2 - Path of the Warlock

Long before the human population came to be there, the river had worked a bed into the earth for the city to be planted, to one day rise up and meet the sky. Yartha had started as a modest settlement nearly eight centuries earlier by exiled nobles from the northern kingdom of Starhall, and their subjects- the farmers, hunters, and miners who had followed their lords or left the mountains when that country had grown too cold, or its rulers too cold-hearted. In their migration south they happened upon a great river, followed its winding path to settle in a forested valley with good soil, water teeming with fish, and hills full of ore, and in the near-millennium which followed, the City of Yartha became the most populated place in the known world.

An independent city-state on the Slybos River, and located in the center of the continent, Yartha was known across the land as a cultural beacon- a de facto capital of Damursyn. The city was rich with coin, resources, and history, and notable for many things; the river valley where it stood was purported to be where human life had begun, and so was home to a plethora of religions. The sacred land had been populated by living gods before the city had come to be, so it was said. Across it still scattered were the remnants of their creations, magic long faded. 

From the viewpoint of those who cowered under the gaze of a borderlands warlord or pledged their livelihoods to a king, Yartha was, in the last fifty years at least, a place of great freedom. Nowhere on the continent offered more autonomy except for perhaps the vast expanse of the wilds, owned by no person and hospitable to none but the most natural denizens of the land.

But when an outsider thought of the city, it tended to be known above all other things as a haven of knowledge and education. It was the place which had birthed ideas that changed Damursyn as a whole, and continued to shape the lives of its people- in the form of great machines that could take the place of twenty workers in the wheat fields, and instruments which measured time- wondrous inventions that delighted and amazed the largely uneducated masses of the free city and beyond.

With the journal of the witch held tight to his chest, Byron ascended the stairs. He didn’t sign the manuscript out in the library ledgers, a mandatory practice when borrowing from its collection, but he concealed the hidebound book beneath his robes as he left past the front desk attended only by a tired-looking student, young and oblivious. At the top of the steps Byron emerged to the chattering crowds of Ryli Tower’s lower hall. It had been almost a week since he had last set foot on the surface level, and the light breeze from the open double doors on both sides of the massive hall was refreshing, though it caused him to become acutely aware of his stench. 

The foot-traffic in the great hall was heavy. Academics and government officials came and went, some carrying scroll-cases or messenger bags. Nearly all of them were from families of former nobility, titles stripped in Yartha’s democratization, which in truth had done little to change the structures of power in the city. Scholars and scholarly things had been aggrandized and celebrated in Yartha since the academy opened its hallowed and symbolic brass gates over five centuries ago. The cities' first council of governors, and most of its subsequent ones being either scholars or other men and women of academia, and the inner workings and machinations of the academy-run government had been secretive and elitist from its beginnings. 

In the present, as Byron left Ryli Tower, Yartha’s form of representative democracy was still very much a work-in-progress a mere fifty years from its inception, and many still in its upper echelons were still alive and had been against the dividing of power in the first place. Rumors of a number of secret societies and cults of the upper class still abounded to the day among the common folk; those who plotted from within to overthrow the governor's council, which was known collectively as the Towers, but Byron had never suspected any of his colleagues. The closest he could think of would be the guilds, which were shrouded in secrecy, influential in their invisible ways. But there in the lower hall, the people in their fine dress all around him he knew only as public servants. It was they who kept Yartha functioning like clockwork. In truth, he thought them far too boring for such things as conspiracy.

All were concerned with the drought in its second year, which had been a problem for the city coffers for quite some time, and was becoming an entirely different problem for the lowborn. Starvation was imminent if it wasn’t already happening. and there was fear of uprising. A number of wealthy families had already left Yartha, braving the month-long journey it took through the lawless wilds to reach the nearest kingdom- Starhall, far to the north. It was an impossible trek for the lowborn.

