IT FELT AS though someone had taken an axe to the back of her head, split it open, and allowed her brain to leak out upon the unfamiliar pillow. Vhalla groaned and cracked her eyes. Her face felt hot, and not from the sunlight that streamed through—in Vhalla’s opinion—an enormous window.
The previous day came back to her in a rush. She sat and grabbed her temples as a chill raced through her. The prince’s return, finding every book she could think of, practically passing out while reading, and the man and his strange black jacket—it all came back with sickening speed.
Vhalla looked around the room cautiously, as though a specter may lurk in any shadow. The walls were the palace’s stonework, fitted and mortared. A decorative edge ran around the top of the room, unlike her own unadorned chambers. Sculpted dragons danced around moons.
Her eyes finally settled upon a small glass jar hanging from an iron hook bolted into the wall. Flickering within was a tongue of fire. There was no oil or wax to fuel it, no source for the flame. It simply hovered within its container.
She scrambled to her feet, bolting for the door. Her hands closed around the metal handle, and she tugged vigorously. The sound of iron on iron filled the room as the lock engaged and the door refused to budge. It was louder than the panicked scream stuck in her throat. The memory of the black-coated man flashed before her eyes; Vhalla blinked it away.
Taking a step back from the locked door, she frantically looked around the room. There was a bed, a small table, and a chamber pot. She ran to the window, throwing open the glass and looking downward. It was a dizzyingly straight drop to the ground far below.
The sound of the door latch disengaging brought her attention back within the room, and Vhalla plastered herself against the far wall. A sorcerer had taken her, and she did not want to believe where. The door swung open and a vaguely familiar pair of icy eyes met hers.
“Good to see you’re awake,” the man smiled cordially. “How do you feel?”
“Who are you?” Vhalla plastered herself to the wall, so close that it would be impossible to fit even a piece of parchment between her back and the stone. She eyed the man warily. He wore different clothes today; long robes atop a tunic and trousers. Over his left breast was a patch that reaffirmed her panic: a black swatch with a broken moon.
“Do not be afraid.” The man raised his hands unthreateningly. “No one will hurt you.”
“Who are you?” Vhalla repeated. She knew by his floor-length robes and belled sleeves that the man was of higher rank than her, as almost everyone in the palace was. Vhalla struggled to keep her voice as calm and respectful as possible. She failed.
“Wouldn’t you like to sit down?” He continued to ignore her question.
“I’d like to know who you are,” Vhalla repeated slowly, her eyes glued to his left breast. A nail chipped as she dug her fingers into the stone. “Why did you take me?”
“My name is Victor Anzbel,” the man finally revealed with a small sigh. “I am the Minister of Sorcery, and you are in the Tower of Sorcerers. I took you because I need to speak with you, and doing so upon the library floor was not an option. Forgive me, but it was already dawn, and we didn’t have time for relaxed introductions there.”
“Wh-what could you possibly need to speak with me about?” Vhalla stuttered, leaning against the wall for a wholly different reason. She was in the Tower of Sorcerers speaking to the Minister of Sorcery. She must be dreaming.
“Please, come.” He motioned to the door. “I do not wish to discuss this across a room.”
Without waiting for her response the man walked away, leaving the door open behind him. Vhalla heard his boots upon the stone floor in the unknown beyond. She didn’t want to leave her wall. Her wall was safe and stable.
Sorcerers were odd, they were dangerous; they kept to themselves and left normal people alone. That was why they had their own Tower, so they kept out of sight and mind. Everyone in the South had always told her so. It was the last place she belonged.
“Would you like black or herbal tea?” the minister called nonchalantly from the other room.
Vhalla swallowed. Perhaps if she stayed still long enough she could become part of the wall and vanish from the world.
“I have cream and sugar also.”
Vhalla weighed her options, ignoring the odd fact that he actually had cream and sugar at his disposal and would offer some to someone like her. There were two ways out: the window or the door. The former involved a long fall to certain death. The later involved facing the sorcerer who had kidnapped her. She didn’t like either of her options.
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.”
“I’m sorry.” Vhalla was laughing as though the world was one giant joke and she was the punchline. “I am not a sorcerer.” She started for the door despite not knowing where it led. Her logical facilities weren’t quite functioning. She just wanted out.
“You cannot run from this.” The minister stood as well. “Vhalla, your powers have begun to Manifest. You are older than the normal age of such Manifestations, but it is happening.” He blinked a few times. “Even now, I can see traces of magic woven around you.”
She stopped, halfway between the minister and the door, and wrung her hands. Just because he claimed to see it did not mean it was there. He might be lying, Vhalla insisted to herself. Could she trust the word of a man who abducted her?
