Vassal

by Sterling D'Este

  Vassal

  Call of Calamity Book One

  Liv Savell

  Sterling D'Este

  Copyright © 2021 L&S Fables

  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.

  To request permissions, contact the publisher at lsfables.com.

  Paperback ISBN: 9798574126288

  Cover design by: Sara Oliver Designs

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020924506

  Printed in the United States of America

  L&S Fables

  Austin, Texas

  lsfables.com

  For the misfits.

  Map of Rhosan and Ingola

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map of Rhosan and Ingola

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Translations

  Pronounciation Guide

  The Fundamentals of Magic

  Acknowledgements

  Follow L&S Fables

  Goddess

  Prologue

  Tenth Moon of the Year 1542: Rhosan-Ingolan Border

  Trees whipped by, black monoliths slowly thinning. Dawn was a grey promise on the horizon, little light, but it served to illuminate the twisting forms of roots raised from the ground like feet tilted to trip a sprinting figure.

  Catrin had not lost her way, even on so cloudy a night, but still ran southward, her thighs aching. Every sound was a pursuer, a hound or a bespelled soldier bent on taking away the book she held pressed to her chest. It was a small thing, insignificant in appearance for all that it had been written by Enyo’s strongest high priest and contained within its pages more magic than the slight acolyte had ever imagined.

  The girl could not cast a spell, but she could run. Fleet as a doe, her mother had said, and so she’d been given to Enyo. In thanks to the land.

  Praise the Goddess.

  Behind her, the imagined sounds of pursuit had become real, the thunder of branches crumbling beneath the force of armored horses. Catrin was angling south and east, cutting through the tangle of the dream Goddess’s wood as though she meant to disappear within it. Ruyaa’s forest was a strange place, thick with fog even in the heat of noon. Now, in the cold light of a change-time, a transition from dark to day, it was coiling and unpredictable. Branches seemed to reach out, trunks to shift. Ephemeral and changeful as a dream.

  But still, the soldiers were gaining. Gaining despite the thick foliage, despite the lack of any real path.

  Catrin felt the wind from the path of a man’s large hand scrape the back of her neck, fear fueling another hectic burst of speed. She darted behind a protrusion of rock that turned to mist and drifted away to leave her in full view of twenty armed pursuers.

  “There’s the little bitch— launch an arrow!” the gruff leader said, only Catrin was away again, leaping over brambles like the young deer after which her mother had called her. ‘My fawn,’ the priestess had said. She would be proud now.

  She would have been.

  The second arrow caught her in the shoulder, punching through the muscle as if it were nothing. Parchment. Or cloud wisps. But then, Catrin had always been slight of frame. She gave a piercing scream, a little-girl sound that ought to have no place in battle. The men drew up short as though suddenly reminded of just who they faced here. A child devoted to her Goddess. Not a soldier.

  “Don’t slow now!” The leader roared, and they were off again with a great stamping of feet and snorting gusts from the horse’s nostrils as they dodged fallen trees and low-hanging branches. Catrin picked up the book and threw herself clumsily forward. She must be fast. Swift as a deer. Just as mother said.

  Only she was bleeding thickly now, long ropy black tendrils turning slowly red as dawn made good on its vow. The sun was rising, and with her presence, Catrin’s last hopes of escape would die. The soldiers would have a much easier time aiming in the light.

  Still, she carried on. The hope of Enyo’s people rested in these pages, in the resurrection of their Goddess. And it all depended on Catrin getting away, in her keeping the tome from the Ingolan king. The girl was slowing, she knew. But she could not stop. Would not.

  The third arrow thunked into a tree, just a finger’s width from Catrin’s head. She could feel the horses’ breath now, hot and wet-sweet like a hay barn after a thunderstorm. They weren’t going to bother catching her anymore, but run her down and pummel her into the dirt.

  The first blow of horse hoof struck her thigh, and then Catrin was falling. Falling into the earth itself, it’s great yawning mouth closing after her to blot out the sun. The soil embraced her, hugging her arms and thighs, dragging her down, down, down. In that deep, unconsciousness found her.

  When Catrin woke from meadow dreams, she was on the outskirts of the wood, far south of her pursuers, fog licking around her body like friendly dogs. “Thank you, Ruyaa,” she whispered, her voice awed. For who else could have saved her but the Goddess of dreams herself?

  Catrin touched her shoulder, wincing at the crumble of dried blood, then cradled the book, turned, and pointed her steps away from the country of her birth. The last place the king would look, after all, was his own capital city.

  Chapter I

  Fourth Moon, Waning Crescent, of the Year 1819: Ingola

  For many in Ingola, spring was a time of happiness and festivities. The tedious grey skies and the close quarters of winter fled from sunny days and bustling markets filled with fresh produce and livestock. Citizens were finally free of the stifling cold and could bask in the glorious spring days and balmy nights.

