Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1)

by Michael Watson

  “The boys are all working towards finding Vralin. As we speak, Wolef is searching the depths for our Windmage’s physical hiding location. Kexal and Garth are following up leads in regards to his financials and connections in the above and below markets of the city. Pursuit of the body and the mind, if you will.

  “We are going after Vralin’s soul.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Hali had no issue flagging down an open-topped cab once they reached the surface. It was a cool afternoon and the riftwinds that cut through the Bridge district were barely on the right side of a wind chill. Tyrissa frowned at the uncovered cab, but pulled her coat tighter and climbed in after Hali without complaint. Tyrissa couldn’t help but wonder if Hali could even feel cold in that dress. She seemed to ignore it all, be it heat, chill, or attentive looks.

  “Little Hithia. Temple Square,” Hali told the driver. Younger than Tyrissa by a year or two, the driver nodded eagerly and tapped the mud-colored horse into motion with a long crop. The cab turned south onto the Heartroad, lightly jostling against the ancient paving stones. The ride passed in silence, as whenever Tyrissa tried to say anything Hali would forestall her questions with a raised hand. Tyrissa gave up to watch the city roll by while Hali sat in utter stillness, focused, as if collecting herself.

  They crossed under the massive southern gate of Khalanheim’s city wall and the closed-in feeling of the city lifted, only noticeable in its absence. The Heartroad continued its march south, running in parallel with the Rift. Ahead, the great road became a long causeway over the Goldspring Reservoir, the water glittering true to its name in the afternoon sun. Tyrissa had never been to this side of the city in all of her work with the Cadre or during her own explorations. The south side was where Khalanheim overflowed the bounds of its walls, an entire additional district built up around the reservoir. A dense buildup of newer row houses and bulbous pumping stations crowded the space between the northern shoreline and the city wall. The cab turned away from the Heartroad and the embrace of the city returned as they entered this lakeshore district.

  The snarl of new, improvised urban growth and industry soon gave way to a neighborhood unlike any other in the city, where the geometric or symmetrical Khalan styling gave way to a dominance of smooth, sinuous lines. Thin towers curved out from rooftops and gently swaying footbridges crossed above the streets and between neighboring buildings. Pale colors ruled the day among whimsical, airy designs. Though Tyrissa could look over her shoulder and see glimpses of Khalanheim’s walls, she felt as if she had entered another nation entirely. The ubiquitous signage of a Khalan street was still present, but it was now bilingual with flowing Hithian script. Guild crests above businesses were less simple and iconic, painted with more extravagant artwork depicting weather, winds, and skies. Many guild crests showed their affiliation with the Rift Trade Company, using primarily that Prime’s colors of white and pale blue. The people they passed more often had faces closer to Hali or what little Tyrissa could remember of Tsellien: sharper, more angular features, slightly tilted eyes and skin a few tones darker than the Khalan average.

  As they rode through the streets of Little Hithia, Hali’s dress was a beacon against the dull wood of the cab and rippled in the persistent riftwinds. Hali didn’t go unnoticed for long and Tyrissa soon heard cries and calls from all sides. From the windows of the varied, airily designed buildings or from circles of old men and women resting in the overhangs of teahouses, they called out to her.

  “Lisin’dir!” they cheered as Hali passed, some exultant, some in supplication.

  Hali would acknowledge each and every one with a nod or wave. She even smiled, though it was a forced one that wouldn’t hold up to closer scrutiny.

  “What are they calling you?” Tyrissa asked.

  “Lisin’dir. It roughly translates to ‘The Witness’,” Hali explained as she continued to acknowledge the hails. “This enclave has a stronger connection to the past than many of the other Hithian settlements. Thanks to me, in part. They remember the Fall, or at least, they’ve been taught to try and remember. It’s still just history to them, but it’s something they can share, can rally around, even if it’s so tragic and painful. To them, I’m a living reminder. The one piece of the old country that’s survived untouched.”

  “If you’re such a symbol to them, why do you need me here?”

