Fire Falling

“Good morning!” she said cheerfully.

Aldrik gave her a nod, and Fritz and Larel offered their greetings. Vhalla focused on the road ahead.

“Come now, do not be rude,” Elecia said with a patronizing grin.

“Hello.” Vhalla did not even make eye contact.

“My, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Elecia laughed and clapped a hand over Vhalla’s shoulder. “Don’t be so serious!” She smiled, and Vhalla continued to ignore her. “Or not.” Elecia shrugged and turned to Aldrik. “So, I don’t know if you heard, but I recently began studying remedies for Channel blockers ...”

Vhalla was forced to spend the next two hours listening to Elecia and Aldrik discuss the properties of Channels and how they could be disrupted or blocked. The discussion was over Vhalla’s head, so she tried to tune them out. It annoyed her; they irrationally annoyed her. This woman, whom she had barely met, held a conversation with Aldrik that made Vhalla feel stupid.

Eventually her nonsensical frustration finally won and Vhalla interrupted the conversations. “So, when are we going to train again?” she asked with more conviction than she felt. All four people stared at her blankly.

“Train?” Elecia laughed. “Why would you want to?”

“Because I’m going to war,” Vhalla said sharply.

“But last time—”

“Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?” Larel interrupted Elecia.

“Is that a good idea?” Fritz said uncertainly.

“I can.” Vhalla nodded to herself. “I will.” She turned to Aldrik, searching his silence for encouragement, approval—something.

“Very well,” he said after what seemed like forever. “We need to work on your Channeling first, so we shall focus on that tonight.”

“Channeling?” Vhalla repeated.

“Wait, you mean to tell me she does not even know how to Channel?” Elecia looked between Vhalla and Aldrik. “You have hope for her, and she doesn’t even—”

“It is not your decision,” Aldrik barked harshly.

Vhalla was pleased by the amount Elecia was being interrupted. The sentiment was not shared, and the other woman adjusted her red bandana before riding off in a huff.

“What’s Channeling?” Vhalla forced herself to ask. She hated herself for not knowing, but not asking would only exacerbate the problem. Aldrik had mentioned it months ago, but he’d never bothered to explain.

“It’s how a sorcerer uses magic,” Fritz began.

“I can use magic,” she retorted in a defensive and tired tone.

“Yes, you can but,” Fritz twirled his reins around his fingers, “but not well.”

His words were like a dagger to her gut. Even he saw her as useless. Vhalla swallowed the pain of that realization, forcing it away from her eyes where it may show.

“Think of it like this,” Larel started gently. “You have a pitcher and a cup. You have to get the water from the pitcher into the cup. One way you can do it is by dipping the cup into the pitcher. But this is messy and maybe it doesn’t fit right and so on.”

“So you pour from the pitcher instead,” Vhalla finished the logic. Larel nodded and smiled. It was a welcome sight that gave Vhalla some ease.

“Exactly, we can dip into our magic to accomplish things on a whim—like you’ve been doing. But it’s tiring, difficult, and normally inconsistent. That’s why we open up a Channel for it to flow—to pour—easily into us,” Larel finished.

“And, for that reason, you will be working with me tonight,” Aldrik announced, loud enough that it drew Major Reale’s attention.

“Thank you, my prince,” Vhalla mumbled.

“I trust you will not disappoint me.”

After that declaration, it was a cold silence from the normally warm man for the rest of the day. They had never had an opportunity to be talkative, not really, so Vhalla was surprised to find how much his silence bothered her. It was a weight on her shoulders until Aldrik appeared by her and Larel’s tent that evening.

“Are you ready?” the prince asked.

Vhalla nodded mutely.

“Should I fetch her dinner?” Larel asked with a thoughtful glance between her awkward companions.

“Not necessary; I will make sure she eats,” Aldrik replied in a particularly sharp tone. Vhalla focused on the dust covering the toes of her boots. “Come.”

Vhalla’s and Larel’s tent wasn’t far from Aldrik’s. The other sorcerers had the decency to smother their looks, but a few stared in curiosity at the new woman following the prince. Behind her she heard whispering and picked out the word “Windwalker” more than once. It seemed to be the explanation that was automatically assigned when anything different or special occurred near her. It was a nice excuse to prevent rumors of anything untoward, Vhalla reasoned. But the attention still made her uncomfortable.

Aldrik ducked his head under the flap and walked into the orange glow of tent beyond. Vhalla paused, assuring herself that there was no reason to be nervous. She was only about to enter the personal quarters of the crown prince of the realm, no matter how makeshift they were. Gripping her fingers tightly, she gathered her resolve and walked in behind him.

His tent seemed more spacious on the inside. To the left of the entrance, furs and thick blankets were piled on top of chopped brush to make a sleeping pallet. Her sleepless nights must be catching up to her because the sight of it was oddly appealing. Around the perimeter hung thin disks, flames burning impossibly above the steel braziers. To the right, a large rug of great finery had been unrolled upon the bare ground, a number of pillows and a small floor table atop it.