Water's Wrath

“I made a mistake,” he breathed heavily.

“I am always at your disposal, Aldrik. What do you need?” Larel’s caring manner shone through.

“It’s Vhalla, come.” Aldrik opened Larel’s door, slamming it closed behind them.

A blistery fall gust rattled Vhalla’s window in the early dawn, calling her from sleep. She blinked away the haze of dreams, Aldrik’s memories lingering as sharply as the morning’s chill. Running a hand through her hair, Vhalla tried to tease away the tangles and find motivation to face the day.

Like a petulant child, the wind rattled the window again, and Vhalla pulled herself from the bed, unlatching the glass. Fall was heavy upon them, she thought as she observed the trees rustling in the breeze far below her. Vhalla rested her elbows on the iron railing lining the small balcony that turned the large window into a doorway to the outside world. Her eyes scanned the greenery making its annual shift to red.

Vhalla turned away the second she caught herself searching for a certain garden with a rose-filled greenhouse. She remembered her promise to the prince—that she would tell him of all the memories she witnessed in her sleep. Vhalla debated the scope of the promise as she began dressing. Technically, the memory was one that involved her, one she knew about, and it held no real secrets.

She ran her fingers over the dark apprentice robes of the Tower.

When will I see you in black? Aldrik’s words echoed in her mind.

Vhalla shook her head and shrugged on the robes. The palace was full of too many memories—memories of other lives, of a man who was capable of both hurting and loving her, of a man who had promised his future to her when he asked her to be his bride.

Determined, Vhalla ignored the Tower kitchens as she strode down the curving, sloping hall. If she was going to drown in memories, then there was somewhere in particular she wanted to do it in. Vhalla knew many of the unlabeled doorways in the Tower were passages into the palace at different levels and places, secret to all non-sorcerers. But Vhalla had never had an opportunity to learn them. She’d only ever come and gone out of one location.

It took a long time to reach the library, longer than she expected, as Vhalla had become turned around at one point along the way. The main Tower entrance was on a much lower level than the Imperial Library, and winding up toward it from the Tower of Sorcerers was something she’d never done before.

Vhalla paused at the large doors of the library. Like the soft breathing of a slumbering beast, she felt air pulsing through the crack between them. It was inviting, a heady dose of too-sweet familiarity.

Her hands shook as she rested them on the wood. She’d been to war. She’d fought off a zealot group known as the Knights of Jadar. She’d stood up to the Emperor countless times. But there was nothing more terrifying than confronting her guilt.

A rainbow of color splashed across the floor down the middle of the central walkway. It drew Vhalla’s attention, as it always had, the moment she opened the door. It carried her eyes straight to the main desk where two people sat—the two people Vhalla sought.

Master Mohned, as ancient and sagely as he ever was, could barely be seen over the top of the desk. Next to him were the ringlet curls that Vhalla had admired for years. They were as beautiful as ever, but Vhalla no longer felt the same jealousy toward them. She had seen the world beyond the South in all its shades of beauty and would no longer trade her mess of brown hair. She no longer longed to be anyone more or less than who she was.

She was over halfway to the desk by the time Roan’s head turned up. Vhalla froze in place, her heartbeat frantic, her breathing stuck. Roan’s expression betrayed nothing.

The master stood slowly, following Roan’s attention to the dark-clad woman haunting their library.

Clenching her fists briefly to invite her magic to give her strength, Vhalla closed the remaining distance to the desk. She stood, alternating between looking at the master and at her childhood friend, her mouth trying to form words.

“Welcome home, Vhalla,” the master spoke up and spared Vhalla the toil of breaking the silence.

“Thank you, master.” She let the man’s warm nature soothe her nerves.

Roan still hadn’t said anything.

“Roan—”

“Vhalla—”

They spoke over each other, silencing instantly.

“Roan, my eyes are bleary already. Why don’t you give me a small rest and stretch your legs,” the master encouraged.

Roan pursed her lips together briefly, looking between Mohned and Vhalla.

“I’d like to speak with you.” Vhalla didn’t want to lose the opportunity the master placed before her. “Please?”

“All right,” Roan sighed. “I’m stiff anyway.”

The blonde looped around the desk, crossing her arms over her chest. Closer, Vhalla noticed the slightly darkened patches of skin that marred her flesh. Scars. The sight brought the memory of Jax back to her, bleeding on Major Schnurr’s floor. How many more of her friends would have to suffer or die because of her?

Vhalla turned quickly, starting down one of the rows of books. Roan thankfully followed, and they disappeared into the shelves.

“How’s the library been?” Vhalla forced.

“Fine.”

“Has the master been well?”

“He’s fine.” Roan clearly had little interest in actually conversing.