Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“Once, the Scholar was told a half-truth,

A tall tale meant to ruin their word.

The Scholar was meant to be a perfect recall machine,

And so, the Scholar tore the teller limb from limb.”

There was only so much anger Arkim could fit within himself, and that threshold was surprisingly low in comparison to his friends. Kuala, who was so full of anger; Olea, who was a being of rage; Shen, who was a simmering pot of injustice. Arkim wasn’t like that. He got irritated, he yelled, it was gone. Then, he was back to being smooth as silk, to being calm as the sea before a storm, to being a gentle breeze across the forest, barely shaking any leaves.

Arkim was a bundle of nerves, yes, but he was not a bundle of darkness. That was where he drew the line. He refused to allow himself to fall that far.

That was how he brought himself to jostle Kuala, just enough to get her attention.

“We’ll be there in the morning. And then I won’t be nearly as weak as you’re thinking I am.”

What Arkim didn’t say, but they both knew, was that he was as weak as Kuala feared. Weaker, in fact, because Arkim knew Kuala couldn’t fathom the breakability of his bones fully when compared to her iron physique and masochistic workings that rewound her wounds.

“I don’t like it when you do that, it’s creepy.”

“When I do what?”

“When you guess what I’m thinking and you’re right.”

Arkim gives a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling. “You wouldn’t know what to do if I stopped.”

Kuala rolled her eyes, and Arkim paused, pulling on Kuala’s good arm until she stopped as well. Quietly, he fixed her sling that had been slowly becoming loose over the day. It required him to fully unwrap and re-wrap her arm, and he did so with deft hands.

Kuala huffed a thank you before climbing back into the caravan. Arkim took a moment for himself, walking beside the slow-moving wagon. He scanned the horizon, his eyes trying to take in every twitch of a branch or shuffle of brush. When the sun began to set, they switched places. Kuala, with her Inheritance, was more than well enough to keep watch and walk through the night while Arkim slept.

As the sun rose in the sky, Arkim found himself up early. The rough ride was heinous for his usually strict sleep schedule, and Arkim was sure there were bags under his eyes. When he stuck his head out of the cloth covering the wagon, Arkim caught sight of the edge of the mountain he knew held Ayrq.

Ayrq was a squat city built into a crater that had ripped a large chunk out of said mountain. The crater was sent down in ages past and provided the city with a position that was impossible to flank—but easy to siege. There were only two ways in, from the east or from the sky. And aerial monsters were more frequent in the mountainous regions of Bayquest. If one were unlucky, they could even come across a wyrm swarm.

They weren’t half as infrequent as Arkim would have liked.

It mattered not to him now, though, because he couldn’t freeze the force of the wind to walk upon it. He couldn’t find the timeline with the gust of wind he needed to launch high enough to cross the walls of Ayrq. And that filled Arkim with dread. Because once they were in the city, they were stuck.

They would have to find their way to the Well and survive long enough to contract with it. Arkim knew there would be a trial—there always was when it came time to contract with a new God. He was sure Kuala could pass it if they waited another day for her to be at her best, which meant accommodations. Usually, such a thing was negligible, but Arkim was running increasingly low on funds due to the healer, the caravan, and the general state of his being.

Arkim would need to top up his coin purse before the world realized Contraria had fallen once again. It would be worse, this time, than when his mother was fighting the Doom. The Doom came early, and if it happened once, it could happen again. That meant the value of Contrarian gold would plummet, and when the island returned to its rightful place, the value of its goods would tank with the unreliability, and its currency would not come back half as fast. Alternatively, Arkim reasoned, the value of the goods could skyrocket—though that mattered not to him, and he really ought not worry about it until the time came.

Passing through the gates was a tedious affair, full of paperwork, questions, and generally annoying things that Arkim and Kuala tended to avoid—it was why most of their travels were to no-name villages on debated borders. No one could stop them there, where war ravaged and money and rations were tight. Thus, they had free rein to spend their gold, and Kuala could abate her battle madness. Arkim, also, had a madness that took him.

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He had a need that hardly anyone ever spoke of, let alone Alkimika. Their lessons had been practical, but based on using their Well in the best possible way. In learning the history of the world they stood atop of. In learning how to craft a web so intricate that even the Spy could not escape it.

Alkimika had only told him once, “Do not reject the memories you hold, Arkim. It will hurt more than one can fathom.”

What Alkimika had meant was literal, though she often spoke in metaphors, which was annoying, but understandable. Their Inheritance made flowery speeches easy. They had so much knowledge to pad even the most mundane of things with anecdotes. Kuala had hated it. Arkim found it painful to forget, and thus, he was forced to remember. Every failure, every success, every irritating word, and every deep-cutting remark. Every scraped knee and soft kiss. Arkim was both blessed and cursed to remember it all.

