Eventually they came to a rather plain door. There was a blazing sun upon it, crafted from bronze but tarnished with age. It protested Daniel’s attempts to open it, starting to budge only when he put his shoulder into it.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” He coughed up dust.
“It’s what the prince told me.” Craig shrugged. “Maybe it’s been a while since the last person?”
“It’s been a long while,” Daniel muttered.
She was thankful that Craig had thought to grab a torch a while back. For a brief moment, Vhalla’s heart raced as she realized that she was very far from anyone else, alone with two guards. But as the muted lights of the Chapel began to stream in through the door, she breathed easy.
They walked into a small sub-room of the Chapel that Vhalla had never seen before. There was a large altar. Over it was a sculpture of the Goddess holding out her arms. She was swathed in life-giving flame and had a firm, but kind, expression on her face. On the altar were a series of ritual artifacts, a golden mirror supported by white marble, a steel dagger, and black and white candles. There were only four kneeling pillows set out and they looked old and worn. Vhalla assumed the pillows were once white, but now they were threadbare and gray with dust.
There was another door that Vhalla surmised led into the main area of the chapel. It seemed to be in better care and was reinforced with iron and a golden lock. Daniel kicked off his boots before entering the sacred space to try the other door. This door did not budge either, but gave a tell-tale clank of a lock engaging.
“I guess we’ll wait outside here then.” He shrugged, yanking his shoes back on. “It’s the only access, so we know you can’t run.”
“Give you privacy in your prayers,” Craig offered.
Vhalla gave them both a small smile. They couldn’t give her much, but what they could they did. With a nod both departed, leaving her alone.
They hadn’t given her shoes, so she had nothing to strip before entering the hallowed ground—but she wished she had something to wash her feet and hands with. Walking over to one of the pillows, Vhalla sat listlessly, watching the dancing flames envelop the sculpture of the Mother. It was hypnotic and, while it did not resemble prayer, there was something peaceful to it. The Crones said the Mother looked after all her children; Vhalla wondered if she had been lost or forgotten. One mother had already left her, maybe that was simply her fate.
The sculptures turned into reliefs around the outer walls. Each held a story of Mother Sun and her eternal dance with Father Moon. The Mother crafting the earth; their false child, the dragon of chaos; their splitting of the world to keep the disorder from their true children, humanity; she knew all the stories. Every tale was a memory of a book she had read on that beloved window seat. Her eyes began to burn.
Quickly wiping her cheeks, Vhalla turned in place as the chapel door opened slowly and silently. A figure swathed in maroon glided across the threshold. The Crones of the Mother wore a deep red color to signify the departing light of the sun, a symbol that their vigil would last until the end of their days. The door closed silently and the Crone locked it again.
“Crone,” she said uncertainly. “I’ve come for my prayers before my fate,” Vhalla tried to explain, concerned she would be presumed to be somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.
Two hands reached up and pulled the hood backward.
“I know,” it was a deep masculine voice.
“Aldrik?” Vhalla gasped in shock.
The brim of his collar on his white jacket extended beyond the top of the large hood, and he wore his golden crown.
“Do not speak too loudly.” He glanced around before walking over quickly. Aldrik knelt down on a pillow across from her. “Are you well?”
“Aside from the obvious?” She grinned weakly.
He frowned. “This is not a game, Vhalla,” he scolded her lightly.
“Oh? I’m sorry, I thought it was. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been having so much fun.” She wasn’t in the mood to be spoken to in that tone.
He looked at her with a frown, chewing over his words. “Your new guards, are they treating you well?” Aldrik finally asked.
It confirmed her fears. She was a broken little thing to him. Vhalla inhaled sharply as anger rose within her. Nothing compared to the hatred the thought of Rat and Mole put in her stomach. Remembering Egmun’s eyes on her made her want to die. It compounded as she thought of Roan and Sareem, the guilt she had struggled with for days since parting with them before their deaths—or near death in Roan’s case. Even anger at the master and prince for consorting behind her back sent a pang of frustration through her. Every last thing Vhalla could have been angry about came to her then in the wake of her fear and shame.
“What do you care?” she spat at him. Aldrik blinked as though she’d slapped him across the face. “You, you’ve gone behind my back; you’ve become a puppeteer in my life; you lied to me; you threw me off a roof; you taught me recklessly; you forged my signature.” It was hopeless, the tears came freely. “You wouldn’t even speak for me!”
He grabbed her upper arms fiercely, and Vhalla twisted frantically.
“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked in horror. Aldrik released her, shock and pain across his face. She held herself, feeling every emotion come tumbling through her eyes. “I-I’m just a pitiable thing to you, worthless trash, why would you touch me?” Vhalla pressed her eyelids closed and curled into a seated ball of sobs.