VHALLA TWITCHED HER fingers. There was a bug on her that was intent on disturbing her sleep. When it refused to go away, she twisted in the opposite direction; it frustratingly followed her hand. Almost fully awake, she tried to withdraw and heard a low shhh-ing noise come from the bedside.
Cracking her eyes open, she realized that she was back in the bed. It irked her that they had lifted her off the floor and placed her back among the soft pillows and blankets. She would’ve rather spent the night on the ground. Thinking of what she said to the prince’s face, she groaned.
“Does it hurt?” a faint voice whispered next to her.
Vhalla turned back. It was the Western woman, Larel. She was changing the bandages on Vhalla’s arm.
“What do you care?” Vhalla remembered what the prince had said. Larel was to spy on her and report to him. The Westerner before her fraternized with the enemy.
“I care very much,” Larel replied easily. “Does it hurt?”
“Why?” Vhalla continued to ignore her question. Everything hurt. But she wasn’t certain what was physical and what was emotional.
“Because you are to be my protégé.” The sorceress had a flat way of talking, thick with a Western accent.
“I don’t want to be your protégé.” Vhalla looked away in childish protest.
“Very well,” the woman said lightly. “We can change that after you’re healed.”
“What?” She turned her head back slowly to the dark-haired woman. The movement was accompanied by a deep ache in her shoulders.
“After you’ve healed, you’ll meet others in the Tower,” Larel explained. “If you do not wish for me to mentor you, then you can have your pick of a new mentor, someone you are more comfortable with.”
Vhalla stared at the bruises and scratches on her flesh. It was true, she was a mess. Underneath the bandages her skin was a grotesque rainbow of red, yellow, purple, and blue. Wounds were so prevalent she could not even catch sight of the natural yellow tint of her skin.
“Have you done this every night?” Vhalla finally asked. The woman had a gentle hand.
“Almost.” She said it as though it was nothing.
Despite herself Vhalla cringed. She didn’t care about this sorceress, she told herself. But the idea that someone had been changing her soiled clothes and tending to her needs naturally put guilt in her mind.
“I’m sorry to be a burden,” Vhalla whispered. Magic had only made her a more pathetic being thus far. A soft breeze brought her eyes to the window; the glass had not been replaced and the crisp smell of winter was beginning to change the night air. Summer was gone, and fall was already upon them.
“Prince Aldrik told us not to fix it.” Larel missed little. Vhalla winced at his name. “Are you cold? I could bring you another blanket.”
“It’s fine.” Vhalla was cold, she was always cold. But her lingering pride would not allow her to be more of a burden. “I guess he’s going to make my life as uncomfortable as he can.”
“If the prince wanted to make you uncomfortable he could, and would, do far more than not replace a window,” Larel pointed out.
It was a truth Vhalla did not want to believe. To believe it meant the woman was right. The fact that Vhalla was still in bed receiving treatment meant the prince did not want her to be uncomfortable, even after what she said.
“What relationship do you and the prince have?” Vhalla asked boldly. The prince had appointed this woman as her mentor. Larel was the one who gave Vhalla the book that the prince left his notes within.
Her gold-ringed hazel eyes met Larel’s dark ones. Vhalla may be a bad liar but that wouldn’t stop her from looking for a lie in others.
When Larel spoke there was no sign of hesitation or fear. “We were apprentices in the Tower together,” Larel said simply, returning to rubbing salve on Vhalla’s skin.
“The prince was an apprentice?” Vhalla blinked. She expected apprenticeship to be something that was below royalty.
“How else would he have learned?” Larel had a small grin. “I know how he seems. But he’s not truly malicious, not normally, and almost never to people like us.”
“People like us?” Vhalla repeated doubtfully.
“Sorcerers.” Sweeping dark bangs across her forehead, the woman glanced up.
Of course, Vhalla thought. She was one of them now, and there really was no more denying it. The fall should’ve killed her, and if the prince hadn’t intervened, something did.
“Magical people are often feared by Commons. Even you feared us,” Larel said thoughtfully.
Vhalla could only nod. She was conflicted over the woman’s use of past tense with regards to her fear. Though, at this exact moment, Vhalla did not feel afraid. She felt sad. Something in her was different. Roan, Sareem, Master Mohned, they wouldn’t understand, even if she tried explaining.
“The prince knows this,” Larel continued. “He knows how hard it is, better than most. He’s had more than his fair share.”
“So now I’m supposed to feel sorry for him?” Vhalla spat, becoming far more venomous than she would’ve wanted.