Sighing, he took out a rough sketch of a map he’d made of Ayrq from a memory of a memory. The city was set up in a square grid centered on the Well. At the main square, there would be a stairwell leading down and down and down into the depths of the mountain. This Well, while seemingly simple, was called the Well of Mirage. Despite the name, Mirage was the name of a God of Fealty—the High Goddess of Marriage. Her Well was versatile and could be used in a great many ways. Both for Arkim's defense and Kuala's offense. Arkim already had a dozen ideas for workings similar to their time workings so that they wouldn't necessarily have to rebuild entirely.

“Let’s find an inn.” Arkim sighed, defeated and resigned.

Kuala shook her head. “No, I have no desire to stay here longer than necessary. Let’s go straight to the Well. Shen is headed to us. We cannot afford any delays.”

Searching Kuala’s gaze, Arkim thought about fighting. About insisting that she be at her best. But then he saw the hard set of her jaw, the tightness in her shoulders, and he realized she hated being stuck in this city as much as he did. So, he simply nodded and navigated them to the Well.

It was a simple affair, heading straight to the center of Ayrq. When they arrived at what was supposed to be the Well, there was simply a hole in the ground surrounded by men and women in matching outfits. They were dressed in bright white cloth wrapped around them tightly, and at the sight of them, Kuala laughed.

“They don’t have any weapons to protect the Well.”

Arkim shot her a look and said, “Did the defenders of Krohnic require weapons?”

“No, but that’s because—” Kuala started, but Arkim cut her off.

“Do you even know what the Warmages of Bayquest can do? Keep those thoughts to yourself. There’s a reason they are left out of the Yuhaul-Kierre conflict.”

Kuala rolled her eyes and shoved Arkim forward as they passed through the entryway and began descending the stairs. It was a simple thing of grey stone. There were no decorations, nothing save the occasional sconce on the wall providing a dim light.

Down and down and down they went, silence permeating between them, until they met a white door of flawless finish. They had descended for over an hour. Proof that this was a true divine Well—no mortal could have built such a structure this deep underground. Even Kuala looked faint at the odd consistency of the air.

There were two more Warmages down below. Neither had weapons, but this time, Kuala kept her mouth shut. She used one hand and ripped the door open.

“No time to dawdle, Ark, we have places to be,” she said, huffing in irritation as the Warmages shot her dirty looks.

Arkim knew that they had wanted to ask for a donation; it was the way of things. So, Arkim arched an eyebrow at them as he slid in behind Kuala.

Behind the door was a temple of white stone, smoothed to perfection. At every corner, the stone was melded gently into the rest of the stone. There were no chips, no specks of loose dust. Everything was connected. No, Arkim thought, everything is married.

It was beautiful in the way only something cold could be, in that it hurt to look at something so pristine. Arkim hated it. It reminded him of the labs in Contraria. But Arkim refused to show his displeasure. Instead, he approached the pillar in the center of the temple.

Kuala let him pass her by before following on his heels. As they approached the pillar, the stone shimmered and fell away, revealing two indents.

Both were shaped like hands.

The hand on the right was deeper, wider, and the fingers were spread further apart. The one on the left had slimmer fingers and a quirk in the pinky that made Arkim sigh.

“You’re the left and I’m the right, then.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Kuala looked at him in shock.

He pointed to the slightly turned pinky finger. “It’s from when you and Olea broke each other’s fingers.”

Kuala glowered. “And I repeat, how could you possibly know that? We were alone that night.”

Arkim rolled his eyes. “Do we have to do this now?”

“Yes.”

“Both of you had broken fingers and started sneaking away more often. And you were super into blood pacts at twelve. Of course, you broke each other to bond.”

“I hate your eyes, you know,” Kuala said out of the blue. Arkim blinked in confusion. “They’re like hers, but if they had never been forced to lay sight on Babel.”

“I know,” Arkim confessed after a long moment, “it’s hard for me to look at your hand and see Olea, too.”

“Whatever, let’s get this over with, yeah? Wouldn’t want to make a God wait.” Kuala grumped.

Arkim huffed, pressing his hand into the hole meant for him. Beside him, Kuala angled her slinged arm around to press into the pillar as well.

“Oh, Mirage, hear our plea, we beg to bargain for a sip of your Well.” Arkim spoke gently but with certainty.

And then, there was light, too much light. And Arkim found himself alone.