DEEP LINES APPEARED between Vhalla’s brows as she studied the note. The writing was unfamiliar. Lidia’s slanted the other direction. The master’s was far spikier. Sareem’s wasn’t half as lovely. Cadance was a child, and her writing showed it. Roan’s was the closest, but Vhalla knew how Roan formed every capital letter from years of penmanship classes together.
No, this wasn’t anyone from the library.
To Vhalla Yarl,
To the one who denies her heritage and seeks out danger by dismissing the tutelage and open arms of the Tower of Sorcerers. To the foolish girl who risks her life and the lives of those around her by walking about, Manifesting freely. To she who is so selfish that she would inconvenience her peers by making them babysit her every movement.
It is time to stop pretending. It is time to become serious about who you are and your future as a sorcerer. Enough time has been wasted already.
She stared numbly at the antagonistic note. With a cry she crumpled and threw it across the window seat, watching it bounce off the opposite wall. Had it been the woman, Larel? The note seemed nothing like her, but what did Vhalla know? What did she know about any of them?
Vhalla ignored the crumpled parchment for the rest of the day before reluctantly picking it up, folding it, and placing it beneath her sash as the closing bells rang. Sareem linked arms with her, walking toward the mess hall, but Vhalla quickly excused herself, encouraging Roan and the young man to go ahead. She wasn’t hungry and meals were the first thing she sacrificed when her mind was full.
Alone in her room sitting in dim candlelight, Vhalla inspected the note over again. Every word sent red heat to her cheeks. Before she could stop herself Vhalla was reaching for quill and ink.
Of the phantoms stalking my waking hours, I don’t know which one you are, but you know nothing. I am no sorcerer. If this is Larel, you may speak with me in person as you did last time. I am not about to indulge someone so cowardly that they will not even sign their name. I am reading books on magic purely for—
For what? Vhalla’s quill paused. Why was she reading the book the sorcerer had handed her? There wasn’t any point to it. It wasn’t as if Vhalla would—or could—ever use the knowledge it contained.
—personal intellectual improvement and learning. Go bother someone else.
She dropped her face into her palms. This wasn’t who she was. Vhalla muttered a curse under her breath. She did not speak harshly to strangers—or even those she knew. This was the Tower’s fault. Were it not for their persistence with wearing her down with every waking hour, Vhalla would not be so exhausted. She crumpled the note once more and threw it into her closet, trying to ignore it.
Her exhaustion was not helped by that same recurring dream. Every night she chased shadows and asked hazy figures for names, only to have her words vanish into wind.
The next morning she shrugged on her apprentice robes, not even trying to run a brush through her hair.
Grabbing her reply off the closet floor, she resolved to give this sorcerer a piece of her mind. She hardly cared if she offended some random apprentice in the Tower of Sorcerers. The note went in An Introduction to Sorcery, and Vhalla expected that to be the end.
She was wrong.
The person exceeded her expectation in their stubbornness.
Yarl,
I am not stalking the halls. I do not slink or dodge. I am waiting to see if you are even worthy of my time. I am not a phantom with little better to do than keep an eye on your wellbeing. I am the phantom in the darkness.
However, if your last note and desperate attempts at research really are any indication, you are not worth an iota of the ink on this page. Perhaps you should do the sorcerer community a favor and Eradicate yourself before you embarrass us all?
That should have been the moment when she stopped writing. That should have been the moment when Vhalla threw her hands in the air, marched to the Tower, and demanded to be Eradicated. At least, after looking up that eradication meant the removal of a sorcerer’s powers and not some horrible death sentence.
But Vhalla had little that she called her own. She did not have clothes, gems, or precious metals. She had never even eaten fresh fruit other than what her mother had grown around their farmhouse when she was a girl. Vhalla did have one precious thing though, her knowledge. And she would be cursed before she would let an apprentice of the Tower show her up intellectually.
To the one who declares themselves The Phantom, Perhaps I should demand to be Eradicated! I read
about the War of the Crystal Caverns; the magic unleashed there was not only capable of warping men’s minds and bodies into abominations but it is also written that the magic was set free by sorcerers’ meddling. It was a two-year war against monsters that kept my father from my mother and I as she lay sick and dying. War and horror spawned and fueled by magic.
Perhaps the world should be Eradicated!
Vhalla had never been more certain that she should rid herself of whatever magic she may possess. Everything she had always been told was right, and it only took half a book on the history of the Empire’s most mysterious war to understand this. Magic changes things; magic made more men die at war, magic could turn a human into an abomination.
Vhalla shoved the books back on the shelf in self-righteous anger.
Anger fought a battle with amazement when this person was stubborn enough to pen out another reply.
