White Wind Rising

by Dan Davis

  Right across from him on the other side of the room there was another set of stairs. And it lead up to yet another trapdoor. He wondered if there would ever be an end to the rooms.

  But at least there was no Alchemist.

  Archer turned to the rest of them. He could not keep the grin off his face.

  The rest of them smiled right back up at him. Even Weaver.

  ‘He’s not home, is he,’ said Keeper. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘I though he never went out?’ Weaver said.

  ‘He must go out sometimes,’ Archer said. ‘Probably.’

  ‘There is no telling when he will be back,’ Writer said. ‘I recommend that we move rather rapidly.’

  They started up the stairs but Archer held up a hand.

  ‘Hold on, I wasn’t finished. There is another set of stairs across the room. Surely, that must be the way out. It has to be. But we can’t any of us touch anything in there, no matter how much we might want to.’

  ‘What’s he got in there?’ Keeper whispered. ‘I bet it’s amazing.’

  ‘Lots of interesting thing,’ said Archer, nodding. ‘But cannot touch anything. If we take anything or even just move it then when the Alchemist gets back he might notice something is different. And then he will know we have escaped. And then he will surely catch us again before we can get far enough away. Does everyone understand?’

  They all nodded.

  ‘Come on then,’ he whispered. He climbed into the room. Trying to be as quiet as a mouse he crept forward to make room for the others. He held the trapdoor open with one hand so it would not bang on the floor.

  Crouching low, he helped them up with his other hand, one by one. Burp’s claws click-clicked as he crawled up and then crouched, hissing softly, at Keeper’s feet.

  They all stood by the wall looking across the room, past all of the stuff everywhere, at the stairs on the far side. There was a funny smell in the room, like rotting fruit and wet dust. There were plates containing leftover bits of bread everywhere and bowls with spoons sticking out of them.

  The bubbling jars made little frothy popping sounds and they smelled like burps.

  ‘What a mess,’ said Weaver.

  ‘You are not incorrect,’ said Writer, whispering. ‘He was always a malodourous old fellow. And yet I must say that I expected significantly higher standards.’

  ‘Smells like mice droppings in here,’ said Weaver.

  While they looked at the room, Archer was looking out of it.

  Out the huge windows, Archer could see almost the whole Vale.

  The Sweetwater stretching off west and east, with the fields and occasional houses down there. Beyond the Vale’s green hills, on the horizon to the north and all around, was the dark green band of the Moon Forest.

  To the west was his own family farm. The hills above flecked with his sheep. Or perhaps he was just imagining it. He was a long way from home.

  Everything out there was green, blue, and clear and Archer felt sick at the thought of how he had run away from all that. Run away for the foolish notion that he could ask the Alchemist a question. As if he could change the mind of a man so ancient and wise and mighty.

  ‘I am amazed that there are these great glass windows everywhere,’ Writer said, her voice hushed. ‘I have never seen so much glass anywhere. Surely, this represents a vast wealth. Not even the Morningtree Guildhall has glass as clear or as large as this. And how in all the Vale was he able to hide them from view from the outside?’

  ‘That’s what I was just thinking,’ Archer said.

  ‘Magic,’ Keeper said, shrugging. ‘Just magic isn’t it.’

  ‘Look,’ said Writer, her eyes flashing like ripples on water. ‘Cast your eyes to the lectern.’ She grinned from ear to ear and pointed across the room.

  They all looked in the direction she was pointing.

  ‘Erm,’ said Archer. He had no idea what she was talking about but he did not want to appear ignorant, especially as Writer was obviously so learned.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Keeper. ‘Brilliant.’

  Archer could tell he was not even looking in the right direction.

  ‘What’s a lectern?’ said Weaver.

  ‘It is that item over by the window. It is a kind of stand for a book. The article in question is essentially a pole with a flat holder on top. That is a lectern. The function of the where you put an open book so you can read it while standing up. Look what is on that particular lectern.’

  ‘Looks like a great big book,’ Archer said, squinting.

