by K.N. Lee
I am vidartan. I am. The path is clear in front of me. My eyes are open.
Instead of fear, Mathilde wrapped herself in the very same feeling of shock and surprise that she had felt a few nights ago at the tavern. When He was there. When He saw her—saw right through her disguises. He had the gaze of an eagle. No nonsense. All business. Sharp as talons, a hunter born to the rifle. Harsh as the land, beaten into a weapon of war.
That night, she knew he felt her presence. He knew she was nearby. But he hadn’t returned to search again.
That night, her father’s magic had shielded her. Even then, her belief in H--V--N had stopped her enemy from seeing what was in front of his face.
From taking her prisoner.
That same magic will shield me today. After the last few days, Mathilde realized she could name the spell now. But it worked all the same. Look away, she recited the words, “Look away.”
Mathilde cloaked her body in that cloud of confusion and walked into the front of the tavern, brazen and brave.
The swinging door revealed the large bag of money sitting on the table. And the soldiers, five of them, all watching Bertha. Looking for signs of lies.
“I can get you the food you want, for sure. That’ll be first up. But as to vidaya, I don’t keep trash in my house. Not even dogs do that.”
A few of the men growled at her veiled insult.
“Anyway, the captain knows where I am. I am not hiding. If he needs my help, I am always available. We citizens of Norwava know the Hollyoaks policies. You are just trying to help us. Trying to keep our blood clean. No risk of disease if the damn vidaya are finally all cleansed. Wouldn’t that be a blessed day?”
Bertha spoke their words back to them, like a true believer. Their despicable propaganda. But she never said a word about an apple barrel or a certain red-haired girl with green, green eyes who owed her life to the shelter of the tavern.
Bertha did not speak except to thank the men of war for their protection. She gathered their order and began collecting what she needed to send them on their way.
Out the back door of the kitchen, Ronan loaded apple barrels into a truck. Market day promised to bring a bit of coin. That was a good enough reason to go out in the wind.
Soldiers were always hungry.
No one expected the sound of the tavern’s cellar door being kicked in. The whole structure shook like the building had been hit by a dragon or one of those new tanks that smashed down walls and ran over people, cars, and livestock.
The other soldiers in the main room didn’t lift an eyebrow at the noise. They all knew.
This was planned.
Mathilde saw the same thoughts spin across Bertha’s mind.
Doors broke, all through the basement. Every last room was emptied and searched. Bertha’s hands stayed steady, carving up the food meant for the tavern guests. She acted her pants off. And since she wore no pants, it was doubly impressive.
“Well, fellows, will that be all, then?” She drawled as she set the completed orders on the round table in front of them. They all had smiles like sharks, like monsters of the deep ocean that occasionally washed up on beaches. They had those kind of penetrating, glass-eyed stares.
The cold-blooded men watched everything.
“Were you fellows looking for something in particular?” Bertha drawled, returning their nonchalance with a bit of sarcasm of her own. “If you have a special need, I might be the only one who can find what you want in these godforsaken times. Am I right?”
Seven soldiers stormed through the kitchen, checking every cupboard, searching every closet. They found Fritz’s hat. One of the soldiers walked in holding it out as proof.
“Oh, that? That’s my Tomas’s. You have him at your camp, I believe. He is a guest of your captain.”
“A guest. Yes, ma’am.” One of the soldiers grunted, tossing the hat down on the table.
The dogs all looked around. Then with a nod, they stood as one, left a few coins on the table. “For your trouble and a few doors that were stuck.”
And then the sullen dogs of war retreated, tails between their legs. As embarrassed as grown men could be. “Wrecking the house of an ally who makes them pie. They should be ashamed,” Bertha said, “Next time, they get half the sugar in their pies. Petty vengeance feels the best, doesn’t it? No, I am not gonna let them win. No use crying over spilt milk.”
Looking around, Bertha rolled her eyes at the destruction. “Ronan?” She called out.
