Sylvia waited patiently while Sepp replaced the soles of her boots. The craftsman sat by the window, one boot fixed between his thighs, and a box of nails lying open beside him. Lingering around the workshop, Sylvia inspected the old shelves. They held lumps of metal, various tin boxes, and thick leather bound books, filled with drawings and notes. She wandered past the rows of hammers and tongs, and eyed the workbench. The massive wood was bending under the weight of tools and half-finished projects. Spotting a stone as black as night, she picked it up. It fit snugly in her palm, but it weighed her hand down like lead.

“What are you using blackstone for?”

Sepp glanced up shortly. Eyes back on his hands, he grumbled rather than raising his shoulders in a shrug. “Nothing. It is for sale.”

Sylvia turned the stone over in her hand, running her fingers over the smooth surface. “How did you break it?”

Sepp grumbled again. The ghost of a smile flickered over his face as he reached for the last nail. “Very funny. I did not break it. If you know where to look, there are plenty of these small pieces in the ground.”

“Where would that be?”, Sylvia inquired.

Shaking his head, Sepp closed the box of nails. He looked the finished boots over one last time. “Everywhere.”

“I have never seen a blackstone this small”, Sylvia said.

“You have to dig, is all.”

Putting the stone back on the workbench, Sylvia returned to Sepp’s side and accepted the repaired shoes. Lacing the leather snug around her legs, she walked around the shop experimentally. “Thank you so much. I apologise again that we cannot pay for the work right away.”

Sepp waved it off. “Not at all, Young Sylvia. I remember your father's generosity well.” Placing a hand on Sylvia’s shoulder, he squeezed lightly. “Give my regards to Markus”, he added, before waving a hand to dismiss her.

Leaving the workshop, Sylvia enjoyed having new soles under her feet. The boots her mother handed down to her were a marvellous thing. While the soles needed replacing once in a while, the leather of the straps and the shoes themselves were no worse for the wear. The way her mother told the story, these boots had been given to her by her mother, when she turned fifteen, just as she gave them to Sylvia. She had intended them for Maja, but it was a poor fit. These were the boots of a wanderer. Where they originated from, no one knew. Sepp insisted neither him nor his father had made them. He could not make sense of their longevity.

Walking from Sepp’s corner of Nyberg, the smell of metal and ash eased. It was soon replaced by a pleasant fresh scent of drying wood from the carpentry stash. Once that faded as well, there was the enticing smell of bread baking in a hot oven. Sylvia’s stomach made itself know. She rounded the corner of the town hall, and the thick brick chimney of the bakery came into view. Electing to make a detour, she walked all the way around to the back door and gave it two sharp knocks, before pushing the door open.

“Good morning, Dear”, Klara greeted cheerfully.

She stood by one of the sturdy tables, working a pile of flour into a generous batch of dough. Her long hair was braided tightly, swinging from one shoulder to the other while she worked, never getting in the way.

Pressing the door shut behind herself, Sylvia walked across the little bakery and wrapped an arm around Klara’s waist. Pressing a kiss to the baker’s rosy cheek, she hummed. “Good morning.”

“Came by to beg for a bite?”, Klara teased.

Eyeing the wet dough sticking to Klara’s moving fingers, Sylvia wondered, “What are you making?”

“Sweet rolls.”

Smoothing the lump of dough into a neat round shape, Klara pulled a linen cloth from its hook under the table and threw it over the treat in progress. Finally dusting her hands off and turning to her visitor, she asked, “And what brings you here, pray tell?”

Sylvia shrugged innocently. “Just happened to be in town.”

“So you will not be needing any goods then”, Klara concluded.

Sylvia put on her best puppy face.

Klara laughed heartedly. “Fine, fine, you win. I will give you a bred roll. If you wait, you can have a sweet roll, too”, she offered.

“How long?”

“An hour maybe”, Klara shrugged. When Sylvia made a face, Klara leaned in close, close enough for Sylvia to feel Klara’s presence in her very soul. “I doubt you will be bored.”

“Tempting”, Sylvia chuckled. “But I do still need to get to the temple today.”

Klara took a step back and huffed theatrically. “Suit yourself.”

“I know I am missing out”, Sylvia said. Taking a hold of Klara’s arm, she sighed aloud. “But oh so cruel is this world. I have to go.”

Sniggering, Klara shook her head. “Going to borrow another book?”

“Always.”

“What have you been reading?”

“The Origin of Fri”, Sylvia said, shifting the straps of her backpack a little. “I have only read it twice, but it is sort of boring to be honest. The author seems to be rather full of themselves. I have a feeling a lot of it may be inaccurate, too.”

“Only twice?”, Klara gasped, placing a hand over her mouth. “What makes you think it is not accurate? Are books not supposed to be the keepers of knowledge?”, she teased.

