by K.N. Lee
Her hand hit the table. Blood splattered across the pile of ancient vidartan spells. She was aghast. T-the damage I just did. The irretrievable spells, lost to any other attempts…
“I’ve ruined it. I can’t believe I could be so clumsy!” Mathilde’s disgust was matched only by her feeling of dizziness.
Ronan the cook’s face, frozen in shock at the swinging door, told everything. A bloody girl, dressed in a man’s ornate shirt, clutching a ball of red wax, crying. What was there to explain?
He ran back to the kitchen to grab some bandages.
Right then, the worn pages of the holy vidartan spellbook began to glow.
The cover opened.
A page turned. Every word was clear as springwater.
Her blood unlocked the magic.
8
Revelation
Struck with wonder, Mathilde’s fingers hesitated for a split second before she touched the brittle, linen pages. The woven fabric was surprisingly strong.
Mathilde gave a sigh of relief. Like me, the book doesn’t break easily. We are made of sterner stuff.
She wanted to share her excitement, but she was alone. In the back room, Fritz was already fast asleep. She could see one of his discarded shoes, but that was it.
Mathilde opened the tiny book and began to read.
Much of what she knew, the beginning pages were old friends. They recounted the birth of the world, the rise of the exploding land from the grip of the foaming sea, the creation of forests and wide open prairies… these were familiar. Even within those stories though, there were details, new characters, ideas she had never heard.
One she saved to tell Fritz. It was written in a delicate hand, more careful in its marks, almost elegant in the arrangement across the linen.
She read it again, to remember every detail.
“In the time between, the era of the Great Fog, there were mighty men of light and truth. These followers of H--V--N were never weakened by error. They never misjudged a person, giving wise and helpful counsel to all who sought their direction. Melchen was one of the brightest stars of all the believers. Many turned to him for advice. Many more people came to the vidartan lands because of the Shelke, the invaders of the North who gave no quarter and butchered whole villages. The refugees were given homes, taken in, adopted by all. The vidartans kept the peace.
When most of the northlands were taken, burnt to ash, covered in bones, the last people to escape told the priests of the horrors beyond the vast northern forest. Scorched earth. Relentless foes. Unquenchable hatred.
Melchen the Just was troubled by the unending greed of the Shelke. Kingdoms had fallen, countries wiped off the face of the land. And the priests grew troubled as the Shelke’s endless hunger turned towards the New city of Salom. There would be no defense. There would be no way to stop such unfiltered anger from destroying even the priests of light.
Melchen prayed. He went to the temple of the first men and asked for a gift. A power unknown that would stop the Shelke’s invasion. That would end the threat of greed that threatened every human being.
The heavens were silent. Magic seemed deaf.
Soon, the earth shook with the advance of the Shelke army. Mountains grew next to the tread of their footsteps. Earth itself became unbound by law and principle. Hatred destroyed what it could not touch. It killed peace.
Melchen tried again. He asked for a way, a new path, a promise of life beyond the coming horde. And a way opened.
Another hand appeared in his. A messenger from the Truth. Malakhian. Melchen was uncertain but Malakhian took his hand and led him to the outer walls. Pointing in the distance, the stranger spoke three words of power while holding Melchen’s hand.
A rumble crossed the land between the seething, fury-filled Shelke army and the holy city of vidartan. A shaking that no one had felt before.
For days, the earth did not stop moving. Instead, a crack appeared between the lands of the priests and the mountains of the destructive northern men. It widened. Deepened, until a chasm of such size separated the two lands, no one could cross.
Melchen could see the approaching army. He watched them walk right up to the riven edge. He could see their unbound rage. He could dimly hear the threats they hurled across the canyon. But they could not cross it.
The land was ripped in two. Pulled apart by magic, broken by hatred, Melchen used truth to protect the last of the innocent. Magic broke the earth to save the people of light.
For thirty days, the earth groaned.
