Chương 3: Chapter 2 ~ Thoranyn in Autumn

18/10/1111 EotTS, 9: 19 The coach had departed from the previous town (the attendant had said the name of the town, as well as her own name some days prior, but both were quickly forgotten) sometime between the fifth and sixth hours, and the coachman had specified the departure time as: 'the first sight of dawn through the cedar leaves,' but between the overcast sky turning the sun into a candle behind a linen curtain, and the fifty meter tall hedge called a forest being too dense to tell where the branches of one tree starts and another stops, dawn could only be determined by the hue of the clouds shifting from the blue of the moons to the orange of the sun.

The road that led to Thoranyn had existed long enough that few knew which came first, the road, or the surrounding forest: 'road-firsters' said the road came first, because it would be impossible to clear enough trees to allow for the construction of a paved, four coach wide causeway through hundreds of kilometers of thick, inhospitable forest; the 'forest-firsters' said that the forest came first, because the road clearly twisted and turned in accordance to the caprice of the forest's hills, vales, and rivers, if the road came first, it would be straight!

This debate was all pointless: the road was not bumpy, the lanterns were kept lit, it was traveled heavily enough by merchants, civilians, and knights that one had no need to be worried about thieves and highwaymen. Eventually, the forest began to thin, trees slowly being replaced by log-cabins and lumber camps along the forest edge, then those were replaced by the farming outskirts of the rural fringe, and Gysel sat up straight.

She looked through the driver's window as the lights of Thoranyn's urban fringe appeared as a diffused orange glow through wispy fog; there was never this much fog at home, rarely any, but the further south the coach went, the more there was, slowly growing denser in tandem with the trees as they shifted to autumnal foliage.

"How much longer?" Gysel asked—this is the most desirable place to be, the thin mist, the comfortable southern air, the clouds making sure it is never too bright, and all that is left is to see the Thoranyn city-proper and the Academy emerge from the fog, a first glimpse at a new home by the sea.

"About another hour," said the attendant.

"Excited?" Gysel nodded and rested her head back against the window of the carriage, following small rivulets of water as they flowed down the window, picking one to win, then switching at the last moment if her choice was losing. The town was quaint and nearly entirely residential, with two-story, half-timbered houses lining each street. The tallest building looked to be either a four-story home, or the small temple on the west side of the agora.

It did not seem like a very interesting place (especially when compared to the southern capital of the empire that sat just a short trip down the road), but it was likely home to those who, rather understandably, did not like the noise and population density of the city, but still wanted to be close enough to reap the rewards of trade and commerce.

The houses continued to emerge from the fog and then disappear back into it like the bookshelf decorations (the infinite street one specifically) sold by the Rhikyn Brothers' publishing company through their registered book dealers; they probably worked using mirrors, but there was no point purchasing one to check, as it was likely the same quality as their books: poor.

Luckily, this was the real world, and not a poorly made gimmick (it was still a gimmick, but a well-made one, despite what some have said), and the iron cables of the bridge spanning Mihlae's Strait broke through the fog. They continued up until the two northern towers they were attached to appeared on either side of the road, with grand, grey stone blocks blending into the fog.

The coach left the town and entered the bridge, with a bump marking the crossed threshold, then began to slow to a stop, becoming part of the traffic waiting to be waved through the checkpoint. The wait was not an issue; what was another hour after such a long journey? Gysel scooted over to the left side of the coach and looked out the window: the bottom of the strait was not visible through the fog, but occasionally a bird would appear from within, only to dive back below and into the grey.

Maybe on a clear day, the nests would be visible in the precarious positions on the cliff-face, along with the water and waves of the sea (a clear day here was perfect for a painter, or for a connoisseur of the plastic arts, to see if the painters deserved their praise; if the whites of the waves breaking on the rocks looked the same in oil and water). Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

"Do you know what number your dorm room is?" The attendant asked, pulling Gysel out of the mist's lull. Turning towards the attendant, Gysel rocked her head back and forth. The attendant dug into her bag and produced a book.