Larel stopped and looked up at Vhalla strangely for a long while. “Yes.” She returned to her work, and Vhalla felt her jaw go slack. “And he should feel sorry for what he put you through,” Larel added faintly. “Awakenings can be scary, but they shouldn’t hurt, at least never this bad. I think, I think he was caught up in the promise of what you are.”
“What I am?” Vhalla mused, remembering the unexpected conversation she had overheard. “You mean a Windwalker?”
Larel nodded. “I don’t think you understand, Vhalla. You are the first Windwalker in generations. Many theorists have gone so far as to postulate that the East is magically dry. That the source of magic for the Windwalkers had been destroyed with no one connected to the Channel for so long.” Larel picked up a bottle of the salve and worked it across Vhalla’s still open wounds. “You fly—no pun intended—in the face of everything people have been saying for well over a century.”
Vhalla wanted to feel special. She wanted to feel important. She wanted to feel she was special and important to the crown prince, of all people. But she only felt like an object. She was jarred out of her destructive cycle of thought when Larel placed salve into a particularly angry gash.
“Sorry, I should’ve warned you.” The woman continued on with her work.
“I’m sorry you have to do this,” Vhalla replied. On the scale of sorcerers, Larel had wronged Vhalla the least, and she seemed to be cleaning up the mess of everyone else.
“I don’t mind.” She began padding a few wounds with cloth scraps before starting on the clean dressings. “Yes, you have been more work than most of my peers’ Awoken apprentices. But I think your story is already far more profound than most of us can ever hope for.”
She paused to smile, and Vhalla was taken aback by the woman’s features. She was stunning when she smiled. The straight black hair framed the warm visage perfectly as it curved around her face. She had dark brown eyes, almost black, and Vhalla had to look away before she was reminded of another set of slightly darker Western eyes.
“So what happens next?” It seemed a natural question. Vhalla needed to start approaching things logically. Her emotions had been running wild for far too long, and it had gotten her nowhere.
“Once you are Awoken, there are only two options. Your powers will continue to Manifest. You’ve already seen how they can be tied to your emotions when it’s this fresh.” Vhalla looked back to the window, realizing for the first time what had really transpired. “So you must learn to control your powers or Eradicate them. I likely shouldn’t say, but the minister is planning to offer you a black robe.”
“But I am a library apprentice,” Vhalla said weakly, feeling homesick.
“Things change.” The woman shrugged. “But it will be your choice. The minister will not force it on you.”
“I doubt that,” Vhalla mumbled. She wasn’t sure if the sorcerers of the tower knew how to do anything without force. “What if I chose to be Eradicated?”
She had read about the process of exhausting a sorcerers magic to block their Channels to power. While she didn’t understand it fully, it didn’t sound painful as described in the library book. It couldn’t be any more painful than the agony she was already in.
“I would urge you to reconsider.” When Vhalla glared at the woman, Larel added, “But I think it should be your choice.” Larel sat back, reorganizing her supplies.
Vhalla stared blankly out the window, wishing the stars could tell her what needed to be done.
“Prince Aldrik,” Larel started gently, seeing Vhalla visibly flinch at the mention of his name. “He told me that you were very bright. That you were surprisingly smart for an apprentice.”
“He would phrase it like that, a compliment in an insult,” Vhalla remarked dryly.
“He meant it,” Larel assured her. “I believe it to be true as well.” Vhalla looked uncertainly at the woman as she stood. “Don’t make this choice without putting that intellect to use. If you have questions, you can ask me or any other sorcerer.”
There was a seed of guilt in her stomach as Vhalla looked up at the woman. She had been kind to her. Vhalla picked at the seams on her blanket. “Thank you,” Vhalla mumbled. “I don’t think I would be as well as I am now without your help,” she added earnestly.
“You are welcome,” Larel accepted the gratitude. “Now rest. When you feel well enough, there is a library here in the Tower that you can use.”
The woman smiled at Vhalla’s expression when she mentioned the library. But the sorcerer said nothing more and departed. With a soft sigh Vhalla shifted the pillows and laid back.
As much as Vhalla wanted to, she couldn’t muster any anger toward Larel. The woman had been too kind to her for that. Plus, it was nice to have someone speak openly and honestly to her about these matters. Vhalla’s best guess was that the Westerner didn’t seem to be mindlessly following Victor’s or the prince’s orders.
As much as Vhalla wanted to ignore them, Larel’s words had struck something within her. Apply her intellect to the world before her. Vhalla worried about what would happen if she did. Sighing again, Vhalla allowed her wounded body to relax and her eyes to droop closed. There was always the morning to make life-changing decisions.