“Twice is just enough to get the gist of the story”, Sylvia protested. “There is so much more to be discovered, hidden between the lines. The wording, the blanks, the emotions embroidered into the pages—” She stopped herself before her rambling turned into a lecture.

As for the other question, she looked down at her hand. She ran her thumb over the tips of the other four fingers. “And books can be wrong, just as people are. After all, every book was written by someone. This book just…” She tilted her head to the side and grumbled. “It just does not feel right.”

Klara frowned in bemusement. “If you say so.” Turning around, she reached into a basket and tossed Sylvia a warm bread roll. “To your health.”

“Thank you”, Sylvia smiled. “Really.”

“Always, Dearest.” Klara winked before turning her attention to the next recipe.

Heading back outside, Sylvia took a greedy bite of the bread and hummed. There were few things better then fresh food, especially when Klara had made it. She knew her trade. The food she served at the town hall during the evenings was always mouthwatering. Enjoying the treat, Sylvia kept walking down the road.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

While a lot could be said for the smell of drying wood, fresh bread, or the aroma of brew, which hung like a cloud around the town hall, nothing compared to the temple. It always smelled of paper and ink, and a hint of leather. It was the best smell in the world. This smell held the promise of knowledge and adventures, all resting in paper, waiting to be read.

Priest Ryther kept more books in the small temple than everyone else in Nyberg combined, even counting Klara and Sepp. Ryther had an entire room full of them, stacked onto shelves along every wall, from floor too ceiling. He claimed to have read them all, and more still when he was studying in the capital. Sylvia on the other hand had only made her way two thirds through his collection. Considering how long that took, she figured she would have enough to read until she was old enough to go to a neighbouring town and find new books.

Reaching the smooth stone steps of the temple, she knocked once, twice, three times, and then entered. Stepping into the house of prayer, Sylvia lowered her head, greeting the space with reverence. The grey beams shimmered lightly in answer.

Whisperwood was more magic than wood if the priest was to be taken at his word. While it had an unnatural gleam and looked like it had been poured from silver, it still felt very much like ordinary wood to the touch. Sylvia had yet to figure out how this effect was created. She observed the shimmer retreating back into the perfect arches of the ceiling. Perhaps the answer lay up there, among the rafters. Maybe there was a light source, casting a gleam over the room whenever the door was opened. Doubting she would find an answer anytime soon, she drew her gaze back down.

Priest Ryther stood by the simple stone altar, which was the centrepiece of the circular room. His eyes were closed in focused prayer. The air stood still around him, not a hint of magic hanging above his head. The god of Nyberg had left this place more than a year ago. Even so, Ryther prayed. Even when the door slammed shut behind Sylvia, and the echo rang through the room, Ryther did not blink. Striding past the candles and benches, Sylvia peered at the object entrapping his attention. There was a clear yellow crystal resting upon a soft cloth, surrounded by dried silverwood leaves and chunks of salt. Frowning, Sylvia tapped Priest Ryther on the arm and he snapped out of his spellbound state.

Opening his eyes, Ryther smiled. “Welcome back.”

His voice was as soft as clouds. Despite his mellow tone, his words filled the small room, like the wood itself knew that his voice mattered, that he needed to be heard. It did not happen anywhere else. In the town hall, you could barely hear him unless he raised his voice. It turned all raspy and strained when he tried.

Spotting the half-eaten bread in Sylvia’s hand, Ryther crooked an eyebrow. “I see I was not your first visit.”

Taking another bite, Sylvia nodded toward the dormant crystal. “Whahs that?”

“That is soon going to be a god. Our god of fertile land”, Ryther stated matter-of-factly.

“You are making a new one?”, Sylvia asked astounded. “Is that even possible on your own?”

While she was well aware that a god was merely a gathering of intent and prayer, it was a gathering of a certain magnitude. It took a village—no—a city to cultivate a new god. It was rare enough for a small community like Nyberg to have a god to begin with. Now that it was gone…

Sylvia frowned at Ryther. “Are you joking?”

“If you know how to channel enough magic, anything is possible”, Ryther said, waving a finger in the air. “Well…that is a lie, but the intent is here, all around us. Nyberg is growing restless. There is a unanimous desire for water, for things to grow, even if these people do not pray as much as I would like.”

Sylvia’s frown deepened further. She eyed Ryther for a long moment, trying to determine if he was pulling her leg. “You know how to channel magic?”

“I told you, did I not, that I whispered the wood for this very temple?”, Ryther asked, motioning around them in a grand gesture.

It was hard to tell with the old man how much was theatre and how much was real. Many priests waved their hands and sprinkled salts to legitimate their craft. While most people could feel a hint of magic in the air during a prayer, it did not have any immediate effect. It was a rather lacklustre experience to go to the temple, so a bit of mysticism helps to keep people on their toes. Ryther himself had admitted to it when Sylvia confronted him on the abundance of candles in the temple. He called it ‘visual flare’.