  ‘It is. And it is so much more than that. It is the Alchemist’s spell book,’ Writer said, speaking softly. ‘I saw him carrying it a few times when he came to give me other scrolls to copy for him but I never got to look in it. He calls it the Wicungboc.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Archer asked.

  ‘I believe it is an old language, though not one I know, I must say. It is not French, nor Latin or Greek.’ Writer thought for a moment. ‘I am uncertain what it means. But it is certainly his spell book.’

  Archer had no idea what she meant by other languages. He had never even considered that there could be such a thing.

  ‘A spell book?’ said Weaver. ‘You wish. It’s probably just a storybook, mate. Or a book of accounts. Or...’ she waved a hand in the air. ‘Some other sort of book.’

  ‘Of course it’s a spell book,’ said Keeper, scoffing at her. ‘Look how purple the cover is.’

  ‘It is his Wicungboc,’ Writer said, firmly. ‘I know it is. It contains all his secrets. The magic words and the magic gestures that enabled him to build this place. Allowed him to live for a thousand years. Let him rule us and keep us trapped within the Vale while the rest of the world continues outside. Can you imagine the power contained within those pages? I do not suppose you can. Well, I am going to have a look through it.’

  ‘No,’ Archer said. ‘Please come on. Let us get out of here.’ He pointed at the stairs. ‘Let’s not overcomplicate things.’

  ‘Archer,’ Writer said, peering down at him along her lovely nose. ‘You may do whatever you feel is best. However, I am looking through that book. I shall do so at least once. It is what I originally came to the Tower for. I have worked here for, well, I do not know how long. And I am taking a good look as my payment for hundreds and thousands of pages of copying that I have done.’

  Writer started picking her way through the piles of scrolls and empty bottles that littered the floor.

  ‘I shall have no more than a quick look,’ she said over her shoulder, her yellow hair flicking beautifully in the sunlight.

  ‘Wait for me,’ said Keeper, and he started after her, with Burp shuffling along behind him. His scales like iron upon the stone floor.

  Weaver shrugged and followed Keeper. Archer had a quick look round the room and it seemed quiet.

  But where was the Alchemist? Some people hinted that on occasion he left the Tower. But where would he go? Somewhere within the Vale? How far away? Presumably he travelled here and there using magical means. The same magic he had used to snatch Archer and his new friends from outside the Tower to the inside.

  So perhaps he could magic himself back at any moment?

  Archer looked at the stairs and the trapdoor leading above. The Alchemist could always just be up there. If it was the roof of the Tower or just another room then the Alchemist could come down at any moment.

  And if the Alchemist was up there then he was between them and freedom. He gripped reached up and felt the wood of his bow, slung upon his back. Archer did not want to shoot anyone. But if it was a choice of that and being held prisoner months or even years then perhaps he would be willing to do it.

  The thought made him feel sick.

  ‘Are you coming, Archer?’ Keeper asked from across the room.

  The rest of them were standing by the Alchemists spell book where it sat on the lectern. Burp was curling his dark shape at Keeper’s feet again.

  If everyone else
was doing it, he supposed it must be acceptable. He went over to join them.

  Writer flipped through the pages of the book. The pages were thick and crinkled when she turned them. The writing was ornate and completely nonsensical to him.

  ‘Look at all these spells,’ Writer said, running her fingers over the pages, her voice a whisper.

  ‘What do they mean?’ Keeper asked, also whispering and standing on his toes to see over the edge of the book.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Writer said. ‘It seems as though most of them give instruction first about how to position your body. These drawings,’ she tapped a swirling pattern at the top of the page she was on, ‘are instructions on the proper way to move your arm when you chant the spell. And then these words here, these rhyming words are what you have to say.’

  ‘Rhyming words?’ Weaver said, shaking her head. ‘It’s just a load of old poems.’ She laughed. ‘With pretty pictures.’

  ‘No,’ Writer said. ‘The words are written in this manner because it tells you the correct rhythm with which to speak them.’

  Archer was extremely impressed.

  ‘How do you know all of this stuff?’ he asked. He had never thought about magic before. He knew that it existed, of course. Everyone knew that. He just never thought about how it might work.