Eventually, water filled the deep gap. The other side of the land they once shared, smoked and burned in the distance. And then even, that trace of the old hatred disappeared. And the people of the light were saved.
Melchen and Malakhian lived another two hundred years together. Malakhian never left his side. And their whole long lives, neither of them stopped watching the wide ocean that kept them safe.
Together, they vowed to the solid earth to never fall to the hammers of rage. And they learned the spells of dirt and heat, of shifting plates of earth and the fury bubbling in the heart of the world.
Remembering the studies of Ethan and Edgar, the words of her father, Mathilde wished she listened more all those years. “What I wouldn’t give for a Malakhian,” she spoke aloud, to the silence. “Anyone who could teach me even a few simple spells. Any sorcerer who could help me plan the rescue we so desperately need.”
Mathilde fought back exhaustion and read on.
She paid attention. She listened to the calls of long-dead men, as they tried to heal the earth and stop the craftiness of hate and fury. Carefully, she repeated each story, making sure she held the concepts in her head. It was overwhelming, like swimming in a thunderstorm of tales. A month’s worth of knowledge filled her head. And then two. And then three. Until her mind spun from the wisdom and the bravery of her ancestors. She learned something new from the stories on each page.
Memorizing the prayers, Mathilde drank in the flood.
All of the knowledge of the vidartan lay open before her, as long as she had the shirts.
Mathilde didn’t know how long the magic would let her peer inside its blazing heart.
How much could a girl be allowed to know? When would she cross a line and become ruined? Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Those lines she could not cross. Heroes died in the stories, they fell. No matter how bright, the hero never succeeded if he tried to fight his enemy with rage in his heart. Over and over, hatred and the shadows of the Great Night threatened the heroes of the book. But they, one by one, time after time, the vidartan figured out a way, past fury, past rage, and into the purest light.
Fritz stumbled into the room, yawning.
“I’m coming to bed, levav,” she whispered, “I swear it will just be a few more minutes. I am almost done.”
Her brother blinked. “It’s been six hours already. I slept,” he mumbled. And then he rubbed his eyes, blinking again. Then he stared at her and at the book pouring light into her face and chest.
“You look like a star, achut,” he whispered, completely unafraid.
Stepping right up to where she sat, Fritz snuggled in, next to her shining body. Nodding a little, he said nothing for the longest time. And then, her little brother said, “I knew you could do it. I always knew.”
Mathilde nearly burst with happiness.
“You aren’t afraid?” she asked in the middle of another vast and savage story. “Can you see it, too? Do you feel the words fill your mind, Fritz?”
He looked at the pile of papers clutched in his sister’s hands. And he looked at Mathilde’s shining face. Fritz thought for a moment before he spoke.
Just like Papa always did.
Then he replied matter-of-factly, “Mattie, I can see you. The light, the magic fills you. I know the vidartan always wanted us to have this.” His lower lip trembled, “I believe in you. Even if I am too little to see and understand the stories, I trust ever
ything you say, achut. Teach me.”
She started crying.
Even as her mind filled with ancient stories of death, deception, and redemption, Mathilde sat next to a human being she loved more than life. And he loved her right back.
“Take my hand, Fritz,” she said softly. “It’s okay. Here.”
He did not hesitate. Her brother raised his hand, knowing Mattie did what had to be done. He didn’t stop to count the cost. He didn’t worry about what she needed.
Wholeheartedly, Fritz took her hand, locking fingers.
In that exact moment, his eyes flew open, filled with wonder.
“I can see!” he cried out, startled. “I see the magic. I see it! The stories… Oh! they are so beautiful…”
Fritz didn’t wear the enchanted glasses. He didn’t wear the ornate shirt of the vidartan priests. He didn’t need to. Honest to the core of his being, trusting Mattie, the little boy held on to his sister’s open hand.
Magic flowed through him. To her mind and back again, each bit of story, every character stormed across the light and showed mighty truths to the two dazzled children.