Byron’s haggard and filthy appearance stood out among the other academics and officials. He was not a popular figure at the academy, but all knew who he was. He imagined they considered him an eccentric, if not completely insane. His colleagues had eventually come to a grudging acceptance of his dedication to the Earth God as the years went on. It was an ancient practice, but few knew of it, let alone made it a habit; most religions tended toward cleanliness, after all.

There was a cult of like-minded fanatics of Hyne who made their home across the river in the woods of Hundred Trees, somewhere in the vicinity of Altar Cave, but Byron had never made their acquaintance. That will change soon, he thought. If only I had known. Surely they are aware of the cave and the altar. Why else would they congregate there? If they know any of its secrets, they must show me, and in turn, perhaps I will demonstrate to them how it is used. 

He laughed his strange laugh, envisioning their hypothetical reactions, and received his own wary and puzzled looks from the pedestrians around him as he joined the stream of bodies leaving the tower. They made their way through the eastern set of Ryli's opened doors to the city outside. Byron was blinded as he passed its threshold, the city before him an undefined miasma of white gold to his dark-adjusted eyes, as if the sun had landed there. 

At the top of the steps the heat met him. He whimpered, put one foot in front of another, and slowly made his way down toward Dandelion Street. Voices behind him muttered in disgust and shouted in protest. Finally at the bottom, he turned to the sparsely occupied streets of the northwest quarter, quickening his pace. 

His shoes were worn through- the bricks hot against his blackened feet even in the shade he traversed beneath the awnings and balconies. He walked north to the highborn district of Flynoss Heights, where he'd been born and spent most his life- the only son to two scholars and educators of the academy. His mother had been taken by the sickness called Elder's Fever more than a decade before, but his father still resided there, alone now save for the servants and private guardsmen who maintained the small castle where he’d grown up.

Flynoss Heights was one of the wealthiest districts in the city. It was where grand academics and government officials of Yartha resided alongside pillars of trade and industry, a smattering of the most prominent of criminals, and high priests of what Byron saw as gluttonous religions. The architecture there was extravagant- pillars of white marble, fountains and plumbing, circulated heat in the winter, terracotta arches, grand balconies and streets well-lit by ornate stone braziers in the evening, placed at regular intervals alongside the lanes, stairs and walkways smooth and paved with bricks laid and crafted by guilds of master masons. The highborn had always lived in the north, and the lowborn the south. It went back to Yartha's first noble families and its totalitarian past, and Flynoss Heights was a world apart from the slums which began only a handful of city blocks south of there on the other side of the academy campus. A contrast so complete it would have been comical if not so unpleasant, Byron thought.

To say that he looked out of place in the clean streets would have been an understatement. A hovering escort of flies followed him. His robes, once a pale blue, were now a sickly greenish-brown, blackened and tattered at their bottoms. The people he didn't know ignored him, and the ones he did know avoided him. His odd behavior had made him very much an outcast in the highborn district.

He stopped at the end of the lane. Flynoss Heights bordered the west bank of the Slybos. It was north of Quell Bridge- Yartha's northernmost and smallest bridge. The plot of land Levant Castle sat upon covered an entire city block in the northwest quarter between Dandelion and Marble Streets. He trudged up the old familiar path to his father’s castle to gather some belongings- gold, in particular, and supplies for the coming days. He would have to forgo his vow of poverty if he were to save the city. As for his father, Byron did not expect their meeting to be a pleasant one. They never were.

He smiled as he approached the iron gate between the low, ivy-choked walls of Castle Levant. He opened his arms to the guardsman who stood on the other side of the bars. "Lynt, it is good to see your face," he said. "If I may pass…"

The guardsman didn't return his smile. "I will fetch your father," he said.

"It is me, Byron. Perhaps-"

"I will fetch your father," the guardsman repeated, louder this time, and he turned and left Byron at the castle gate.

