on the prisoner’s hay-bed.
“Next time I want to get raped, I might.”
“Oi, me mates won’t touch a weak lass!” Deg exclaimed and his cheeks flushed red. He scratched his blonde head, seemingly unsure if The Virgin Wench turned vicious criminals into gentlemen. He didn’t want to make false promises and quietly added, “I’d protect ye.”
I laid my head on his shoulder like many times before. It was the last piece of home I had. The Desert’s heat radiated from his sunburnt skin and I sucked it all in. The surrounding mist reminded me that spring nights were colder in the North, and I wondered if the summers were colder, too. Imagining the new land left goosebumps on my pale skin, and Deg insisted on bringing me another blanket.
The second he disappeared, I grabbed inside my bag and pulled out various bottles of different sizes and searched through them. The creaking wood announcing his return made me jump and worsened the already shaky hands. I grabbed the tiny jar I was looking for and placed it into my lap while shoving the others back into their place—but he was already standing in front of me, presenting the blanket.
The candlelight behind his back made him appear faceless, but I didn’t fear him. I had put all my faith in him to bring me safely across the sea, I trusted him in keeping a secret.
“Here,” I said. “We won’t see each other for a long time, better make it last.”
I opened the lid and let him taste the green cream. The reason his breath was fresh, unlike those of the other crew-members. That’s how I’d paid him more often than I would’ve liked. He was the only pirate willing to make fair trades with a Witch, or a wench. I wasn’t sure what they called me. Toothpaste, however, had always been a luxury item. I saved him a fortune, maybe that’s why we got along so well.
With sparkling eyes, he pulled the blanket over my shoulders and hugged me. He smelled of sweat, which I didn’t mind. Moreover, I preferred it. That way I was able to identify him blindly.
When I buried my head in his chest, Deg patted me. It had been a long time since someone held me, thankful for what I did instead of afraid. My eyes burned, but I held the tears back with tightly curled fists. Compared to him, I had no reason to cry. He was younger and orphaned. It was him who deserved to lie in a mother’s loving wing.
“There’s something else,” I mumbled, but was interrupted by the lookout above.
“Land ahoy!” His muffled shout woke the seamen for their shift.
Deg sprinted back into his cabin, then up on deck, leaving me with a shy smile.
Hastily I stuffed the rest of my belongings into my bag, finally leaving the prison cell behind, ready to set foot on the foreign continent.
Green.
All of it. The coast, the mountains, even the water, everything seemed green to me.
I watched Deg glancing at me as he tied knots on deck while wondering if I would miss the Orange Desert at some point.
With a big smile, he ran up to me.
“Guess that’s where I leave ye, lass,” he said, and his smile disappeared. I clasped his hand. The next moment we locked eyes one last time.
“Thank you, for protecting me,” I said.
A stabbing pain hit my chest, cutting out a chunk of my heart when I’d let go of him.
The Captain called, “Show a leg up here, sea-leg, tell yer wench she has to go!”
“Aye,” Deg answered, but as soon as he turned around I already sank into the moving crowd at the Roness harbour.
I left a small bottle, containing pieces of jasmine flower and a curl of my pitch-black hair, with him—an amulet I’d made and hoped he would hold on to it tightly.
2. Tholome’s Lock
I never thought I would make it this far.
My sudden escape was an unforeseen offer to board The Virgin Wench on its way to Yslora. A route running close to the village of Roness offered a once in a lifetime chance. My grandfather, a Northern man, wrote letters about the Dicheval academy located there. He told me about his life as a student and how he wished that I could experience a good education and learn to use my full potential. A potential my parents had suppressed ‘for my own good’. The descriptions of the academy lifestyle left me longing to live like he had. So as soon as Deg offered a way to Yslora, I took it, though I never had expected to set foot on the continent. Rather, I imagined to die of disease, to witness the crew-members rebel and change course. But everything went according to plan, despite a detour of a few days.
Wandering around the fish-market, I narrowed my eyes in disbelief.
A prestigious academy, here?
I’d expected it to be different. With its green woods it obviously differed from the desert, but still. Tiny houses barely standing on their stone foundations, vendors screaming at their customers and beggars sharing the streets with prostitutes. It all seemed familiar to me.
