IT WAS EASY to wake up and get ready the next morning. Vhalla hadn’t actually slept. Her mind had spent the whole night processing everything that had happened. Things were moving faster than an avalanche, and it felt like her only option was to run with the moving ground under her feet—or be swept away by it.
The master would be headed to the library about now. Even during the Festival of the Sun someone had to tend to the books, and if the majority of the apprentices were off enjoying the celebrations, then it fell to the master.
Vhalla tugged on the hem of her shirt as she made her way through the mostly-deserted halls to some of the better levels of the palace. She would have to make her conversation short and direct.
Soon she found the courage to knock on Mohned’s chamber door. She waited, shifting her weight from foot to foot and fidgeting until she heard a soft shuffling sound right before the door opened. The timeworn and hunched frame of the master was swathed in a crimson robe.
“Vhalla?” Mohned adjusted his spectacles.
“Master, I need to speak with you,” she said before her resolve was lost and all hope along with it.
“Very well.” The master stepped to the side, permitting her entry.
Vhalla had been working with the master for seven years, but every time she entered his room she would still feel a sense of awe. Her time with princes had diminished some of that awe, but here she still felt some wonder as she looked at the bookshelves that ran the length of one wall. Each leather bound spine seemed to look at her, as if betrayed by what she was about to do.
“What do you need, Vhalla?” The master occupied one of three chairs around a small table, motioning at one opposite.
“I, well,” she sat as though pins and needles awaited her. “Master, I am so thankful for everything you have done for me all the years.”
“You are welcome.” The master’s beard folded around his weathered smile.
“But, you see, I...” Vhalla stared at the milky eyes of the man who had taken care of her since she had first set foot in the palace. She was going to betray all he had ever done for her. He had given her everything she had and now she was to tell him that she would leave. “I can’t...”
“What can you not do?” the master asked thoughtfully when words failed her.
“I can’t be in the library anymore,” Vhalla whispered. She saw nothing as the confession slipped past her lips and across the point of no return. The master’s silence worked her into an instant frenzy of fear and guilt. “Master, I want to be. I mean, part of me wants to be. But, you see, there’s this other part. There’s this part of me I never knew I had—and it may be something, something special. Master Mohned, I wish I could have both but I don’t think I can and I don’t think I can stay as a library apprentice.”
“I know, Vhalla,” he said softly, cutting off her rambling.
“You know?” she blurted in surprise.
“I do,” the master nodded.
“No, master, this isn’t—”
“You’re a Windwalker,” the master said simply.
Vhalla’s chest tightened. She suddenly felt raw and exposed, as though everything she knew had been stripped from her.
“M-master, that’s...” She couldn’t deny it, and the master did not make her.
“The prince came to me.” Master Mohned leaned back in his chair. “A few months ago he came to me and asked about you by name.”
“Prince Aldrik?” she whispered.
“The same.” Mohned nodded. “He came to me because he thought I could help him.”
“How?” Why hadn’t the prince told her that he had shared her secret with someone outside the Tower?
“Well, when I was a young man, about your age, I engaged in a certain kind of research,” Mohned began. “I wrote books, though many have since been confiscated, if they still exist at all.”
“Books about what?” Something was on the verge of clicking into place.
“About Windwalkers,” Mohned said easily.
“The Windwalkers of the East,” Vhalla breathed. “It really was you who wrote it, then?”
“Indeed.” The master nodded.
Vhalla’s head spun. Her world had suddenly entered into a backwards land that made less and less sense by the minute. It was a world where not everyone in the library was fearful of who, of what she was. The master knew enough about her magic that he had written books about it, enough that a prince had spoken to him personally. She was so off-balance that Vhalla did not even have time to feel anger or betrayal at the master for not telling her sooner.
“Vhalla, do you know where I am from?” the master questioned. She shook her head. “I am from Norin.”
“The West?” she pointed out dumbly.
He chuckled. “I know you have not forgotten your geography due to a day or two off work. Yes, I am Western.” Vhalla had never seen Master Mohned’s hair any color but white. His eyes were milky with age, and his skin had turned pale and ashy from years indoors. He could have been from anywhere.
“I was born in Norin to a poor family who lived on the edge of town, and not the good edge, mind you. I imagine my childhood wouldn’t have been unlike your own had I been in the country. But I was in the city, and the city is a harsh place for anyone to grow up in.”
When she nodded her understanding, he continued, “My father was a guard, and my mother a kitchen maid in the castle of Norin. My parents did not have many prospects, but they always put food on the table and a lit fire in the hearth. They also knew the value of literacy for the prospect of advancement. So, one spring my father told me that he was going to take me with him to work. That there was a man who was willing to teach me my letters.” The master shifted in his seat, adjusting his robes before continuing.