  ‘It is all I have been doing for all this time,’ she said. ‘I write out pages of all kinds of things. Recipes for medicines and potions. Books on the narrative of events that occurred long ago. Descriptions of plants and animals in the Vale or in foreign parts. Anatomy and medicine. Family lineages and records of kinship and charts of descent.’

  Keeper’s eyes were wide.

  ‘You must know a lot, then.’ Archer said. ‘About everything.’

  ‘As much as I wish to, I do not often read everything thoroughly. I merely copy it out word by word,’ Writer said. ‘But most of the magic ones I did read very closely indeed.’

  ‘You mean you know magic? You’ve actually done spells?’ Keeper asked. ‘Like an alchemist? That’s amazing.’

  ‘No,’ Writer said, and then hesitated. Her pale cheeks coloured. ‘I never had the courage to attempt to fully complete them. That is to say, not all the way to the end. I was afraid the Alchemist would discover me. And I was afraid of one going wrong and of turning myself into a fish or something. But I did them in my head, sometimes. Imagining myself going through the motions. It felt as though the magic was stirring within me.’

  ‘Don’t you have to have a wand or something like that?’ Keeper said.

  ‘What,’ Weaver said, laughing. ‘Like a magic stick? Don’t be daft, Keeper.’

  Writer smiled. ‘I am afraid that is just from stories,’ she said to Keeper.

  ‘Oh,’ said Keeper. ‘Sorry.’

  He hunched his shoulders and stomped off to look out of the window behind them. He stretched up on tiptoes to peer over a stack of glass jars atop the table there. Burp shuffled after him.

  ‘Be careful with all that stuff,’ Weaver said to Keeper. ‘Don’t touch anything, you idiot.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Keeper said over his shoulder. ‘Keep your hair on.’

  ‘You see, there is no need for a magic stick because the magic comes directly from the alchemist. Or perhaps he is a simply a doorway for the magic to flow through. Like a river flowing through a weir. I have never understood the texts.’

  ‘But you said you felt the magic stirring within you,’ Archer said. ‘So you really could do magic, if you really wanted to?’

  He was thinking that perhaps she could magic them back to their homes. He was nervous of the Alchemist catching them.

  Writer bit her lip. ‘Perhaps I could finish a spell. When I begin one of the incantations, it feels as though it comes from inside me. I can feel the magic there inside, like it is coming from my core self, in some way. From here.’ She pointed to her forehead. She blushed even further. ‘I fear I make no sense.’

  ‘This is all very interesting,’ Archer, ‘Truly, it is. Imagine if you could magic us back home. But we do not have time to try anything. We should go now.’

  ‘I wish I could take the Wicungboc with me,’ said Writer. ‘But I suppose—’

  There was an almighty crash behind them.

  An ear-splitting, clashing, smashing, shattering sound that went on and on.

  Archer spun round. His heart raced.

  Keeper stood there holding a single glass jar. There were at least a dozen others at his feet or spinning across the floor. Burp was hissing at them.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Keeper said. His red eyes wide as saucers. ‘I only wanted—’

  He froze.

  Keeper slowly raised his arm straight out, finger shaking, pointing behind where they were standing.

  Archer heard a noise in the room behind him. He spun round.

  It was the Alchemist.

  A Fight to the Basket

  Archer watched in disbelief as the Alchemist climbed awkwardly out of a chair with his back to them across the room.

  The man rubbed sleep from his eyes and yawned.

  He was a tall, scrawny, bony old man. Manky grey hair poked out of a filthy white bedcap and stuck out all everywhere. He had a long, wispy, grey beard.

  The Alchemist pulled out some great wodges of stuff from his ears and, still rubbing his eyes, looked around the room, squinting.

  ‘What’s all that blasted racket?’ he said, flecks of spit flying out of his lips.

  Archer locked eyes with him.

  He did not know what to do. So he did nothing.

  ‘What is this?’ the Alchemist shouted, in a high, screeching voice that was so loud that all them cowered and covered their ears and Burp hissed. ‘My little thieves finally come up to steal my spells and secrets, is it?’ He cackled and wheezed.