Yarl,
You were reading about the War of the Crystal Caverns? Was your interest in history sparked by your introduction to magic or your misplaced vendetta against it? In either case, allow me to elaborate on your reading. Perhaps, in this, you may be right. There are good men among the wicked in this world, donning the fleece of the innocent. He who set free the power that warps the hearts, minds, and bodies of mortals was certainly wicked. The actions of this man should condemn only him, not all who wield magic. It was also because of sorcery that the war could be ended and the power resealed in the Crystal Caverns. Soldiers – your father – came home because the magical warriors of the Black Legion.
Consider that when you wish to be Eradicated. Are you going to be the sorcerer who could have saved lives but chose instead to be no one? When a sword is thrust into someone’s gut, do you blame the sword or the knight who wields it?
When will you stop being afraid, read, and learn more about who you are?
Vhalla stared at the note. She did not know what was more agitating. This person’s tone or the fact that they were right. Vhalla confirmed their claims by actually finishing the book she started the day prior. The Black Legion, the war sorcerers of the Empire, had been integral to sealing the Caverns and their dangerous magic once more.
Were those sorcerers any different from any other soldiers? No, her quill paused for a moment, hovering over her blank page. Were sorcerers very different from the people she called normal?
Phantom,
I’ve moved away from the introduction; I want to learn more about what sorcerers do, what magic is. I found a book on magical Affinities. As I understand it, the early sorcerers in the West believed that magic came from the Mother Sun in the form of her elements, so they harnessed and trained those elements. This is why Crones were the only ones with fire Affinities, called Firebearers.
Then I began to research Groundbreakers next. It seems with their abilities to mend wounds, charge magical salves, and create potions would be most useful.
Vhalla Yarl
As much as Vhalla did not want to, she found the words of her challenger’s notes embedding themselves into her head. At every opportunity over the next weeks, Vhalla withdrew to sneak down the long rows of books into the aisle of mysteries. As the pile of notes in her closet grew, so did her awe and appreciation for her phantom’s seemingly endless knowledge.
Yarl,
What is magic? I am afraid you will not find that answer in these books. It is a question more suited for theologians and philosophers.
Am I to commend you for pointing out the obvious? Tell me why Groundbreakers can do these things and maybe I shall grace you with further correspondence.
The Phantom
Vhalla vigorously researched an answer the rest of that afternoon and the day after. How dare this person push her so far, further than even the master had ever pushed her, to pursue new knowledge? Something about their words seeped deep into her. Pride swelled her chest when she found something that may be considered acceptable by her phantom. It was undeniable: she wanted to impress her Phantom.
Phantom,
While not exclusive to their Affinity or proximity to Shaldan, Groundbreakers will often times possess magical sight. This gives them the ability to locate afflictions in the body and to diagnose illness. But, as the writing illustrates, this is not exclusive to Groundbreakers. I could not find anything beyond that.
Vhalla Yarl
Without realizing it, Vhalla’s days began to fall into a repetitive cycle of work, a note from the Phantom, and sleep. She found a rhythm in managing her work to maximize the amount of time in her window seat. The more she read, the more she realized that she had never contemplated the ways of the magical world. She was disappointed in herself as a scholar, and that only served to fuel her continued research. Vhalla had always considered herself intelligent, at least above average. But could she even make that claim if she ignored a whole field of study with a closed mind?
Yarl,
I see your tone has changed. Very well, now that you are showing some appropriate humility, I shall indulge you. A Groundbreaker possesses an Affinity for the earth, but if they are lucky they also possess an Affinity of the self that gives them the ability to inspect a person better than any cleric. Affinities of the self are lesser known, and the literature is sparser as a result. However, what we do know is that every natural Affinity bears a unique Affinity of the self, even if not all sorcerers of an elemental Affinity possess the skills.
The Phantom
Despite herself, Vhalla began to contemplate Affinities. If she was indeed a sorcerer, what Affinity she would have? At night, when writing by candlelight, Vhalla stared into the flame, wondering if she could make it move and dance as the Firebearers in her books could.
Phantom,
I wonder, do all people have an Affinity? Is every man and woman an untapped magical being? Is everyone simply waiting to Manifest?
I have been reading about the history of magic and it seems sorcery is connected with some of our oldest traditions. I never realized that the mirror that passes from one Head Crone to another was intended to be a vessel for keeping the Mother’s own magic within.
The writing on the Crone’s mirror led me to find a work by a man named Karmingham. He discussed magical transference via conductors and storage via vessels. Is anything a sorcerer touches a magical vessel?
Sincerely, Vhalla Yarl
Some days she would reread the notes. She’d stare at that slanted, tight script and wonder whose hand wrote it. No one ever came forward, from Tower or library staff. The longer the game went on, the more she began to think he really was a phantom haunting the library. She would joke with herself that he was the same man who had been lurking in her dreams for weeks.