Worlds within worlds. Simple. Pure. They bathed in ancient sunlight and lived the lives of long-dead heroes.
And through it all, Fritz held on tight to Mattie’s hand, never letting go.
9
Rescued
Even now, Fritz glowed.
Mathilde could see it in his eyes. And her reflection mirrored every bit of the same sense of discovery. An unnamed joy powered them both long into the next day.
Elbowing her way through the swinging door, Bertha brought some more hot chocolate. It really didn’t matter what meal it was for, the taste of cinnamon brought with it a nostalgia that instantly comforted Mathilde.
“There’s too little time, really.” The big woman bustled in, unwrapping a roll and butter for both of them. They stayed in the back rooms, out of sight of the tavern customers. Bertha came when she could, and otherwise left them to the search for ancient magic. They didn’t share their discovery with her.
Not all of it.
“Otto swears the Hollyoaken battalions are moving out a shipment home. It will include all captured vidaya.”
“When?” Mathilde and Fritz demanded, their voices sharp with concern and fear.
“By this evening, they will be gone. With the evening tides, they depart.”
Suddenly, Mathilde’s life narrowed down to the count of less than eight hours. There was still no plan. They had nothing but willpower and courage. That might win a battle—but never a war.
“On the way here,” Bertha continued, “...there was an explosion on the ferry. It still floats. And the steam engine still works. But no one is clear on whether the explosion was an attack or an accident. All we know is that the captain is missing. The next shipment to Hollyoaks has been delayed for repairs.”
“We gained time, then. Right?” Mathilde’s heart lurched with renewed hope. More time? Is it true? We have more time! “They won’t send the prisoners back unless they are sure the boat is secure.”
“Well,” Bertha paused, reluctant to speak, “...there are two ships from Hollyoaks here. One flies an admiralty flag. So,” Mathilde knew what she was going to say before Bertha herself did.
“There is no guarantee they won’t all be gone with the evening tide.” They both concluded the stark truth.
“There is no chance but now, no hope but what we can do today. I will not wait to save my family.” Mathilde added, “Or yours.”
Bertha nodded in approval.
Mathilde looked again at the tavern keeper, watching for danger, any sign of guilt. She was comforting, for a stranger. More than most, because of her kindness, her helpfulness, the shelter she gave to two fugitives, Mathilde wanted to trust Bertha. Mathilde was inclined to let her guard down, to trust the woman even though Bertha had betrayed her family to the dogs. A life for a life. She contacted the Hollyoaken forces because she had to. Betrayed my family, because she had no choice. Right?
They have her son.
But a nagging feeling gnawed Mathilde’s confidence. What stopped Bertha from trading them in exchange for her son’s release? Why help them at all?
“Bertha?” she started to ask a question. And then stopped.
The other woman turned to Mathilde. “Yes, dear?” She asked, her normally warm gaze guarded.
“Why don’t you just turn us in, Bertha? You could save your son. You could be free of all of it. If you wanted to, we couldn’t stop you.”
Actually, Mathilde was fairly certain that she could. Within reason, the defensive magic would inspire her if Bertha tried anything. But…
The shock on Bertha’s face showed exactly how much the truth stunned the gray-haired tavern keeper. She did not expect a direct question.
“Enrich,” Bertha spoke. Stopped. Spoke again. “He was…” She halted and then tried a different approach. “He was important to me. You wouldn’t understand.” Bertha’s words were rushed. But her caution felt sincere.
“Well,” Mathilde said, trying to close the awkward silence. “If my Papa trusted you, he had his reasons. You didn’t know us. I realize that. You did what you had to. Papa did what he had to, choking to death on a napkin to save our lives. The price for his silence during the hunt of the dogs.”
Standing up, Mathilde looked Bertha full in the face, eye to eye, sincere in every word she spoke. Committed to the rescue. Perhaps shame would be enough to tie the woman’s tongue?