  “Additional leverage and context for he whom we’re here to meet.”

  Tyrissa didn’t like the sound of that, but brushed past it with another question.

  “So they’re all descended from Fall survivors?”

  “Not directly. Most of the original emigrants to Khalanheim came here after the collapse of a different Hithian city, Triva Zas, about eighty years ago. That would be a social and economic collapse, not a literal one. You have to be specific in our case. The Fall didn’t end once the Rift was stopped. For us it has been a constant, slow decay over the last two and a half centuries.”

  Hali sighed through her tight smile.

  “Perhaps that is too grim. This enclave, along with the cities of Enshala and Kziven, is thriving. They’re the basis of a slow revival. One corner of the pyramid. There is great satisfaction in being able to see the regrowth of the successful enclaves like this one. We’ve a long way yet to go, but they’ve made this place their own. Particularly what lies before us.”

  The cab reached a square much like any other in Khalanheim, save for the grand temple that rose from the plain gray stonework of the streets. The temple was built of pristine white stone that curved and twisted toward the sky, an elegant structure seemingly built entirely of sweeping curves, like wisps of clouds made solid. A masterpiece, it indirectly shamed the rest of the neighborhood’s fanciful buildings.

  “The Temple of the Four Winds,” Hali said, her normally neutral voice betraying a hint of pride.

  “It’s gorgeous. Is this what Hithia looked like before the Fall?”

  “No,” Hali replied, the pride turning to fossilized bitterness in a single word. “Not even close. This is but the hastily drawn sketch of a half-remembered dream.”

  The cab came to a stop before the temple. Hali passed a palm-full of silver coins to the driver, likely an overpayment. The boy smile graciously and hurriedly went to the side of the cab and opened the door for them.

  “Come,” Hali said as they descended. “We must speak with rozil Kronall, the head priest. He’ll have what we need, though we’ll have to convince him to share it.”

  The interior of the Temple of the Four Winds was a circular, vaulted space. Recessed alcoves lined the outer wall, each with a statue depicting an aspect of the Hithian deity, a god and goddess, a storm and gentle breeze, the hunting hawk and the song sparrow, and so on. Each matched pair stood on diametrically opposed sides of the chamber. The center of the floor was dominated by a circular grate of polished metal over a bore in the ground, through which a constant flow of the riftwinds emerged and filled the air with the same weak magicks as in the Rift.

  A group of parishioners stood in a circle atop the central grate, their clothing and hair stirred by the wind from below. An old man in voluminous azure robes stood in the middle and addressed the group in Hithian. Though the language was still elegant nonsense to her, Tyrissa recognized his words as a formal incantation. Three white-robed acolytes carrying censers on short chains walked a slow circuit around the group. Smoke leaked from the censers’ narrow vents and filled the air with a floral scent.

  Kronall looked ancient but moved with a mismatched vigor. He walked along the circle of parishioners and traced symbols in the air above their bowed heads. Tyrissa felt a tiny echo of air magick from the wizened priest with each blessing.

  “Is he a Windmage?” Tyrissa whispered to Hali. They waited to the left of the entryway below the goddess’s alcove. Tyrissa noticed that the statue was clad in a less modest, marble equivalent of Hali’s dress. A court style indeed.

  “Not exactly. Kronall is a rare sort of Pac
tbound. Some are only touched instead of infused with an element’s power. Their gifts are weaker and their bindings looser, if they even exist at all. Not all of us are malevolent sorcerers or immortal wanderers or what have you.”

  “Like a human equivalent to elchemy?” She thought of her mother’s reaction to her Pact. That seemed like so long ago. Perhaps she was changed in the Cleanse to something like Kronall.

  “Yes, that’s a way of putting it.”

  The faint wind currents coursing through the temple shifted and were drawn to the center of the chamber. As Kronall completed his circle of blessings, the three white-robbed acolytes raised their censers in both hands and pulled apart the hemispheres. The smoke changed from faint white to thick brilliant blue and swirled out to envelop the center of the room in a fleeting cloud before dispersing to nothing. The parishioners were still for a few moments more, then Kronall said, “Go with the grace of the four winds,” and the ritual concluded.

