Page 7 of The Last Kelpie

I looked at Julian. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if she compliments you.” He motioned me forward. “That's Baba Yara. She's a witch. Never confuse her with Baba Yaga. She'll get offended, and you do not want to offend her.”

“Is she a myth?”

“We don't classify witches as myths since it's more of a skill than a race. Anyone can become a witch. There are witch families who pass their knowledge down to their children, and that's where people get confused and think witches are a race. Some people are born with more aptitude for the magical arts than others, but that doesn't make them a separate race. That being said, I can't tell you if she's human.” Julian shrugged. “Baba Yara is Baba Yara. That's all anyone needs to know.”

We continued walking, passing more workshops, a small chapel where I heard someone singing, and then three, two-story buildings that stretched back from the path.

“Those are the apartments for guests and single Velascans.” Julian motioned at them. “Your apartment is in building three.”

Before we reached the last building beside the path, Julian stepped off the main path and onto a grassy path that led into the central garden. Instantly, I felt calmer and breathed deeply of the floral air. We strolled past beds of red roses, peonies the size of a baby's head, and stalks of frothy lavender as we made our way to the low hill at the center. Julian led me up the hill to the oak tree.

The closer we got, the more certain I was that this was Velas's oak. It looked as if it had been growing since the world began, its trunk wider than a car and its branches spreading like a cathedral ceiling. Its bark had a silver-gray tint and was deeply furrowed, and the leaves were impossibly green and glossy.

“This is Velas's Oak.” Julian cast his gaze down. “This is where Caelum buried his lover. It is the heart of the Velasca.”

“I assumed it was that oak. It's a magnificent tree.”

“Caelum tends it.” Julian looked up into the branches. “He says Velas is still here. Still watching over him.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I've been with the Velasca for a long time.” He looked back at me. “There isn't much I don't believe in.”

We stood there for a moment longer, looking at the tree. It felt like an induction. As if I had to meet Velas before I became part of the Velasca. If the perfection of the tree was any indication, Velas was indeed still around. Or perhaps his body was simply excellent fertilizer. I hoped it was the former, that Velas was still watching over his lover, proud of all Caelum had accomplished.

Julian turned away from the oak and led me back down the hill toward the last building. It was the one I'd seen to the right of the main hall when I arrived. Now, it was to the left. Four stories tall and made of massive blocks of gray stone, it had the feel of a castle, something made to protect what lay within. Its arched windows and peaked roof, covered in black slate, added to the royal feel. It loomed above me with the gravitas of something that had stood for centuries.

“And this is the Great Archive.” Julian's voice held a tone of reverence. “Velas's oak is the heart of the Velasca, but this is our soul.” He led me into the soul of the Velasca.

Chapter Three

The doors were pale wood strapped with iron. Heavy and ancient, it bore arcane symbols that filled with light when Julian put a hand on the door. Despite the light show, Julian pushed the door open without ceremony, and I followed him into a space that made my breath catch.

I expected a library and got something straight out of the pages of a fantasy novel. There were books, of course, but this was more than a library. The Archive was vast, stretching upward through three visible floors connected by spiral staircases and narrow bridges. Shelves lined every wall, floor to ceiling, and many more stood in rows, but they weren't static. As I watched, a section of books shifted smoothly to the left, making room for another that slid into place at the end. The shelves grew. Books appeared and disappeared. A manuscript on a reading table glowed faintly, its text rearranging itself as I watched.

“It's alive,” I said.

“It's enchanted.” Julian walked forward, and I hurried to keep up. “The Archive preserves myths, but myths aren't static. They change as belief changes, as cultures shift, as people retell stories. The Archive reflects that. It's not just a record of what was. It's a record of what is.”

The air smelled like old paper and leather. Velascans worked at long tables, all human. Of course, the myths were there, but in book form only. I guess they didn't need to read about themselves.

“The Archive is organized by region, culture, and type.” Julian's chest puffed, and his chin lifted as he swept his gaze over the books.

We turned a corner, and I almost walked into a woman who appeared in front of us. She was petite, maybe five feet tall, with silver-blonde hair pulled into a severe bun and pale blue eyes that could have frozen water. Wire-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. She wore a long gray skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a cardigan with more pockets than any single piece of clothing should have. She looked at me the way a jeweler might examine a questionable diamond.

“This is Agnes Whitlock.” Julian inclined his head to the woman. “She's the Head Archivist. Agnes, this is Ethan Clarke. He's—”

“I know who he is.” Her British accent was crisp and precise, what I'd call posh. She turned back to me. “I heard Dr. Müller said you were promising. Finished three months ahead of time. We'll see.”

Before I could respond, she turned on her heels and marched toward a young man who was shelving books nearby. He was perhaps twenty, with messy brown hair and an expression of intense concentration.

“Mr. Pembroke.” Agnes's voice could have cut glass. “What, precisely, are you doing?”

The young man looked up, startled. “Shelving the Welsh collection, ma'am. Just like you asked.”

“And where, exactly, have you placed the accounts of the lake spirits of Llyn y Fan Fach?”