“Your magic will continue to grow. Nothing will stop it, and eventually you will be Awoken to your powers in full. It will be either at the hands of another sorcerer, guiding you, or your powers will simply unleash themselves.” The minister’s tone held no levity. But the lack of jest made it no easier to believe.
“What could happen?” The nervous energy within her sought an outlet. Her whole body trembled as she waited for the answer.
“I don’t know.” Minister Victor reached for his mug of caramel-colored liquid, taking a long and thoughtful sip. “If you are a Firebearer, perhaps you light a candle with a glance. Or you could set the entire Imperial Library ablaze.”
Vhalla nearly lost her balance and collapsed, the words knocking the wind from her. She shook her head, as if she could cast reality away.
“I want to go home,” she finally breathed.
“I am sorry, Vhalla, but you should stay—”
“I want to go home!” Vhalla’s cry interrupted him. Through burning eyes she glared at a man to whom she should show respect and subservience.
He let her catch her breath before he spoke. “Very well,” Minister Victor said with a soft and thoughtful voice.
“Really?” Vhalla’s fingers relaxed, her fingernails leaving crescent moons in her palms.
“I can see this is a decision that will not benefit from force.” He held up both hands in a sign of surrender. “Usually when I bring a budding sorcerer into the Tower, they come around. I had hopes that I would be able to show—”
“I don’t want to see it!” Vhalla nearly shouted. Her hand went to her mouth, as if to catch back the rough and rude words.
“Perhaps, some other time.” The minister smiled.
As he led her out the door, Vhalla’s eyes remained on her feet. The hall was a sloping downward spiral with doors at random intervals on either side. There were no windows, and she presumed the light to be from more of the unnatural flames that she had seen in the previous rooms.
Vhalla did not want to look at any of it. She didn’t want to take anything away from this place, not even a memory. She didn’t want to have anything in common with the strange Tower people who currently gave her and the minister a wide girth. Biting her lip, Vhalla choked back a sob. She was tired, and she did not have the energy for this sorcerer’s lies. He was mistaken, and when she returned to the real world she would never have to think of this place again. Bringing her hands together she fidgeted with her fingers.
Yet, despite her mental and emotional withdrawal, Vhalla did see. She saw the endless rugs of dazzling patterns that lined this hall. Where one rug ended, the next began; her feet never even touched stone. She saw the start of ornamentation upon the walls, sculptures embellished with iron and silver, forming shapes she stubbornly would not permit herself to look upon. Vhalla saw the feet of those who passed, boots and polished shoes. Why did sorcerers have such nice things when the slippers she owned were almost worn to holes? When her windows were archer’s slits and her halls were barren, cracked, and roughhewn?
The minister wordlessly led her down a side hall. The stones began to shift into shapes and colors she was more familiar with, the lighting dimmer. Vhalla looked up finally as they stopped. Before them was a narrow, pointed dead end.
“Minister?” Panic blossomed in her anew.
“The Tower lives and dies by the moon, by the Father who keeps the realms of chaos at bay and guards the celestial gateway in the heavens above,” he informed her cryptically. “When you have calmed down, I know you will come find us again. Most Manifesting sorcerers do when they think logically.”
“Will you take me by force again if I don’t?” Vhalla took a half step away, strongly doubting she would ever seek out this man and his Tower by choice.
“My apologies for that.” The minister had a glint in his eyes of what she almost believed to be sincerity. “I didn’t see any other way to speak privately with you. I thought if you were in the Tower you would be willing to see what it held for you.”
“I would have listened...” Vhalla looked away in annoyance. She wasn’t sure which frustrated her more: his actions or the fact that he was right about her not being willing to mingle with sorcerers.
“Very well, I will see you soon I’m certain,” he said lightly; little seemed to bother Victor Anzbel. Vhalla wondered how many times he had performed this same dance with another.
The minister held out a hand, motioning toward the dead end. Vhalla blinked at him, but he said nothing else. She stepped forward hesitantly. Reaching out a palm she expected to push some form of hidden door. Her fingers vanished right into the stone.
Vhalla gasped and she looked back to the minister for explanation, but he was gone. She barely suppressed a shiver before plunging herself into the magic wall.
Emerging on the other side, Vhalla instantly recognized her location. The stone behind her looked the same as at it had every day as she’d passed it growing up. Squinting, Vhalla noticed something she never had before—a circle, cut in two, its halves offset from the other—the broken moon of the Tower. How had she missed it all these years?
Timidly, she reached a hand back, and it vanished back into the false wall. A spark of curiosity blossomed within her. What magic could do this?
Vhalla quickly put the thought from her mind. Too curious for her own good, the master had always scolded. Magic was dangerous. She reiterated the hushed words she had always heard on Southerner’s tongues: magic was risky and strange.
She shook her head and headed for the library as fast as her feet would carry her.