Ryther leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But do not make a fuss about it, would you? Too much attention does no one any good, especially not in these days.”

The frown did not leave Sylvia’s face. “If you can channel magic, why not simply conjure water?”, she challenged.

“Clever, but uninformed”, Ryther stated.

Standing back, he looked Sylvia up and down, searching for something. An answer? No, he already knew. He was just adding ‘flare’ again. Nodding to himself, Ryther declared, “I have been meaning to show you something.”

“What is that?”

Every single wrinkle around Ryther’s eyes deepened as he smiled in anticipation. Picking the supposed soon-to-be-god up, he locked it securely into the core of the altar, before leading Sylvia into the library.

It was a small space, barely big enough for two people to spread their arms, but Ryther strained as he dragged his chair from his desk to the other side of the room. He took a measured breath and climbed atop it. Shaking somewhat, he let his fingers hover over the topmost row of tomes before giving a ‘Hah’ of recognition and pulling out a thin volume. Blowing a thick layer of dust from the spine, he clambered back down and presented it to Sylvia with a flourish that made it clear she was supposed to be impressed.

“What is this?”

“A book about magic”, Ryther said. “My teacher wrote it and made me copy it. Now it is time for you to read it. I would tell you to copy it, but I am afraid I do not have that much paper left. Maybe next year.”

Glad to be spared such a soul-chrushingly boring task, Sylvia nodded. Reaching into her pack, she produced her book on the life of Thorun and Yri Fri.

“Say, who wrote this book?”, she asked.

“Some young scholar, I assume”, Ryther shrugged. “The name tells me nothing, either. Why do you ask?”

“There is something about it. Especially when it speaks of the establishment of Fristad, it just feels odd. The words are sticky.”

“Sticky?”, Ryther asked.

Sylvia thought for a moment. “Like when you light candles and wave your arms. It feels like someone is trying to capture me, to convince me of something, without themselves believing it.”

“You can feel that?”, Ryther asked astounded.

Sylvia nodded. “Most books are a lot more decisive.”

Ryther shook his head. “You see so much, and yet you are blind.” He exchanged the books, taking The Origin of Fri back and handing the slender blue tome to Sylvia instead. “Read it, and read it well.”

Sylvia ran her hand over the blank back of the book. The edges of the paper were yellow and the spine was broken in several places. “The Basis of Magic”, was swirled along the spine in flaking gold letters. Turning the book over, Sylvia opened it and read the index. “The Nature of Magic. Magical Aptitude. Channelling or Imbuing. Gaia and Gods. Soul Capacity. Spells and Prayers. Charms and Enchantments.” It all sounded very occult. Placing the book down on the desk, she began flicking through the pages. She wanted to know what Priest Ryther was on about. One person trying to make a new god? It sounded ridiculous.

Before Sylvia could find the related pages, Ryther placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. “Do not rush it. Read it from cover to cover, several times. Make sure you do not just read the sentences, hear? Read the contents. Keep it as long as it takes. The subject is a complex one, but I believe you will find that it speaks for itself when given the proper attention.”

“Why do you always speak in riddles?”, Sylvia sighed.

Ryther chuckled. He seemed delighted, like she had given him the best compliment imaginable. “I do not”, he said. Not a protest, but a fact, or so he made it out to be. Grinning so wide his wrinkles formed canyons on his face, he tapped the side of his nose. “As most people, you just do not understand the most obvious of things quite yet.”

While still sceptical about the priest’s credentials, Sylvia had to admit she was curious to read about magic. She stashed the book into her backpack, before politely bidding Ryther farewell and leaving the temple.

Making her slow way back past the town hall and toward the mill, Sylvia finished the last of the now cold bread. She could do with a fruit, but it would have to wait until she was back home. She only had two half-silver, and she was not about to spend them on anything less than paper or salt. Maybe sugar, but that is where she drew the line.

“Sylvia!”

Sylvia’s lips curved into a smile. Reminding herself that they were in public, she took a measured breath and relaxed her face. She turned around and walked across the street to honour the young lady’s call.

“Rebecca”, she said politely. Giving a small bow of the head, she stopped a good two feet from the mayor’s daughter.

Amusement flickered over Rebecca's face. She came close and placed a hand on Sylvia's arm. It was a friendly gesture, just enough to give her an excuse to speak in a hushed, private voice. “Meet me at the stables tomorrow morning.” She let her hand linger on Sylvia’s arm for a precarious moment before letting go.

Sylvia simply nodded. Bowing her head again, she watched Rebecca take her leave, and only moved once the young lady was good five steps away.