  The small crowd began to disperse, some lingering to exchange a few friendly words with the priest. As the parishioners passed by, one and all paid a word of respect or bowed to Hali as they filed out of the temple.

  Kronall strode over once his flock had fully dissipated, azure robes trailing heavily behind him.

  “Lisin’dir.” He said with a short, creaky bow.

  “Kronall, you of all people can drop the title.”

  “Formalities, Rhalienne. If you would wait in the secondary chamber, I will be able to meet with you and your young friend here in a few minutes. I must shed these accruements of the office.”

  “Of course, rozil.”

  Hali led her to a smaller ritual room in the rear of the temple. It was a rectangular version of the primary chamber at a reduced scale, with another grate-covered circular cut in the floor that let in a flow of the riftwinds. Instead of alcoves, the walls were covered in a mosaic of jeweled glass squares that depicted the varied faces of the Hithian deity. A lens on the ceiling bathed the room in unevenly distributed reflected light that toyed with the mosaic tiles, brightening some while leaving others in shadow.

  “Rhalienne?” Tyrissa asked as they settled onto one of the long wooden benches that lined the walls.

  “My full name, if you must know. Even I’m guilty of casting off some fragments of the past.”

  Kronall joined them in a few minutes, as promised. His dense azure robes were gone, replaced by simple white linens. He carried a palm-sized hand mirror fringed with tarnished silver.

  “That time again, eh?” He asked, his tone now casual and shed of any ponderous formality.

  “That time again,” Hali agreed.

  Kronall harrumphed and grinned widely. “I started to worry that you’d decided it was time to stop keeping me from cheating.”

  “Not quite yet old man. Even with the extra time you still haven’t outlived your usefulness. Oh, Kronall, this is Tyrissa.”

  “A pleasure, young lady,” he said. She returned the pleasantries.

  Hali pointed to the bench on the opposing wall and said, “Tyrissa, if you would keep your distance for a minute? We don’t want you to… disrupt this.”

  Tyrissa nodded and transfer over. Kronall sat next to Hali, set the mirror down between them, and unbuttoned his shirt halfway. Hali placed one hand over the priest’s heart and cupped his chin in the other. Tyrissa felt a powerful surge of life magick radiate out from Hali, a sea of serenity in her mind. Decades vanished from Kronall’s face in seconds and when Hali released him was appeared considerably younger. Not a youth by any measure, but perhaps a vigorous sixty. Hali, in turn, gained two years for every one she removed from Kronall, her hair turning steel-gray, her face lined, her skin dotted with age spots.

  Hali picked up the mirror and regarded her aged face. Her eyes lit up in fascination at the array of wrinkles and blemishes. Then her hair began to reverse the change and returned to its previous auburn color. Her face tightened back up and smoothed out. Hali lowered the mirror with a frown.

  “It gets harder each time,” she said after a moment. “And you age faster each time.”

  “Every day is worth a fortune. If I can find just one child with the slimmest spark of my ability and train them to take my place, I would gladly set my soul adrift on winds eternal.”

  “Don’t be so quick make such a promise, old friend. I have news from Kziven. Rozil Crissandra has found three new acolytes with the old spark.”

  “Truly?”

  “If her letters are to be believed, yes. The next time I’m in Kziven I will try to convince her to send one here and the third to Enshala.”

  “Funny that the beginnings of our revival would come out of Rhonia.”

  “History has a strange sense of humor. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that you live to see the dawn of the North Wind Era, old man.”

  Kronall clasped his hands together and said, “I will certainly stick around for that. So, Rhalienne, what do you want from me this time?”

  Hali shook her head ruefully. “You know me a little too well.”

  “First the Healing and then good news. You’ve presented so much in good faith. You must want something big.”

  “You’ve been living around Khalans too long, Kronall.”