He had grown up in a secluded universe of Yartha- one of luxury and socialization with adults who spoke the language of the educated and entitled. He had no siblings or family his age, and no friends to speak of. His life had been one of safety and security, but also a lonely one, sheltered from the majority of the citizens of Yartha- the lowborn, those nameless people who seemed to live a life of suffering while he and his family were the polar opposites. Before Byron's vow of poverty, his only connection to the underclass had been his family's servants, who had talked little of their personal lives. In a way, he felt shame at his family's perceived importance, and was acutely aware that no one needed the luxuries they had, even when he was young.

As a child he had attended the youth school on the academy campus. One day he'd asked his father if lowborn children also went to a school. Byron senior had told his son that they didn't need to. They don't need an education, he had said. There is plenty for them to do, and once they're grown, as long as they have their taverns and their whorehouses, they are perfectly content without learning. The Levants are of a different breed. You will see this when you are older, and you will carry on our legacy with your children. This world is constructed of tiers, Byron. You will never outclimb authority, but the only sensible path will always be upward. The people beneath you must be there, or your ascent will have no support. Remember that, but don't dwell on it, and know that they are content with their lot. Just as the animals have their hierarchies, we have ours.

But he had dwelled on it, and could never bring himself to truly believe what his father had told him. Still, he’d lived the life which he was handed. He was a bright young boy who excelled at the same subjects his father had, grasping fairly complex mathematics at an early age. It was during the first year in his preliminary classroom where a classmate had told him about the gods and magic. The conversation had been seminal to him. His parents hadn't believed in either, and had done their best to shield him from the ideas of the religions.

His father's formative years had been spent during a period of enlightenment in the city as he moved his way up the Towers to become a grand scholar of mathematics and advisor to the governors. He had been among those who had championed the theory of Gaia’s rotation, which had in turn led to modern astrology. He believed with stern conviction that there were no mysteries to life that could not be explained by science. Gods and magic were nothing but relics of superstition, entertained by the ignorant poor, who he despised in every way and made no secret of it.

It had not stopped young Byron from being enthralled by the stories the girl in his class had told him- of the many gods worshiped in the city, and how they had created the river and the entire world- how they used to walk alongside humans. She told these things to Byron, who had never heard myth before, or even a word of fiction from his family or teachers. When he had relayed the classroom discussions to his father, he was reprimanded, and the girl was no longer in his class after that. It's a fairy tale, his father told him. Lies to give a sense of purpose to the weak-willed. To Byron senior, the case had been closed, and he'd said no more on the subject for many years.

***

"Have you lost your mind?" Byron Levant senior asked his son. They were standing in the flower garden of the small courtyard. A gardener dutifully watered hibiscus plants sun-bleached a pale pink, and Byron pouted before his father, Oxsar Levant II.

"What was the academy for," he asked, "if you were just going to discard all of the practical, proven knowledge which you have worked so hard to amass?"

Byron said nothing. His head hung low. A mosquito buzzed in his ear and he flinched, jumped backward with a yelp, and waved the long sleeves of his soiled robes in the air around him frantically. When the strange dance was finished, he turned to his father. “I have been bitten far too many times by mosquitos, tonight,” he explained. “It announced itself to my ear, and I was forced to take action. I will not be embarrassed.”

His father stared at him, flabbergasted. "Look at you!" he bellowed, then, somewhat softer, "What happened to you, Byron?"

Byron stilled, sniffled with feigned grief. His father stared at his face for a long time. Oxsar cleared his throat and began what to Byron was a familiar lecture. "The two cannot co-exist, science and religion. Men of reason will always lose if we even acknowledge the thought without proof. All of science is debunked in the name of magic. You would toss everything we have established for 'it is so because the gods say it is so. Case closed.' This is idiocy. This goes against everything we believe, Byron. These thoughts have poisoned your mind."

"You have it wrong, father-"

"I have it wrong. What a joke."

"You have the reasoning behind my belief wrong," Byron pleaded before realizing his voice was likely at its most grating in that tone. He paused before he went on. "It is only due to scientific insight that I should believe in any god. The symmetries and balances. The cycles of rebirth and vastness of the cosmos. It is all so perfect and self-sustaining. You said it yourself, father. We have only begun to scratch the surface. How can it be anything other than divine creation? How do you not see it as such?"