When he stuck his head through the kitchen door, Bertha sighed. “We got some cleaning up to do. Come back after you finish the market and help me sort this out? Make sure to take a load of apples to my house, first.”
Ronan mumbled something. And disappeared back out the door. Off to do his business.
Saving Fritz.
10
Vault of Stars
“We sneak in…” Mathilde said, confidently.
“How? Why would they let us in?” she argued back to the mirror.
“And then we find them. Mama. Johan. Tomas.” It could happen.
“How?” her reflection countered, “They could be anywhere in the camp. What if they are locked somewhere?” She closed her eyes, imagining a labyrinth, neverending mazes. Being trapped like rats on a sinking ship…
“Then, we break the lock.” Because I know so much about lockpicking. So, so much. Yeah. That would wreck everything. One stupid lock.
“How?” I don’t know, Mathilde. With a rock? With one of the spells of dirt? Or a heat spell? Or….
“And then, we reach them. Then they are free.” In the mirror, it all made sense. There was a real plan. This was not just stupidity, running into a flaming pyre of dried manure. This could work, she told herself.
Mathilde’s mind kept trying, working out possibilities, discarding the weak parts.
“Foolhardy,” she whispered in the mirror, afraid to even admit the folly. And I am that fool, she couldn’t help but argue back.
“Then, I only have to get them out of a camp, surrounded by enemies who think their lives and mine are worth less than a pail of garbage.”
“How do you escape?” Her twin reflection was being incredibly cynical.
I’ll just have to wing it. Her own retorts sounded hollow.
Wing it? Yeah, ‘cause that never went horribly wrong.
Every idea she had, every plan of attack fell apart. She had stories and magic but no experience. Mathilde never was a warrior.
“Well,” she said looking directly in the mirror, “I was never a magician either. Things change depending on the needs of your heart. Hiding is my skill. Right now, I will trust in that.”
Mathilde clutched on to that singular idea and the feeling of hope that came with it.
She still wore one of the three vidartan shirts under her dress.
It was time to go.
Ronan’s truck rumbled along. He didn’t notice the extra apple barrel. She didn’t tell him. He might not have agreed to smuggle her into the heart of the enemy camp: Norwava’s dogtown. Mathilde kept her plans close to her heart.
Whether I make it out or not, Fritz is safe.
And that meant Mathilde could afford a little bit of risk.
Inside the barrel, she felt every bump in the packed dirt road. When Ronan stopped and talked to the on-duty sentries at the gates of Hollyoaken hell, she heard only bits of mumbled words.
Finally, Ronan opened up the back of the truck. Two soldiers pushed over the barrels and began to roll them. Mathilde hoped they went to the camp storage.
Her world went round and round and round.
It was a relief to finally stop spinning. Stacked upside-down in a corner, she waited. The barrel lid pressed her skull. She bore the agony, waiting until silence fell.
“Here we go,” she whispered.
Closing her eyes, the vidartan sorceress spoke the burning spell. “Vahagn,” she said. Pulling energy from nearby sources of heat, her hands glowed with a soft light that became a f
licker and then a flame.
Focusing the heat, she gestured in a full circle, head to toe—running her fingertip up the length of the inner barrel.
With one push, she cracked open her shelter.
Quietly, Mathilde made her way through the storage room, careful with each step, listening for any human presence.
At the storage door, she paused. Whispering her prayers, she repeated the spell, “Look away. Look away.”
Then the vidartan took a deep breath and walked outside, into the bright sunlight of day. Faith met the harsh sunshine head on.
In the middle of the Hollyoaken camp, she stood. Mathilde looked around, getting an idea of the size of the settlement and her location within its borders.
Men marched in every direction. All of them, caught up in a thousand tasks. The entire camp, organized right down to the pattern of the stacked ammunition that was kept secure right in the middle.
“Fire,” she said, her voice as clear as a bell, not one whiff of hesitation. “For all vidaya, I say, “Vahagn.”
