Egmun had been the Minister of Sorcery, and then something changed. He said he had traded his magic; was it taken from him somehow? If so, by what? Vhalla’s mind went down every dark path when thinking of the Senator and came up with a memory that wasn’t even hers, of Egmun egging on a boy Aldrik to commit his first murder.
The questions circled like a tornado, faster and faster, until all other thoughts were destroyed by their repetition. Vhalla pushed open the door for the Tower of Sorcerers, completely absorbed in trying to recall every word she’d ever written in her journal on Aldrik and deeply wishing she’d taken it with her from Gianna’s. It took her five steps to notice she wasn’t alone.
The large, circular lobby was filled with people, as it had been the last time she’d been there. But now they weren’t wearing armor, and there wasn’t the tension of dread. Hope glittered in every flame bulb. Hope for a future that they would see because they were the ones who had survived the battles. Their eyes looked to her in admiration, as though she was the foundation of those dreams.
Vhalla hastily took in those assembled, and her eyes fell on a man. Words and thoughts and emotions tangled into a knot and lodged themselves in her throat. She had cried so many tears of sorrow that it made the moisture at the corners of her eyes burn sweetly with joy.
Fritznangle Charem, Waterrunner and friend of the Windwalker, stood opposite her, already crying like a babe. The room blurred until only he remained in focus. Fritz took a step forward, and Vhalla matched his sprint.
There was only one thing that could’ve made her part with the bag containing the axe, and that was the man she threw her arms around. The saddlebag was forgotten on the floor, and Vhalla clutched Fritz as though he was nothing more than an illusion about to fade on the wind.
The room was congratulating her; there may have even been cheers. But Vhalla focused on her friend’s face, wiping away the rivulets of tears streaming around his wide grin with her thumbs.
“I missed you, Vhal,” Fritz hiccupped.
“I missed you, too.” Vhalla leaned forward and rose to her toes to give her friend a light kiss on the forehead.
The room hummed around her, and Vhalla took stock of the other Sorcerers. Their robes bore the seal of the Tower of Sorcerers, a dragon curling in on itself as a circle, split in two and off-set. But above the standard insigna, were pins of a silver wing.
“We knew the Windwalker would return to us, heralding her good fortune.” A man rose his hand to his chest, explaining the pin.
“I don’t know about that,” Vhalla laughed.
“Do not discredit yourself, Lady Yarl.” Vhalla turned to the source of the voice. A man with sharp blue eyes and a neatly cut goatee stood in long black robes, different from the rest of the apprentices. Victor, the current Minister of Sorcery, smiled down at her. “You have brought much good fortune, without even being here, by helping ease tensions between sorcerers and the common folk.”
“Tensions I made worse with the Night of Fire and Wind.” Vhalla couldn’t let herself just take the compliment.
“That debt has been repaid, and then some.” Victor proceeded down the sloped walkway. “I can imagine you are exhausted after your ordeal at the Sunlit Stage. The chill is still on your cloak, and you’ve yet to shake the dust from your hair. Let us all give our Windwalker the best welcome home we can and allow her to take a much needed rest.”
As the room began to empty, the minister took a half step toward her, placing his hand on the small of her back. He leaned forward slightly to speak only for her. “When you are refreshed, come to my quarters. We have much to discuss of your time at war and your future in the Tower.”
Vhalla nodded, starting to speak when Fritz interrupted her.
“Here.” He held out the saddlebag. “You dropped—”
“Don’t!” She snatched it away in horror, and the wounded look on Fritz’s face left no question for Vhalla as to the expression she’d given him. Vhalla fumbled for words, turning to the minister for assistance, but he had already departed. “Don’t touch it, Fritz.”
Fritz’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Sorry, I . . .” She didn’t want to lie to him. She didn’t want to lie to her friends. She had sworn off lying. But what else could she tell him? Her hands tightened around the saddlebag. “There’s something precious inside.”
“What is it?”
“Just something I picked up along the way,” Vhalla muttered, grabbing at straws for a new topic. Her eyes fell on an Eastern man who had been lingering by Fritz’s side since Vhalla had first seen him. “Grahm? Right?”
“Welcome home.” The man beamed at her. “I’m surprised you remember me.”
“Of course I would!” Vhalla stared up the Tower. “I heard so much about you.”
“You did?” Grahm seemed honestly surprised.
“Vhal!” Fritz was redder than scarlet.
“Just that you’re quite talented,” Vhalla spoke to Grahm, giving Fritz a knowing wink while the other man’s eyes were averted. Clearly, Fritz had been making slow use of his time when it came to the man he was so obviously pining for. Vhalla paused. “Where’s Elecia?”
“Still in the West.” Fritz pouted, affirming Vhalla’s suspicion that she wasn’t in the Tower. If she had been, Vhalla had no doubt that things with Grahm wouldn’t have faltered so.