The gardener quietly slipped away as the father answered his son, the elder's voice deep and his cadence steady, honed from his daily lectures. "Byron, there is a difference between pondering the mysteries of life, and parading around in the street like a lunatic, claiming to have an answer to the question which will in all likelihood never be truly answered, putting on a performance, for who?"

Byron laughed, bitterly. "Is this about me cavorting with the wretched poor people, again? Don't worry, father. No one who you wish to impress will recognize me. Why would they start? Your good name will remain unsullied."

"You are a fool," Oxsar replied.

"The lowborn have been right all along, father. We are the fools, and our confidence has made us so. Altar Cave, in the parklands, is a path to the realm of Hyne. I've long suspected it. The gods have granted me passage, father. I only needed to know the words, and now I have them. I... I know of a way to bring rain from that place, the means of which are somewhat convoluted, however. I've known about this since I climbed Ryli Tower. Since I was ten. The cottage-"”

"Stop it!" his father commanded. He put his fingers to the crease of his brow and frowned as if in pain.

Byron had seen it countless times, when he'd given wrong answers at study-drills or disappointed him in some other way. He hated it. When Oxsar said nothing, Byron spoke again, tentatively. "You must listen, father. I have studied-"

"I must do nothing! I am done with your foolishness!"

"This has everything to do with physics, father! Everything! The shape of the cave opening, for instance, aligns almost perfectly-"

"Almost! Yes yes. Almost, and the moon almost looks like a stone skipped across a great black pond, or whatever rubbish the animals think. No doubt the next time I see you, you'll be in Tabby Square or some other hellish place, coinless and naked, mad with the words of your gods. I've nothing left to say to you. Not until you are done playing warlock. You, a grown man."

Byron bared his teeth at his father. His eyes were daggers. "Praise be to Hyne!" he spat. "Praise be to Hyne and woe to the unbelievers! When I am worshiped, and they will worship me after they see my work, I will have them spare you, father. You see, Hyne is a compassionate god, and-"

"Sonya!" Vannis called to the gardener, who had occupied herself further and further away. "Fetch Lynt," he told her.

"I'm leaving," Byron said. "After I gather a few things. No need to summon your thugs. If I don't return from Magaia, know that I died to save the city."

His father didn't look at him, but barked humorless laughter, turned and walked across the marble stepping stones on the lawn in the deepening twilight of midsummer, his gait maddeningly casual to Byron. "What drama," he said, not looking back. "How is it that one can return, or not return, from a place one cannot go? That does not exist? I imagine there will be things worse than mosquitoes there. Dragons or trolls, perhaps. Get what you need and be gone. I can’t stop you from pissing your fortune away, but remember, that’s all there is.”

I turn my back on you, Byron thought. Not the other way. He stomped off toward his old room, the tower on the other side of the courtyard.

***

When he left Castle Levant less than an hour later, the courtyard was empty, and no one but the guardsman Lynt saw the sight of him. Byron didn’t acknowledge him as he left. Over his dirty robe was affixed a gleaming light chain shirt. A clean hood and cloak of deep, forest green was pulled around his dirty face, draped over his sloping shoulders.

He held in his hand a dagger of steel. Its handle was intertwined with ribbons of gold, and its pommel was a large sparkling ruby. He tucked it into its sheath on a new belt on his right side, where there also hung a heavy pouch of gold coins. Strapped to his back was a sturdy but worn traveling pack, in it a sack of dried fruits and meats, a waterskin, and most importantly the Book of Petrastyra, and his notes. On the pack was also tied a small gas lantern of brass, jade and gold, one of few in existence, and worth more than what many citizens of Yartha would make in a lifetime.

With a grim determination, he left the castle behind him and didn’t look back. He began a fast march through the highborn districts- one that would not stop until he had crossed to the other side of Harpy Bridge and arrived in East Yartha some two hours later. By then it was full dark.