At first, there was no reaction. And then, smoke billowed out of one of the middle crates of gunpowder and lead. That was the last thing she saw with her mortal eyes. With her father’s glasses though, she watched it all.
“Gaoda,” she whispered, seeing the explosion engulf the middle of the stacks and then in the time it took a hummingbird to flap its wings, the whole row went up in a white-hot explosion.
“There is no magic. There is only H--V--N. There is no fire. Only Gaoda.”
The explosion in the middle of the military camp took out the tent behind it, all the vehicles nearby, and some soldiers. Bodies flew, propelled away from the center of the blast. She didn’t know how many.
Mathilde didn’t count the dead dogs beyond the stockpile. The combustion knocked over buildings and men in every direction, dropping proud warriors to their knees.
Mathilde stood in the heat, whispering a prayer. No enemy could see past her spells.
With her father’s glasses, Mathilde saw the world as only a vidartan could. Every living thing burned. Life burned. Fire burned the same in everything, in every body. In the earth itself. And that was the flame she called to her waiting arms.
Collecting the heat of the explosion, the stunned men, the sun-warmed earth, Mathilde spun a ball of fire in her palm. Right above the deep gash the broken mug handle had sliced across her hand, roaring magic gathered.
Lifting her hands to her mouth, Mathilde gave it her life’s breath.
“Find,” she directed the vast power. “Kubonera. Find them.”
With the gentlest of breezes, she blew the magic from her heart and mind out into the world. “Find. Rodak. Light the world.”
All around the explosion site, men lay on the ground, shivering. Turning blue as they stood mesmerized by the focal point of the exploding ammunition. They could not see her. The dogs didn’t have the eyes to see.
They didn’t have the belief.
“Johan?” Mathilde called out, brave as a bird in the spring. “Mama?”
In a spinning rotation around Mathilde’s hands, balls of fire and light shot across the camp, diving and dipping, testing the air. Like bees to a field of wildflowers, they zipped. Searching for the half of the vidartan’s heart that was missing. Looking for the answer to Mathilde’s request.
“Rodak. Kubonera.” Playful, even curious magic, the lights zoomed outward, spinning, collecting, focused.
The circle widened farther and farther.
Until the entire camp fell under the power of the seeking spell.
Every dog soldier whom the magic touched fell to the ground, shivering. Ice crystals formed on their eyebrows. Their cheeks flushed red and then grayish white. Their lips turned blue. The spell took their warmth in its passing. Each dog’s heat was fuel to the fire.
The vidartan commanded. Magic obeyed. Love destroyed every living soldier in the Hollyoaken camp. Pure love. Mathilde didn’t understand what she did. But she didn’t stop the magic as she watched dog after dog run to the explosion site and pause, falling frozen to the ground. Drained of all life, slowly dying, horribly. The magic searched for Mathilde’s hearts’ desire.
And could not find what she wanted.
“Where is my family?” Mathilde fretted. She grew distracted, determined, reckless, worried. “They should be here.”
She marched to the nearest soldier. His frozen gaze, already dull and empty. The magic took the heat it needed. Mathilde took the magic. There was no mercy for her enemies.
Why should I care?
After all they have done?
Down the main path she walked, untouched by soldiers, unseen by dying men. They had no faith to believe. They would never understand the vidaya. It didn’t matter how many of them died.
Johan and Mama. They were the only important ones.. All that mattered.
“No,” a little voice whispered. “No. This is not the way. Call it back. Call back the Kubonera. Take back the Rodak.”
Like waking from a dream, Mathilde looked around.
At the piles of dead men.
At the frozen, shivering remains of the four Hollyoaken battalions. Devastated. Their destruction was her heart’s rage, that primal desire to see her enemies dead at her feet. But it was not joy. Their death didn’t bring happiness. It only filled Mathilde with an unholy glee, full of revenge and darkness.
“Return to me, Kubonera Hakodesh,” she whispered, pulling back the spiralling search for her lost family.