  ‘We’re not thieves,’ shouted Weaver. Her narrow face was purple with rage. ‘You’re the thief! You stole us, didn’t you? You’ve been keeping us prisoner for ages and ages. And now you’re going to let us go home.’

  ‘Home? No, no, oh dear me no, my dear little Weaver. I am afraid none of you can ever go home,’ The Alchemist said, his voice dropping to a normal volume. ‘You especially, of course, my dear.’ His voice sounded strange, different from the way Vale folk talked. Different from the farm folk and the posh folk too. Of course he’s not even from the Vale, Archer thought.

  The Alchemist lifted up one scrawny arm and pointed his bony hand across the room at Keeper.

  ‘And it is my sweet little Keeper. I see you are attempting to steal my dragon. I am glad you are both ready, however the rest of my plans are not. Your disobedience forces me to wonder whether you can be trusted to be my Keeper after all. Perhaps I will have to dispose of you as I disposed of my last Baker. I do hope you enjoy being a cabbage, my dear boy.’ He cackled.

  ‘No,’ Keeper said, kneeling and throwing his arms about Burp. ‘Please let me stay with Burp.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I shall. Only perhaps this time I shall try chaining you both together,’ the Alchemist said. ‘That should create, shall we say, an even stronger bond between the two of you.’

  He laughed again, his voice high and scratchy.

  Archer began wondered if the Alchemist was completely mad.

  ‘It sounds as though we have each done all that you ever demanded of us,’ Writer said. ‘And yet you keep us here with no end in sight. Nor any explanation as to what you plan to do with us. Why are you doing this?’

  Archer glanced at the others.

  Weaver was even whiter than she normally was. She was clenching her fists down by her side.

  Keeper kept his arms about Burp, of course, protecting the dragon with his sturdy body. But Keeper looked very frightened indeed.

  Archer did not know what to do. No plan formed in his mind. He and they were powerless before the tall, scrawny old man.

  When he spoke, the Alchemist did not seem either particularly angry or surprised any more.

  ‘
You have no idea, truly?’ the Alchemist seemed disappointed. He placed a bony hand over his eyes and sat on the arm of his chair. ‘After all I have given you to read and all you have seen you have been unable to deduce my intentions? Lucky for you I have brought our friend Baker to be your reason. After all, my dear, what is knowledge without its application? What is the exoteric without the esoteric?’

  He tilted his head to one side and his voice took on an even more reasonable tone. ‘What do you deduce from my actions and my writings and experiments? What might I be doing in the Vale?’

  He yawned and smacked his lips. ‘I should rather enjoy an infusion of mint,’ he said absent-mindedly. ‘I really must get myself another Valet.’ He turned back to Writer. ‘Well?’

  Writer raised her eyebrows. ‘You record observations about things in the Vale,’ she said, hesitantly.

  The Alchemist sighed. ‘Is that all? I must say, I am crushed by your obtuseness.’

  ‘Very well,’ Writer said, crossing her arms. ‘You do experiments on the crops, breeding them to create better strains of wheat and vegetables.’

  ‘Good, good.’ The Alchemist nodded. ‘And why do I do this?’

  ‘To make the Vale folk healthier and stronger,’ Writer said.

  ‘Ah.’ The Alchemist clapped his hands together. ‘You do pay some attention. And what else?’

  ‘Animals,’ she said. ‘Sheep. Recently, you have bred a kind of sheep that do not require shearing. Sheep that shed their wool all at once and they do it on the same day.’

  This was surprising to Archer, who had never known any other kind of sheep. How else could you get a sheep’s wool if they didn’t shed it in the Fall, he wondered. That was why it was called the Fall, was it not?

  ‘Good, good,’ said the Alchemist. ‘And?’

  Writer hesitated. ‘You have charts of the lineages of every person in the Vale. So you are probably doing similar things to people, too. Choosing certain aspects that you wish to build upon, weed out, or create in us Vale folk.’

  ‘Well done, my dear Writer,’ the Alchemist said, picking at something in his earhole. ‘And what aspects have I attempted to breed into the lineages of you four children?’