But the morning came and went, and Vhalla was no closer to deciding how she felt about anything. The pain had mostly subsided and with it her rage at the situation. She was still sore at a certain prince, but she no longer felt the need to hit things. Around lunch, Vhalla decided it was time to get out of the room she had occupied for days on end.
When she stood, the world stayed exactly where it should be. Other than a general dull ache, there was no pain. She tried a circle around the small space; when she didn’t retch, she considered it a success. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door that led out into the other room.
Vhalla was surprised to see that it was vacant. Larel, the minister, and—most thankfully—the prince were nowhere to be found. Remembering what Larel had told her about a library, Vhalla crept through the space toward the second door.
Vhalla observed the hall. To the left it sloped up; to the right, down. At frequent intervals hung the glass bulbs with flame inside, casting the path in a warm glow. She stared at the sculptures that lined the walls at random intervals.
It was artwork.
She closely inspected the carved stone. Apprentices and servants didn’t display artwork in their halls. Were there other noble members of the Court beyond the minister?
The reliefs told stories Vhalla had known since she was a child. Most of them were religious in reference, surrounding the Father. Vhalla saw a man grasping a dragon’s head, forcing it to eat its own tail, the creation of the moon. The Father protected his lover’s world from the chaos of the realms beyond.
Vhalla instinctively started upward, but when she remembered her last interaction with heights, she turned on point to head down instead. It was the same path she had walked with the minister weeks ago, but now she took the time to see this world. The doors were arched at the top with iron handles and upon each hung a silver plate. Some had names; others simply had symbols Vhalla did not recognize.
On occasion the hallway branched off into common areas, practice grounds, and so on. Some stood empty; some were occupied. The few times she passed someone they greeted her kindly and kept on their way. No one thought the girl in the white gown with bandages was strange.
A certain smell lingered on the air. It tickled her nose and beckoned her onward. She couldn’t place it at first, but as her step quickened and the scent became stronger, she realized what it was with a smile. It was the smell of dusty leather and parchment. She turned to see the central circular room that housed the Tower’s library.
The Tower was large and round, and by most standards this would be considered a sizeable library. But it was only the size of about two and a half wings of the Imperial Library. Nevertheless, it comforted her more than anything else had to date. A blonde-haired boy who looked no older than Vhalla worked placing some books back on the shelves; he glanced at her as she entered.
“Ah! Welcome!” he said with a grin, almost dropping the books in his hands to rush to meet her.
Vhalla didn’t know how social she felt, but she smiled politely and shook his hand. His robe was collarless, and his sleeves were longer than Larel’s, almost down to his elbows. He had wavy hair, silly in the way it was messily cut. That and his goofy grin seemed to ease the tensions in her shoulders.
“Hello,” she replied.
“You must be the recent Awoken.”
Vhalla nodded. If everyone had heard of her, no wonder the others she passed in the halls weren’t surprised by her condition.
“I’m sure you have lots of questions. If I can help you find anything, just let me know. Fritznangle is the name, but that’s a mouthful so most people call me Fritz. Don’t be shy, okay?” He grinned again. Realizing he was still shaking her hand, he stopped with a laugh.
“It’s nice to meet you, Fritz. I’m Vhalla.” She smiled; he was more energetic than the normal librarians she’d met before. “Are you the master of this library?”
“Master of the library? Oh, no. We don’t really have one. I guess the minister officiates over the library as the formal curator. Do we say curator for libraries? Anyways, I do look after it if that’s what you’re asking. No one else will, I don’t think.”
Vhalla couldn’t suppress a small giggle, it was the first time she laughed in a week, and it made her whole body feel lighter.
“I never knew there was a library in the Tower.” She assessed all the books.
“I guess you wouldn’t really. I mean, it’s private you see. Got some great stuff, originals. I’ve heard it would rival the Imperial Archives.” He said it like he was nothing. Vhalla was practically salivating.
“Hey, do you want to see? You’ll be a black robe soon, right?” He took her hand and led her further into the books. “You don’t have one on yet, but when you’re all healed up I’m sure they’ll initiate you and then this will be your home also.”
Vhalla stopped, and he turned as her arm refused to budge.
“I’m not a black robe.” She shook her head, looking at her feet. “I should go.”
“Wait,” he stopped her. “That’s, well—I mean. You’re here. And, well, do you want to see anyways?”
“If it’s all right?” she asked, turning back to face him. Even if it was a library for sorcerers, Vhalla would never refuse books.