“What started out as an occasional lesson quickly evolved into daily practice. But I soon realized that these lessons were not free.” Mohned looked through her as he recounted his tale.
Vhalla thought back to her own parents. If her mother had not been able to teach her to read, Vhalla had honest doubts her parents would have been able to pay for a tutor.
“I did not want to be a burden to my family, so I began to help my father and the guard to earn small amounts of change here or there. I was only a boy, younger than you were when you joined us, but the other guards were kind enough to keep things off the books.” Mohned stroked his beard a moment. “Eventually, my father began telling me strange stories on the way home. They were stories of a land far to the east and people who could control the wind like our own sorcerers controlled the flames. For a while I thought my father was making up tales to entertain me.”
“But one day when I was delivering lunch I found him sitting outside of a prison cell deep in the dungeon.” Mohned sighed softly. “In the cell was an old man, he was hunched and frail. He wore a long beard, and his hair was uncut. He had never seen the sun. His parents were taken when they were young, and he had been born in captivity.”
“A Windwalker,” Vhalla whispered faintly.
Mohned nodded. “The last Windwalker,” Mohned corrected.
“From then on I began sneaking to the dungeons in my free time,” Mohned continued his story. “I’d steal lead and scraps of paper from my writing classes and take notes on what he said. Some days were better than others. Men were not made to live in cages, Vhalla; it does things to the mind that are unlike any other hardship. But I recorded his words faithfully—including his insanities. For my final project with my teacher, I compiled the stories and knowledge the Windwalker had given me into a book titled, The Windwalkers of the East.”
Vhalla stared at her lap, unsure of how to process everything. There were forces at work that she barely understood. Men and women enslaved in the depths of the West. Aldrik’s Western black eyes flashed before her mind.
“I tried to warn you.” The master’s shoulders hunched and his eyes seemed dull. “I saw your growing distractions. I knew the prince had confirmed what you are.”
“Master,” Vhalla whispered her borderline treasonous words. “Is he as dangerous as they say?”
He looked at her for a long time, just stroking his beard in thought. Vhalla swallowed and wondered if she really wanted the answer to her question. She balled her fingers into fists to keep them from shaking or fidgeting.
“I suppose it depends on who asks that question,” he finally said.
“I am asking.” Vhalla pressed. “I know what they say about him. I know they call him silver-tongued and a Fire Lord, that his eyes glow red with rage. I know he can be thoughtless when it comes to something he wants. But he’s not, he’s also...different.”
“I think,” the master gave her a tired smile, “you already know the answer to your question.”
“I want to join the Tower.” Vhalla finally found enough courage to say it aloud.
“I figured as much.” The master nodded, and then shook his head. Vhalla tried to make sense of the conflicting movements. “I should have told you all of this sooner. Forgive me for being a selfish old man, Vhalla, but I suppose I didn’t want to see you go.” She smiled softly, as if that would ever upset her. “I envisioned your opportunities in the library; I wanted you to replace me someday.”
Vhalla inhaled sharply. There was a time where that would have been her dream. But her dreams had changed.
“Thank you, master,” Vhalla said thoughtfully. “I wish, I could have been that for you.”
“No,” Mohned shook his head. “You are destined for far greater things.” The master began to struggle to his feet, and Vhalla stood as well, realizing their conversation had reached its natural end.
She wanted to think of something else to say, overcome with an overwhelming desire to continue their discourse in any way possible. There had to be more to talk about, things she needed to tell the master and he needed to tell her. Perhaps they could order a light breakfast and reminisce. Vhalla thought frantically for something to elongate their discussion—at the fringe of her thoughts was the frightening realization that she had just set change in motion.
“It is the last day of the Festival,” the master pointed out thoughtfully, ignorant of Vhalla’s internal turmoil. “I will contact the Minister of Sorcery tomorrow. No one intends to do any work today.”
“That’s fair,” Vhalla agreed with a nod.
A gnarled hand closed around her shoulder. “I wouldn’t look so scared if I were you.” The master was not as ignorant as she thought. “I think your shadow is looking out for you.”
“My shadow?” Vhalla whispered.
The master only smiled. “And Vhalla,” he continued without further explanation. “You have been like a daughter to me all these years. Don’t think you can walk out with any expectations of visiting me often.”
“Of course not, master.” Vhalla’s eyes suddenly burned.
“I will tell you one more thing.” The master paused at the door. “The prisoner told me that it was a shame the East and West could not have worked together. He said, ‘Fire needs air to live. Air fuels fire, stokes it, and makes it burn brighter and hotter than it ever could alone. But too much air will snuff it completely, just as too many flames will consume all the air. They are far greater than the sum of their parts together, but are equally as dangerous to each other’s existence.’”