Further North, it appeared in my sight. Behind the dark trees high up the hill, the academy was hiding, covering itself in fog.
“Must be it,” I sighed, changing my direction.
I followed the main road, catching side-eyes across the street while the crowd held its distance. The fishy smell made my stomach growl. It was the longest period I stayed hungry; you could’ve told by my body. Concave cheeks, shoulders of skin and bones like wet cloth on a branch, lips of no colour and weary eyes surrounded by dark circles. To them, I must’ve looked horrific. I ignored the reflections in the windows as I made my way upward, hoping that this was a temporary state.
Convinced that I would never come close to Dicheval, I hadn’t bothered thinking of a plan to get myself enrolled in the academy. Now that the last steps were left, raging thoughts filled my head. I had no direct plan on how to convince the academy to let me in. Requirements, tests, if there were any, I had no idea how to pass them. Would they listen to me at all or let me set foot on the academy territory? All I knew was that it would take me at least an hour of walking uphill to reach it.
I had to calm myself down, overthinking never got me far. The occasional chances I took did. I grabbed for the chamomile essence inside my pocket. The smell upon opening the cork let me breathe in deeply, covering the salty stench of the harbour. Taking my time rubbing the oil on my temples and behind my ears, I chanted to manifest its effect. “Let go of the earthy worry, breathe, I am not in a hurry.”
At first, the village streets were muddy. You could’ve barely called them streets. More like paths everyone agreed on taking. Planks of wood inside the trampled grooves promised to keep your feet dry, even though no one accomplished that task.
As I kept walking up, the streets were of cobblestone with no beggars in sight, no marketplace had been arranged, no stray animals. This part of Roness was still sleeping at the crack of dawn. I appreciated the silence of the district. Whoever worked here could afford to have late opening times and their customers could afford to sleep till sunrise.
When I reached the rim of the wood, I had not met one single person beside patrolling guards. On sight, I clutched my bag tightly and rushed to the stone fence that separated the road from the forest.
From the rim upwards, the mountain steepened, there was no visible path that led to the academy. From this angle, you couldn’t see it and I went straight through the woods as it would be the shortest distance.
Of course, I had thought many times about giving up. Mostly, before I boarded The Virgin Wench. There was no turning back now, but the stinging pain inside my calf tried to convince me otherwise.
I dropped on the moss. Gripping it, I fought against my shaking lip until I cried out loud and raised my face to heaven, trying to catch a sunbeam. But thick pine branches refused to let one through. No one was coming to pick me up. I stuck my nose into the moss and took a deep breath before ripping it out of the earth and drying my tears with it. If I didn’t have enough willpower, I could have as well died right there on the spot. All my effort would’ve gotten to waste. Rubbing the remaining soil out of my face, I layed down for a short break. I’d spread my joints out, feeling the moisture under my body. I hoped to soak it up like a root, to take the purified energy of the forest and make it my own, make me able to walk a few more steps.
Calmed, I closed my eyes, and the mist sang me into a trance.
After a while, the moss climbed up between my fingers and trapped them as it made its way to my arms.
In my dreamy state, I wanted to let the moss take over and swallow me whole, to be one with it and come to rest. The hunger vanished, as well as the pain in my legs. Then, the desired rays warmed up my body. For the first time in weeks, I felt rested.
The mist came to a halt when a shadow sneaked around my moss-covered body. Its vibrating presence approached the contours of my hands and feet. When it licked across my nose—the only part untouched by the growth, I jerked awake and my eyes widened in surprise.
In front of me stood a black-furred, four-legged creature. Its eyes lovely, not threatening at all. Instead of showing its fangs, it seemed to smile.
I got up on my knees and shifted back.
By then, I’d met desert foxes, hyenas even, but this one was different, bigger. Then it dawned on me. A wolf. I’d read about them living on the green continent but I never imagined to cross paths with one. Its kindness could’ve been a trick to keep the prey calm. But against all probability, it sat down, breathing with its tongue out.
More of a dog than a beast.
The wolf looked uphill and then deep into my eyes, telling me to go on.
I got up, slightly nauseous but over-all refreshed. It could’ve been the end of me if I’d been paranoid enough to panic. But I’d let the forest consume me, believed that I was a root, a part of the ecological system—and was rewarded for it.