  It was a time of prosperity and looking forward. Winter had ended, summer would come. Life continued onwards.

  But for Alphonse and her fellow students at Moxous, the School of Magics, spring was not a symbol of hope. No. It was a symbol of stress. When all the blooms had blossomed, and all the fields were sown, the students at the School of Magics tested their knowledge and woe befell the student who did not do her teachers proud.

  While Dailion, the capital city of Ingola and prized jewel of the continent, reveled in Spring, Moxous wallowed in it. Students whispered everywhere they went to avoid disturbing fellow scholars who might be avidly studying in the halls and alcoves. Young men and women alike would walk about hunch-backed and bleary-eyed from carrying too many scrolls of notes, too many volumes of text. Sleep deprivation was an artform within Moxous, and to some, a point of pride.

  How many days could one go without sleeping, while still functioning and memorizing?

  For Alphonse, the answer was two days. After tw
o days, she would become flustered and confused, little use to anyone, let alone herself. And she had been at that limit the night before, her amber eyes bloodshot, her hair mussed and escaping the veil that should have hidden it.

  The words scribbled in her usually tidy hand had been blurring before her eyes, her head pounding and her thoughts cloudy. So even though her roommate, Coralie, was wide awake and reading frantically, Alphonse had blown out her lamp and gone to sleep.

  She was all the better for it now, her thoughts coherent and sensible as she walked down the stairs in the massive library toward the older vaults, the catacombs as the students affectionately referred to them. This part of the library held all things forgotten and was precisely the place a fellow student would go to get a leg up on competitors.

  Her friend, Etienne, would want such a leg up because he was one of the very few vying for the coveted position of High Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Every three years, Moxous would accept presentations of research by their brightest students. Only three would be selected to join the Masters to continue their learning and eventually become High Sorcerers themselves, which took great dedication to achieve.

  It was this dedication and curiosity that led him to be so very ahead of his peers.

  Alphonse listened to the soft scuffing sounds her plain leather slippers made on the worn stones, carefully balancing a steaming cup of energizing tea in one hand and a roll stuffed with egg and cheese in the other.

  One more flight of stairs and she’d be able to begin her search for Etienne.

  Despite the catacombs being so far beneath the stacks, the wide-open nature of the library tower afforded a light and airy atrium that shone down to even the unremembered vaults. It had never felt dank, dark, or disturbing to Alphonse, though many students said as much. To the observant visitor, the catacombs held an abundance of delicate sensations. Dust motes swirled in the light filtering down from the higher reaches of the tower, tomes of every color and description lined shelves of scrolling woodwork in a feast for the eyes, and pages whispered in their quiet, shushing language whenever there were studious fingers to prod them.

  No. She found the space to be serene and peaceful. Devout almost.

  Aside from all the stairs, one had to climb up and down to reach the catacombs. Those she could have done without.

  Finally, reaching the bottom level, Alphonse paused, listening. Sometimes she could make out the scratching of his quill, or a faint humming as he read to himself. That was only true if Etienne was near the stairway. If he was further in…

  Alphonse couldn’t hear anything, and so she turned to take the row of shelves that would lead to the table she had found him at last time. It was always best to check his previous location, just in case he hadn’t exhausted it yet.

  ✶

  Etienne stooped over an enormous tome, its yellowed pages but a few inches from his pale eyes. He had an elbow propped on the table and his forehead resting in the palm of his hand, long fingers clenching and unclenching his hair as he read. He was only distantly aware of tension in his chest, the quickening of his heartbeat.

  He was close. He had to be.

  High Sorcerer Jean Seyrès was blithering on about the ingenious methods he had devised regarding the research of the old world in a tiny, cramped script—Etienne swore to every god he knew that he would never flatter himself so when he became High Sorcerer—but between the narcissism and self-magnifying hyperbole, there were hints of the book Seyrès had uncovered. Etienne sketched out some approximation of its contents in disjointed phrases, diamonds in the rock of the dead man’s prose: “tales of the Old World,” “accurate depictions of the Old Gods,” and most importantly, “keys to understanding the end of the Old Gods and the birth of the new.” This was what he was looking for, a book he had only seen the barest of allusions to in other research. He fidgeted restlessly, tension keeping his shoulders high and tight. He’d long ago ceased to feel the ache in his cramped muscles.

  Then, disappointment. Seyrès reached the end of his self-important ramble without ever mentioning the gods-damned title. Etienne thumped the book closed and flung it angrily to the end of the laden table before him.

  Still, there was a thread to pursue. Seyrès had briefly mentioned an assistant, a man Etienne knew by the name of Marcel Léger. Though Léger had never amounted to much as a scholar (perhaps thanks to his blathering idiot of a mentor), he had recorded much of his work with Seyrès in several small volumes still held by the library, some of which should be somewhere in the piles of books and scrolls spread out before Etienne.