Vhalla Yarl,
Your tone has changed. Are you beginning to consider sorcery with something more than your prior ill-conceived, ignorant notions?
I regret to inform you that not all people have a magical Affinity. Most are simply close-minded Commons who fear something only because they do not know and cannot understand it. You are special. Magic has chosen you, and it is time you accept that.
I am impressed that you picked a work like Karmingham and deciphered it. Perhaps something has sunk in these past few weeks.
You are correct; a magical vessel can either conduct or store magic. It is impossible to have an item that does both. But vessels are difficult to create, even for experienced Waterrunners. While unintentional vessels are possible, they are highly uncommon because a sorcerer’s will must be very strong to form one. More often, a vessel is created when a sorcerer leaves a magical trace in something he or she makes. Not true power, but like an inky fingerprint upon a blank page.
The Phantom
Her dreams became a growing problem that Vhalla ignored by daylight. Every night, she dreamed of trying to reach a figure in the darkness. The only explanation was that those dreams were a result of the mysterious notes.
Dear Phantom,
Your praise warms me in an odd way, despite your bleak outlook on the world. I think it should be a sorcerer’s obligation to share magic with Commons, as you seem to call non-magical people, in a way that is easy to understand—like you have done with me.
I am not special. I have never been someone who is special. But perhaps you are right that my tone has changed these past weeks under your tutelage.
Here is my question for you today: Why is it that Affinities seem to prefer geographical regions?
Sincerely, Vhalla
While they continued to exchange notes through the introduction book, Vhalla’s reading now extended far beyond that primer. There were times that she wanted to share her notes with Roan or anyone. But then Vhalla remembered what the writing signified. No one other than her phantom would share her enthusiasm for magic. Well, no one other than her phantom—and other sorcerers in the Tower.
As result, in an odd way, her phantom was becoming easier to confide in and speak openly to than her closest friends. The anonymity fit Vhalla’s inquisitive mind and she found it easy to reveal things about herself.
Vhalla,
Call me bleak; I call you naïve and optimistic. Shall we deem it even?
I do not praise you to warm you; I praise you so that you may continue to learn. But you may take what you will from it.
No sorcerer seems to know why Affinities favor geographical regions. It is known that the majority of Firebearers are from the West, Waterrunners from the South, and Groundbreakers from the North.
You think you are under my tutelage. Do you consider me your teacher?
Sincerely, The Phantom
Vhalla wasn’t sure how to respond, so she spent that night tossing and turning. If she confessed she had begun to see the phantom as a teacher, did that make her a sorcerer? The girl within her ran in terror at the thought. But after their correspondence began, there was also a budding woman inside her who faced the idea of being a sorcerer with a level head.
Dear Phantom,
Perhaps I do consider you my teacher. The last sorcerer I spoke to drugged me and kidnapped me to the Tower. At least your worse offense is your sharp tongue and that you have not told me your name. Who exactly are you?
You covered South, North, and West. But, what of the East?
Sincerely, Vhalla Yarl
“Vhalla!” Roan gave her a shove as they wandered toward the library from breakfast.
“Roan, sorry, what?” Vhalla mumbled, rubbing her shoulder.
“What is it with you lately?” Roan studied her up and down.
“I’m tired.” The truth of her words seeped into them.
“Yes, you are, but I have seen you tired before. This is different. You keep weird hours, and only pick at your food during meals, if you take them at all,” Roan argued.
Vhalla shrugged.
“Even Sareem has noticed something is wrong. He asked about you; he’s noticed your habits,” her friend muttered, her voice flat.
Vhalla continued to stare forward. Roan’s words were distant, like she was speaking under water. Who cared about Sareem? There were more important things on her mind. One such thing was the fact that sorcerers no longer seemed to be stalking her waking hours.
“Don’t tell me,” Roan whispered. “You and Sareem, are you an item?”
“What?” Vhalla blinked, summoned back to life. “Sareem and I? No.”
“Really?” Roan hummed. “He clearly cares about you, and he comes from a good family. You know his father was Norin’s ship builder.”
Vhalla nodded.
“And he’s handsome in that Western way. I always thought Southern blue eyes were striking on Western skin...”
“Excellent,” Vhalla murmured, half-heartedly. “Really, not Sareem then?” Roan asked again.
Why did she care so much? “No, not Sareem,” Vhalla confirmed.
“But it is a boy?” her friend teased with a laugh at the idea of Vhalla romantically involved with someone.
Vhalla almost tripped over her own feet, earning a slow, penetrating stare.
“Is it? By the Sun, is it a boy?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Vhalla looked away.