“Life is full of duty and honor,” Mathilde knew it was true as she spoke it, “I hope we all have enough to see us through the terrors of this day. We will need every bit of courage we can gather.” She squared her shoulders to the precious few hours they had left. “Come.,” she said, “The dogs and their kennels will not wait.”
Bertha nodded. Her thin mouth screwed up in some kind of revulsion—only for a split second. Mathilde thought the woman looked like she swallowed a rotten fish. But then, her disgusted expression cleared. Calmly, the gray-haired woman returned to help them pack.
Ronan wheeled in an apple barrel.
Fritz hugged Mathilde.
“But I want to come, Mattie,” he begged. “I can help. I should come. I don’t want... you to be alone. I don’t want to be afraid.”
“Fritz,” she said, “...this may not work. This rescue is dangerous. You know that. And one of us has to be safe. I cannot lose you. Not again.” So, she picked him up gently and set his gangly body down into the empty barrel. Blankets were already in the bottom. And a pillow. And a bag of soft rolls were handed from Ronan to him. Three wax-sealed jugs of water came next.
Then she handed him a vidartan shirt and the precious spellbook.
Mathilde kept Papa’s glasses on. All the stories, centuries of spells were in her mind, only a little jumbled. Drinking from a water pump full of knowledge—that was her experience with studying magic. Coming at me full force, I can do nothing else but absorb what I can grasp.
She didn’t need the spellbook, not anymore.
Fritz still did.
Her little brother looked up at her, his face big in the middle of the barrel.
“Don’t die, Mattie. Please. Don’t die.” Those were the last words he spoke before Ronan slipped on the lid and secured it.
Heartbroken, she heard him rustling around in there, trying to get comfortable. There was no comfort in the bottom of a barrel, waiting for freedom.
“I’ve got no barrel to hold me, Fritz. Like you, I long for the day we are all together again. H--V--N will be the judge of both of us.” She leaned down, holding the edge of the wood so he could hear her clearly. “Remember, your safety means everything. To me and to any living vidaya. You are the last vidartan. You must live.”
“You must.” She would have said more, but the outside door burst open. Heavy boots stomped inside the main bar.
From the other tavern room, a strange voice bellowed, “Can we get some service here?�
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Bertha jumped.
Mathilde steeled herself. With practiced hands, she covered her red hair, wrapped her aprons twice in Bertha’s spare skirt and said one last prayer.
“We have to do this right,” Bertha snapped over her shoulder as the big bosomed woman sprinted to the front.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” Mathilde heard her say.
Laughter greeted her request. They were not gentlemen. Everyone knew that. Dogs were dogs. No one expected less than ferocity and destructive hunger from the likes of these trained soldiers. They were the best troops Hollyoaks had for a reason. Merciless.
One of them snarled as politely as he could manage. Perhaps it was the best he could do at manners. “We’ll be needing some soup, bread with slabs of meat and a wedge of cheese. Also, bring two ales while we await.” No matter what he said, it still sounded like a death threat. Even the way the man spoke reeked of violence.
There was silence while Bertha wrote down their order.
Mathilde felt the itch of alarm build. The ominous silence continued. Every one of the hairs on her arms stood on end. Mathilde knew they would be betrayed. Any second now. Any moment, Bertha would trade our lives for Tomas’ captivity.
“Oh, yeah,” a new voice spoke up, “Captain said to ask you if you had any news of viadaya passing through. He seemed to think you had some kind of special connection to the trash.”
One of them guffawed at that snide remark.
“Then, I guess that makes you the Trash Collector.” Both men laughed now. Mathilde felt sick. Betrayal wasn’t hilarious. Cruel. Deadly. Irredeemable?
Absolutely.
Mathilde couldn’t see Bertha.
But she was ready to fight, she clenched her fists in fury.
No.
That’s wrong. That’s what they want. That is their fire. Their ammunition. Instead, she took a deep breath and released the anger. Raw rage would do nothing but block the very power she needed.