  He stood up and rummaged through them in a feverish sort of abandon, tossing books he didn’t need into haphazard piles until finally, an unimpressive, soft leather journal lay nestled in his hand. Etienne unceremoniously shoved a collection of scrolls out of his seat and sat back down just as the sound of light footsteps reached him from the entrance to the catacombs. He ran a hand back through his hair in annoyance, a feeling that would have remained had just about anyone else stepped into view.

  “Alphonse!” he said. “I’ve found it, or nearly. I know I have—if only one of these self-important, conniving, political twits would name the book in their gods-damned essays!” He stopped breathlessly and opened the little journal, dropping it onto the table in the spot Seyrès’s tome had previously held.

  ❀

  Alphonse took one look at Etienne’s manic expression and shook her head. How long had he been down here? Hours? Days? When was the last time he had eaten? Slept?

  “Here,” she murmured, soft and soothing, as she handed Etienne the tea and the baked good, gesturing with a flip of her wrist that he should drink and eat. A small, amused smile traced her mouth. She had always found Etienne’s enthusiasm endearing rather than tiresome, though he could ramble at times, and often at length.

  And his preferred reading material was beyond dry.

  Her gaze flickered down to the journal that was eliciting so much excitement now—a dead student’s personal mumblings. Of course, he’d care about such things.

  Reaching for the journal, Alphonse felt the delicate condition of the pages and winced. If Etienne were going to read this, he’d have to be so very careful. Exercising such precise care would set her teeth on edge, gently turning each page, touching as little as possible.

  Scholars.

  “And once you have found it, as I know you will… Then what?”

  Etienne set down the porcelain cup with a clatter, swallowing a mouthful of hot tea. “Then what?

  “Alphonse, this could reveal the fate of the Old Gods. It could shed light on the war with, and subsequent fall of, Rhosan. We’re talking about the chance to understand exactly how the world we live in came to be, and—can you imagine?—there might be actual magic of the Old Gods contained within these pages.” Etienne looked up at Alphonse, clenching a fistful of his hair as though willing her to see just how much more important this was than little things like meals and sleep. “We could change magic. Change it completely.”

  “I rather like magic how it is…” She nudged the pastry, half-forgotten, in a silent reminder that he should eat. The Old Gods could wait a few more minutes.

  “The better we understand magic, the more we can do with it,” Etienne explained, eyeing the offending pastry.

  “So this journal is… How old? Was the student alive during the time of those Gods?” A frightening thought. From what Etienne had told Alphonse, the Old Gods were quite brutal and barbaric in their ways. What would it have been like to live amongst them?

  Terrifying, no doubt.

  The scholar picked up the pastry, took a large bite of flaky dough, and washed it down with tea. “No, Léger lived some hundred years after the Old Gods’ fall,” he said with a slight wave of his hand. “From what I can tell, the years right after the fall of the Gods were marked by turmoil. Few writings survived from then, but Léger and his mentor claim to have found one, though neither bothered to write the damn title down.
”

  Etienne took another bite of pastry and chewed angrily, glaring at the book, though he seemed to remember his manners a bit more readily with food in his system. “Thanks, by the way,” he said, lifting the roll.

  “Mm?” She had been gazing at the old journals, wondering if that apprentice, all those years ago, had ever thought for one moment that someone like Etienne would be scouring his entries like a mad man, that their musings would be intriguing enough to devote time to.

  Alphonse could hardly imagine some healer in the future doing just that to her journals.

  “Of course,” she nodded in response to his appreciation. As vague as it was.

  She and Etienne had been in all the same beginning classes at the School of Magics, entering the academy together at age eleven. Neither were from Dailion, and both had been scorned by the local city children who had grown up knowing they would attend the coveted school.

  Etienne had been easy to befriend, his companionship undemanding on a shy farm girl like Alphonse, as they partnered up for practice in Herb Lore, Spell Casting, and Mage Law. Even when they divided into separate classes, she for healing and Etienne for the more obscure and powerful learnings of the occult, they had remained close. Almost as brother and sister for the last nine years.

  Tugging at the sheer veil she had donned when her monthly courses had arrived at fourteen, Alphonse settled one hand delicately on the journal in question. “I’m excited about this news, Etienne, I really am.” She slid the journal slightly closer to herself, away from him. “I do have to wonder though… Have you studied for your Laws of Practical Transformation Exam? It’s in three days…” Her sweet voice was bordering on nervous now.

  Etienne placed his hand on the journal to stop Alphonse from moving it farther away and looked up at her, smiling easily. “That’s days away,” he said and gently pulled the book back. “Besides, this is for my research presentation. Becoming an apprentice to the masters is so much more important than one test. I’m almost done with the research on this, honest. And then Transformation.”