The blonde’s hands clasped on Vhalla’s shoulders, and soon Vhalla stood in a small side hall.
“Roan, we’re going to be late.”
“Then tell me faster so we’re not.” Roan grinned.
Vhalla focused on the freckles dotting Roan’s nose rather than the uncomfortably eager look her friend was giving her.
“I thought you weren’t interested in boys after...”
“Narcio?” Vhalla sighed. He had owned her heart for a few months, and Vhalla had been young enough to think it was love. She didn’t regret her time with him, but things just hadn’t worked out. Vhalla wasn’t exactly good at relationships as she preferred to spend more time with books than people. Still, Vhalla wished she knew what became of the man whom she had lain with for the first time as a woman. “I’m not a Crone. Of course I’m still interested.”
“So who, what, where, when, how?” Roan persisted.
“There isn’t much to tell,” Vhalla sighed, finally relenting. “I don’t know his name, I don’t even know if he is a he...” she revealed softly, looking into the neighboring hallway to see if anyone walked too close.
“You’re making no sense.” Roan loosened her grip.
“It’s complicated, but it’s special. I’ve learned a lot; he’s really smart, and witty too...in a mean sort of way sometimes. But he is someone who seems to understand just how to push me, and yet I can’t seem to figure out anything about him.” She stopped herself before rambling on and giving away too much.
“But, how do you not know...?” Roan scrunched her eyebrows.
“I’ve never actually met him.” Before her friend could ask Vhalla continued, “We communicate through notes in books. That’s all.” She turned and quickly continued down the hallway to the welcome escape of work.
“Wait, so that’s why you’re always running off lately? And carrying your satchel?” Roan pointed to the leather bag on Vhalla’s shoulder that she subconsciously gripped tighter. “To write notes to your secret lover?”
“Not my lover,” she remarked sharply.
“Fine. But, Vhalla, this is weird,” Roan whispered. Before Vhalla could offer up some kind of retort, her friend continued, “But it is kind of exciting.”
They parted ways upon arriving at the library. Vhalla quickly learned her task for the day, completed it, and headed toward her window seat. Her hands were eager to find a book with a note tucked within.
Dear Vhalla,
The East’s Affinity was air. They were called Windwalkers, but there has not been one for one hundred forty-three years.
I have already told you who I am. I am the phantom in the darkness.
Sincerely, The Phantom
Later that night Vhalla fought sleep. In one hand she clutched the cryptic note, the other ran through her long hair, snagging on tangles.
She was tired of these games. Despite the trenchant and dry nature of her phantom, she did not want their correspondence to end. Her eyes drifted closed, no closer to a resolution of the battle raging inside her.
She stood in the empty hallway before the torch-lit library doors. Normally she entered at a run, but this time she walked. There was no need to run; it would all be the same anyways. She passed through histories, down the hall of mysteries, and a little further still to her window seat.
There she saw him, a black shadow illuminated only by the light of a single flame hovering magically at his side. He didn’t move and, for the first time, she didn’t speak.
In the silence Vhalla studied him. This night her dream became sharper, clearer. By not trying to speak, the dream remained stable long enough to make out features that normally were shadowed and fogged. The man was older than her by about six to eight years. His shoulder-length black hair was slicked back, away from his face and set with something that gave off a dull shine in the light.
“You are early tonight.” A deep voice hovered in the silence.
Vhalla was confused. I’m early? she wanted to ask, but only air escaped from her mouth.
“You have to try harder,” he sighed, pretending to inspect the book he had propped against his black-clad knees.
Try harder? Still only air passed through her moving lips.
“Tell me your name,” he commanded. What?
“Tell me your name,” he demanded again, agitation clipping his words.
Vhalla.
“Tell me your name!” He snapped his book shut and turned to her. She could almost see the fire behind his coal-colored eyes.
Don’t slam books closed! She found her voice, and it echoed through the dream from her to his ears.
Vhalla felt his laughter resonating through her as she woke with a start.
Sitting, she tried to control her ragged breathing. It was hopeless and something wild took her.
She was up, on her feet, and down the hall in a flurry of motion. Vhalla didn’t even think twice as she put her shoulder to the solid library door to push it open. A faint flicker of light glittered off the lacquer of the shelves.
Her sudden stop almost caused her to tumble forward into the man on the window seat. Her window seat. Her chest rose and fell with each gasping breath, and her side hurt slightly from the sprint, but her eyes locked onto him. She stood there in silence for a long moment, the stunning clarity of the world around her reminding her that this wasn’t a dream.
Slowly, he put his hand on the seat and turned, piercing her with his eyes. A knowing smirk spread across his face as he commanded her with only his stare. Minutes or hours could have passed before he spoke.
“I knew you would come.”