“Yeah, come on.” He smiled again.
Once more taking her by the hand, he led her to a table that stood against a tall window in the back. Vhalla put her hands against the glass and looked outside, trying to figure out the library’s location in the palace. She knew the Tower of Sorcerers had its own entrance on the ground somewhere, but it merged with the palace as it ascended, making it difficult to discern its exact location as other housing and structures grew around it.
“So what are you?” he asked, picking some books off shelves. “A Firebearer? A Waterrunner? A Groundbreaker?”
“A Windwalker,” she said without turning. It was getting easier to say, and Vhalla didn’t think she was happy about that fact. But it also didn’t upset her as much as she expected.
“A—what?” He walked over to her. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you right. One more time please?”
“A Windwalker,” she repeated, glancing at him.
He put his hand against the window frame and took a long breath. “Are you sure? I know the awakening can scramble the brain a tad and, well, we don’t hear things right. You know how it is.” Fritz continued to stare at her in disbelief.
She looked at him, slightly annoyed he was ruining her moment of reuniting with books by being so daft. “My Affinity is air. I don’t know much, but everyone has told me that makes me a Windwalker.” She spoke very slowly and tried to accentuate each word.
“You’re serious,” he choked out. She nodded in frustration. “Oh by the Sun, you’re serious.” He snatched her hand again and shook it vigorously. “This is an honor. An honor! To meet you. I wondered why the minister was so tight-lipped about the newly woken. A Windwalker. A Windwalker here, in the capital, safe, in one piece. Not burnt up to little bits.”
“You’re hurting me.” Vhalla smiled through a grimace, rubbing her throbbing shoulder as he relinquished her hand apologetically. “What do you mean, not burnt up?”
“Well, given the history of Windwalkers...” Fritz trailed off, as if she understood what he was talking about. She didn’t, and he finally realized that fact. “Wait, you don’t know the history?”
“I’ve read some on the history of sorcerers,” Vhalla answered vaguely. He was giving her that same feeling that the prince had, guilt at ignoring a whole area of knowledge for years.
“Tell me what you know.” Fritz smiled and the resemblance to the prince was gone. “I’ll help fill in the rest.”
“Well,” Vhalla took a deep breath. “I know that Windwalkers are—were—from the East. I am Eastern. I know there hasn’t been one in a hundred-something years and that some people thought there wouldn’t be any more.”
“That’s the basics.” Fritz smiled. “But only just.”
He led her along with gentle hand tugs and slow steps through the books. His palm was cool, but not uncomfortable. Vhalla allowed herself a small smile. It was about time that she met a sorcerer with gentle and happy manner.
“Over here, this section is our histories.”
There were no rolling ladders, and Fritz was left scurrying for a nearby foot stool. At least the bookshelves were only half as high as the ones in the library. It took a ladder with twenty rungs for Vhalla to reach the tops of those. “Windwalkers... There hasn’t been much new material since—well, there haven’t been any Windwalkers in some time. Books are rare too; Mhashan didn’t want any left.”
“Mhashan? The old West?” Vhalla blinked, wondering what the Kingdom of Mhashan had to do with Windwalkers.
“I won’t explain it well.” Fritz shook his head doubtfully. “Here, read this.”
Vhalla looked at the title of the manuscript the messy-haired librarian placed reverently into her hands: The Windwalkers of the East. It was an old manuscript, and the library apprentice in her noted immediately that the book would need to be rebound soon. A quick flip and the inspection of a few middle pages proved that at least the ink was still legible.
“Thank you.” It was like a breath of fresh air. Something about holding a book again made her feel better.
“Don’t worry about it!” Fritz smiled a wide and toothy grin.
“Can I read here?” Vhalla had no interest in returning to the room she had been recovering in.
“This is a library.” He chuckled.
Fritz led her over to a window with a wide bench placed before it. It wasn’t quite a window seat, but it was close enough that Vhalla instantly relaxed into her new surroundings.
Flipping open the book, she diligently started reading at the first page. Vhalla did not count a book as read unless one’s eyes fell on the very first word of the first page and the very last word of the last.
Her brow furrowed, and her fingers trailed over the script. She tucked some flyaway hair behind her ear only to have it fall in her face again.
Something was amiss.
The writing was familiar. It was slightly less jagged, less spiky than what she knew. This was written by a steadier hand, likely a younger hand. But it was impossible. Vhalla blinked at the title page.
The Windwalkers of the East
A collection of accounts from The Burning Times
Composed by Mohned Topperen.