"Gysel Neekhilst? G-y-s-e-l N-e-e-k-h-i-l-s-t." Gysel nodded.

"Is this not something you should have checked when you retrieved me?"

"I knew what you looked like." The attendant's tone was short. Gysel sighed and turned away—of course, she did, who did not? it has been nearly three years since that portrait from the guardhouse made its rounds, and people still recognize the arsonist... it would not be a surprise if this is how the attendant knows as well. She glanced at Gysel from beneath a knit brow.

"I just want to make sure I got the right Gysel."

"There are others?"

"About eight, all spelled differently. Your name is the shortest one." The woman's eyes skimmed over the page.

"You are in room '547' of the female dorms. You should have a view of the ocean from your window."

"All right." Gysel went back to looking out the window, but paused and turned back to the attendant.

"How did you know what I looked like?"

"The etching of you from the newspapers was cut out, and in the file we have," the attendant paused to laugh.

"They even included the big text reading 'Who Is Gysel Neekhilst.'" Gysel grimaced; intuition was right again, as it was the one from the guardhouse: face covered in soot, the lenses of the glasses shattered, hair standing on end with charred tips—usually, appearances are disregarded without Mother present, but this illustration... this illustration... is the rare exception, and everyone has seen it, and some have cut it out... wonderful. After about thirty minutes, their coach arrived at the checkpoint.

The guard's face appeared in the window to the right. He had a bushy red beard and bushier eyebrows.

"Papers?" The guard's voice was higher than expected. The attendant opened the window and handed the guard what he desired.

"Another student..." he muttered as he looked over the paper, raised his eyebrows, and whistled. Gysel sniffed. He handed the papers back to the attendant.

"You're from far off. How was the ride?"

"Long," Gysel answered.

"I bet," the guard said.

"Did you get sick of the trees?"

"No."

"Hmmm... All right, you folks can go through. Enjoy your studies."

"Thank you." The wheels creaked as the horses started to move again, pulling the coach beneath the barely visible, raised portcullis, and into Thoranyn. The coach took a right as soon as it exited the bridge and continued up the slight incline of the brick-paved main street. Tree-lined sidewalks ran on either side of the street, and were separated from the ordure of the roadway by black, wrought-iron fencing, with spiraling scrollwork.

The fencing connected the iron posts of each streetlamp to the guard of the neighboring tree pit, and the guard of each tree pit to the posts of the neighboring streetlamps. The area behind the outer sidewalk was lined with townhouses with shops on the bottom and residential space above. Most were made of grey river rocks or red bricks, but a few had white-plastered walls or were entirely made of logs. All were two or more floors.

It was hard to read the signs hanging outside the shops as the coach passed; it was either too bumpy or the fog was devouring the white lettering. The coach went up and up, and round and round before turning right onto a residential side street tucked between two four-story buildings. An archway sat at the end of the street, with a gateway beneath it and a covered walkway above it. Ivy climbed its old, weathered blocks but stopped short of the keystone.

The symbol of the three moons had been inlaid in silver on the keystone. The dark iron gates were chained open, and a long line of coaches sat parked ahead of them. It took longer for the line to move forward than it did for the fog to thin as noon approached.

The more time passed, the more was revealed of the Thoranyn Academy of Alchemy and Magick: first it was the circular, paved approach, the tall black stone walls (thick enough to be used as planters for the hedges that grew from their tops) that encased it, and the silver fountain depicting a woman wrapped in vines in the center; then it was the tall buildings of lichen-covered stone blocks and black oak behind the hedge-topped walls, with the silhouettes of people pushing carts barely visible through the tracery of the tall windows; finally it was the main building, with its wooden pillars and dark facade, that was dominated by a grey-green ivy that worked its way up the wood and crawled along the nearby stone.

The coach pulled beneath the high wooden portico, stopped, and the door was pulled open.