Vhalla inched forward toward the open door, wringing her hands into the sleeping gown she still wore. She didn’t care if it was against Southern fashions, she’d give anything for a pair of trousers.
The minister was busy at a far counter in the connected room. A kettle sat over another unnatural flame as the man fumbled with jars of dried herbs and mugs. It was a workroom of sorts with a table, more beds, and bandages. Vhalla recognized some clerical salves and her eyes fell on a row of knives. Was she to be part of some living experiment?
“Ah, there you are. Please, take a seat.” The man half turned, motioning to the table. His eyes held a youthful spark that Vhalla was unaccustomed to. She had always thought palace officials were ancient, like Master Mohned, but this man couldn’t be more than ten years her senior.
Vhalla slunk along the far wall, careful not to bump into anything. She almost jumped out of her skin when her feet fell on something soft. Nothing more than a rug accounted for the plushness beneath her. Vhalla blinked at it. It was far nicer than what decorated the library. She curled her toes into the soft fibers.
“So then, black or herbal tea?” the man persisted, as though nothing about their situation was strange in the slightest. His hand hovered over the kettle, one mug already steaming.
“Neither.” Vhalla had not forgotten the cloth he used to make her unconscious.
“Are you hungry, perhaps some food?” He accepted her refusal with grace, but left an empty mug on the countertop where he worked.
“No.” Vhalla studied him carefully as he sat in the chair opposite her. The minister curled his fingers around his mug with an annoyingly relaxed little smile.
“If you change your mind you only have to say the word,” he offered.
Vhalla’s throat felt too gummy to do little more than nod. Tea would be nice, but the Mother Goddess in all her shining glory would cease to rise for dawn before she accepted anything from this man.
“What’s your name?”
Vhalla bit her lower lip, torn between respecting the official sitting before her and the fear that threatened to set her balled hands to shaking. He could easily find out her name, she reasoned. Though forcing it between her lips was harder than confessing her darkest secret. “Vhalla,” she answered. Perhaps if she obliged him he would let her go. “Vhalla Yarl.”
“Vhalla, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He smiled over his tea.
She tried to keep her face blank, something she was never really good at.
“I know you have many questions, so I will try to explain things as simply as possible. First, allow me to commend you on your efforts on our prince’s behalf.”
Vhalla nodded mutely. The library seemed like a different world. The only reminder that it was real was her clothing and the fever heat still radiating throughout her body.
“Last night, I was summoned by the clerics to inspect the prince’s magical Channels,” he continued. “As a Waterrunner, they needed my knowledge.”
“Prince Baldair doesn’t have magic,” Vhalla interrupted. She didn’t understand the strange squint to his eyes.
The minister stroked his goatee, sitting back in his chair. “Prince Baldair is still at the front,” he said finally.
Vhalla could not stop her mouth from falling open. If Prince Baldair wasn’t in the palace then that meant the prince she saved was...
“It’s Prince Aldrik?” Every servant’s whisper and mean spirited-word about the snobbish heir to the throne echoed in her ears. That was the man she had struggled all night for?
“It is,” the minister chuckled, amused by her confusion and shock. Vhalla shut her mouth quickly. “While I was examining him, there was something peculiar about a certain set of notes tucked under some of the books’ covers. Once the prince was stable, I had time to properly inspect them. They were crafted by a magical hand,” Minister Victor explained, leaning forward. “Imagine my surprise when they were not from any of the Tower apprentices conducting similar research on our prince’s behalf, but from the library.”
“That’s impossible.” Vhalla shook her head.
“When a sorcerer makes something, trace amounts of magic might be left behind,” the minister elaborated. “Especially when that sorcerer is not yet properly Awoken and their power Manifests itself in unexpected ways.”
“I don’t understand.” Vhalla wanted to go home. She needed this man to say whatever it was he wanted to and then let her go back to her library. Work had already begun for the day, and she was late.
“Vhalla, you are a sorcerer,” the minister finally said outright.
“What?” The world ground to a halt, and the silence weighed upon her shoulders.
A memory flashed before her eyes, a young girl standing before a farmhouse, begging for her father to stay. But he had to go; the Empire had called for soldiers to fight the magic taint that was seeping into the world from the Crystal Caverns. Vhalla remembered her father leaving.
“What?” her voice was sharper, stronger. She was on her feet. “No, you have the wrong person, the wrong books. My notes must have gotten mixed up with someone else’s. I’m not a sorcerer. My father was a farmer, my mother’s parents worked in the post office of Hastan. None of us are—”
“Magic is not in the blood,” the minister interrupted her hasty words. “Two sorcerers can give birth to a Commons,” explained, discussing those with and without magic. “Two Commons can give birth to a sorcerer. Magic chooses us.”