“Come closer, Rodak of my heart.” The magic spun tighter around her body’s orbit, returning without success.
Everywhere in the devastated camp, men retched, shaking, fevered. The chill that had passed through them smothered their energy like a heavy blanket. Even though Mathilde held the spell work restrained, the collected toll on all the surrounding men was still spent.
“Look Away,” she spoke to one man who squinted in her direction. His eyes fell back into a daze of illness.
Answers. She concentrated. I need to know. One building was nicer than all the others. A shinier car, parked outside, more decorations outside—little details that marked the structure as important.
Mathilde headed there, magic held in check, looking for her vidaya.
“Vahagn,” she spoke one word as her feet stepped down onto the wooden stairs.
The outer door burst into flames.
Blowing backwards, away from her, the remains of the wooden door careened across the interior rooms, slamming into delicate antiques and the inner circle of Hollyoaken officers who sat, gathered at lunch.
Many of them jumped for cover as the door exploded inward. A few squinted in the dust and smoke that followed, as if they could almost see her standing there.
He could. He saw her. Mathilde could see it in his brown eyes.
“You,” she spoke the word with a voice of thunder. “You took them from me.”
The Captain of the Hollyoaken dogs nodded with regret.
“I had to,” he said. He spoke with a voice tinged in sadness, like he had a right to sorrow or pain. Like he wasn’t a monster. A savage cur in the war to kill her and everyone she ever loved.
“They are gone, far away from here.” He announced the simple fact like it was a blessing. As if he had saved the world by stealing her family.
It had been so long since Mathilde had heard his voice.
Instantly, she recognized the smuggler. The liar. The thief. “Where is my mother?” she demanded.
None of the other officers could see her. With a closed fist, one of them swiped at the air near her face, missing her entirely.
“Who are you speaking to, Richaron?” An officer called out. The whole room spun in confusion.
“Who’s there?” A man cried, aiming his pistol at the empty air, frightened. Belligerent.
“Tardemah.” She spoke the word, shaping her will to the magic.
Abruptly, the room fell silent.
The officers fel
l to the floor, puppets empty of spirit or will. The deepest sleep, Mathilde wished it on all of them. Especially Him.
But he did not fall.
“You cannot find them, now,” he said matter of factly, “They are on the water. Bound for their destiny, sent to the trains.”
He was the only man left in the room who could answer her questions.
He didn’t gloat. He didn’t beg.
“You’ve come for vengeance.” he stated the facts simply.
Just the idea spoken out loud unleashed the storm nestled beneath her conscious will.
Rage, blinding, formed in days and months of being hounded, of years of being bullied, chased, and torn down. All of that fury coalesced into a single shining point, right next to her heart. A star of great power. A focus of the great betrayal this one man had done. To me.
Mathilde’s eyes went white with power, red with anger. Her scarf fell along her shoulders. Unbound auburn hair whipped in every direction, snake-like, hissing.
Kill him. Kill him.
She raised her hands, full of magic.
She wanted to. She wanted it. She wanted death. Oblivion. He didn’t deserve to live. He should die. He should pay.
No.
“No,” a little voice whispered. “No, Mathilde. No, achut. Not that way.”
“Levav?” She cried, startled. Her eyes searching for Fritz, afraid he was nearby. Afraid he was caught.
“Levav? Kubonera?” Suddenly very afraid, she desperately asked the magic for an answer. “Where is my brother?”
Straight as an arrow, the power leapt from her hand and sped to his distant, beating heart. Within the spell, she could feel him. Pure Fritz. Fragile. Kind. Hopeful.
“Levav?” She whispered across the miles. “Are you there?”
“Achut?” Her little brother spoke directly to her, “Is that you? Are you safe?”
Mathilde could hear the hope in his voice, as if she stood right next to her little brother. She heard him ask,“Did you free them? Do you have Mama?”
Mathilde was so grateful that Fritz wasn’t in the dogs camp. “Not here.” she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank H--V--N, he wasn’t captured.