  “You are entirely to blame for that and again I thank you.” He turned towards Tyrissa. “I assume it has something to do with this one. Perhaps related to your own gift churning away inside you, subtly drawing in what little magicks I have, a vortex of change and conversion,” he gave Hali a sidelong look. “She is like Tsellien Wind-Kissed, then?”

  “Yes,” Hali said.

  Tyrissa sprang from her seat. “You knew?!”

  “Oh don’t scowl like that at me, Tyrissa. I only suspected you two were related on the caravan and by the time we crossed paths again you had figured it out on your own.”

  “But you knew of others like me?”

  “Live three hundred years and you hear a little bit about a lot of things. But I have no answers or revelations for you. I only met Tsellien a few times. Enough to know to be wary around you in regards to my own magick, though that was easily confirmed by seeing you in action.”

  Tyrissa sat back down with a sigh, and tried not to seem overly sullen about it. She suspected Hali knew more than she let on, but would let it lie. For now.

  “The Wind-Kissed is… elusive, Tyrissa,” Kronall said. “She travels extensively, occasionally in service of the Hithian remnants, but for the most part she follows her own agenda. She is something of a living legend among our people, a counter point to Rhalienne here. Why, when she and Vralin were born in New Inthai in the same year, and both eventually blessed with such strong magicks, we thought they were heralds of a new era for the Hithian people.”

  “In that, we might have been premature, Kronall,” Hali said. “I’m now convinced that Vralin was never a symbol of a shift in our fortunes.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Hali gave Tyrissa a knowing look.

  Leverage, she thought with some bitterness.

  “Because he killed Tsellien,” Tyrissa said. “Months ago. I have the same… presence as her because I’m her heir.”

  Kronall visibly deflated upon hearing that news and looked as if he regained a couple of his so recently erased years.

  Hali nodded to her. “Now we come to the crux of my visit, rozil. I need you to make an exception to your oath as a priest and tell us what Vralin told you in confidence.”

  “I can’t…”

  “We don’t need too many details,” Hali pressed on. “Just anything that may point toward what he’s been planning. What his Pact is pressing him to accomplish. I know he’s been visiting you these past weeks.”

  “He has. I suppose, if he truly killed Tsellien, that would explain some of his personal torment. Though he never mentioned that.”

  “He’s a threat, Kronall. He’s not like a pre-Fall Windmage. He’s not an expression how things used to be, like you, free fro
m the influence of the Outer Powers. He’s Pactbound and driven by the demands of a greater will.”

  Kronall sighed and shifted uncomfortably. “Four winds forgive me. Vralin spoke of Tsellien keeping him balanced. Perhaps, in their last period apart, he permanently lost that balance. He spoke much of rebirth, of a drive to raise our people up with his own hands. A wind of desperation carries his words, but he believes what he’s doing is right and that the blood on his hands is a small price to pay for a rebirth. I urged him to reconsider his path, that if it requires so much blood, perhaps he is in error.”

  “Rebirth,” Hali whispered. “Did he say what he meant by that?”

  “No. He said little of what exactly he planned, only that the sacred winds demanded he act and act soon. We spoke at length a few nights ago. He said he had the seed and wanted my blessing for his journey to the grave and cradle.”

  “The Crater,” Hali said with a resigned sigh. “He’s going to the ruins of Hithia.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The next four days were a restless blur of waiting. Tyrissa passed the time with training, either with Settan or Kexal. She had improved considerably since their sessions on the caravan, but the Weapon Master always had another layer of expertise to unveil whenever she managed to take a round or two off of him.

  Then, not long after Tyrissa arrived at Kexal’s house for another morning session, Wolef burst through the front door and delivered the three words they all wanted to hear.

  “I found him.”

  “He alone?” Kexal asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s get a move on, then.”

  Within an hour the five of them stood at the mouth of one of the countless tunnels in the under city that led into the depths. They had a route to their target. They had the element of surprise. They had him outnumbered five to one, three being Pactbound. They had the steeled resolve to close out this deal. All that remained was to bring down the mark.