It was the first time I saw Dicheval up close and I realised that I was looking at a castle. The forest did a great job in covering the gigantic wall that surrounded it. The academy looked majestic, more precious than I estimated before. As if only the destined ones were allowed to enter and the rest would never find out what hides behind it, never getting a glimpse of the inside. I worried I would be one of the latter but strived on, eager to find out. While I took the final steps, the wolf accompanied me closely.
Following the narrow path, there was no gate in sight. I sprinted to the stonework, put my hands all over the wall and forced my fingers into the rims—reassuring myself that it was real.
Impatiently the wolf pulled on my dress with its monstrous fangs, nearly throwing me out of balance. It dragged me to the right but I didn’t let go of the wall until we came across an overgrown wooden door.
Without thinking twice, I rattled on the doorknob and realised it was open.
Like a warden, the wolf bowed down and bid farewell to me. I mouthed my gratitude and watched its fur disappear behind brushes.
Stroking through my hair, I pondered if the mammal recognised me as one of its own.
When I slipped through, my astonishment left me stunned but there it was: The Dicheval campus. A throbbing pulse sucked me in.
Finally, I arrived, too overwhelmed by this achievement to process my surroundings and enjoy the foreign architecture. Instead, driven by adrenaline, I moved forward to what seemed to be the main building.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a crow-like woman bumped into me. I looked down, her nose, or beak you could say, was buried in a book. In return she inspected me from head to toe, wrinkling one eyebrow.
“Excuse me, young lady,” she said, “I’ve never seen you before. How did you come in?”
I attempted to answer, but my throat was as dry as the desert that I came from, so as soon as I opened my mouth she had already dragged me by the arm into the building.
The halls were wide and echoed the click-clacks of her heels into all directions. There were no students. The campus stood quiet in the early morning, though I saw silhouettes running laps.
Without slowing down, the woman burst through a door where some of her colleagues were enjoying their breakfast and my stomach tightened. I had to hold myself back from shoving their pastry down my throat or lying down on the cosy couch that stood in the corner.
“Mother Moon, have mercy,” the crow exclaimed. “You won’t believe this.”
“Rose, calm down.” A rather chubby man jumped up from his seat and put out his cigarette. “What happened?”
“I found her in front of the gymnasium. She didn’t pass the gate. I suspect she came through the tunnel.”
“That I doubt. Surely she can explain herself.” He waited for a few seconds, scanning my look. “My name is Toms Harriet,” he co
ntinued, “This is Professor Rose.”
“Verra,” I answered and bowed. “I wanted to enrol in this academy. I didn’t use a tunnel.”
Professor Rose scoffed and pinched her eyes. “Of course you didn’t. Judging by your confused grimace, you know nothing about this place.” She gesticulated wildly. “To get enrolled, if suited, you should’ve sent the required papers months ago. Yet, there has been no Verra. I would know. Ver-ra. Does your folk have inherited names?“
“Camilla!” Professor Harriet interrupted her. “Calm down.”
“Vol-,“ I mumbled, “Volkov. My family name. I didn’t know, I’m sorry.” At my words, they both stepped back from me with distorted faces.
“You won’t believe this,” Professor Rose repeated.
Harriet walked her away, the clacking of her heels rather shaky and hesitant.
Sweat broke out of my pores. I wondered if my grandfather had been an excellent student and made a name for himself, or if he was a disobeying rebel that went down in school-history—now encouraged to be forgotten.
When Harriet returned, he lit another cigarette and stared at me.
“Follow me,” he whispered and left the room.
I tiptoed beside him and snuffled during our walk through the castle.
The walls we passed were clad in ashy wood. It was carved into flowing shapes around the doorframes. Wherever a chair stood by the wall, I noticed engraved names inside the rims, some filled with golden or silver paint. Yet from afar it appeared to be intentional and thus enhanced the pattern instead of ruining it. Between the narrow windows, rugs dangled from the ceiling to the floor. They portrayed history, I assumed, even though one depicted godlike creatures and left me sceptical.
It was a magical school, after all, a pinch of mysticism should have been expected.
In front of the gate, Harriet stopped.
I had applied too late. Not at all actually. The trip across the sea had been in vain and I began wailing.
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