Vhalla stopped, leaning against one of the bookshelves for support. “Roan, I’m sorry.”

Despite the flush of pain those words spread across Vhalla’s chest, she managed to look the other woman in the eye and say them. Roan squinted marginally. Whatever pain Vhalla felt from guilt or shame could hardly be a fraction of what Roan had experienced.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what was happening, about my magic.” Vhalla didn’t know where to start. “I was going to tell you, really, but then—”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t!” Vhalla wished she could catch the hasty defense and swallow it back.

“You hid the truth, which is basically a lie.” Roan frowned. “You hid it from me, and from Sareem. Unless you told Sareem?”

Vhalla shook her head, finally breaking eye contact.

“You hid it from both of us and got him killed.”

“I never meant for that to happen,” Vhalla pleaded for Roan to understand. “I didn’t know how to tell you both. Sareem was just like everyone else; he hated magic. How could I tell him? And you were so over the sun for him that you were blinded to anything else. I thought that I’d join the Tower, tell you both, and then sort it out.”

“Isn’t it nice to be Vhalla Yarl?” Roan’s words cut deep.

“It’s not.”

The other woman snorted and rolled her eyes. “The world revolves around you and what you want, doesn’t it? The great Windwalker decides for the rest of us what we can know and when we can know it.”

“It wasn’t that, Roan. You know it wasn’t.”

“I thought you were my friend.” There it was—the deepest wound that still seeped blood. “I thought you were my friend, and you didn’t trust me.”

Roan couldn’t have known the depth of pain that her words caused. For all Vhalla had angrily faulted Aldrik for keeping her in the dark, she had done the same to Roan and Sareem. She knew that feeling of being shut out by someone she loved, and there was no heavier guilt than that feeling.

“I’m sorry. I’m really, truly sorry. If I could do it again and fix it I would,” Vhalla said honestly.

“You don’t get that luxury.” Roan frowned. “And you don’t get my forgiveness either.”

“Roan, please—” Vhalla tried to stop the other woman as she began to head back to the desk.

“No, Vhalla Yarl, I don’t want anything to do with you. You made your choice. Go back to your Tower.” Roan looked over Vhalla’s robes. She shook her head and continued away.

Vhalla buried her face in her palms. But she didn’t cry. She allowed the air she breathed to echo through the hollow that ballooned in her chest.

This was her true punishment for the Night of Fire and Wind.

On the march, Vhalla had gained Larel and Fritz and Daniel and the rest of the guard. She’d learned the love of a prince. At war, she’d become betrothed. She’d paid the cost with her humanity, and that seemed enough to satiate the Senate.

But this—this was the final ember of the Night of Fire and Wind finally flickering out. It was extinguishing the last light of her life from before she had become the Vhalla Yarl. There was no beacon back to the past, no warmth to keep her lingering. There was only forward now.

Roan ignored her again at the desk.

“Master.” Vhalla wasn’t about to let her trip be a total failure.

“Yes?”

“Before I left, you had me bind some books from the East. I was wondering if I might read them?”

“You didn’t before?” The master was honestly surprised.

“No . . .” Vhalla had been far too distracted with other things at that point.

“I expected you had.” Mohned stroked his scraggly beard in thought. “No trouble. Come.”

He took the library’s keyring from its hook behind the desk and began the slow shuffle toward the archives. Vhalla followed silently, adjusting the sleeves on her robes in thought.

“Roan took it very hard,” the master stated the obvious. “Sareem’s death, your magic, you leaving.” Mohned sighed. “I was worried for her recovery.”

“I’m sorry.” Vhalla felt like her apologies would soon mean nothing if she kept offering them left and right.

“Sorry will neither change nor help now.” Mohned’s weathered voice was as soft as flipping pages. “Be patient, instead. Be kind in spite of her outward hostility. She still has a place for you in her heart.”

Vhalla shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“She asked about you. To every person who even breathed a word with a messenger from the North. She hung on Court gossip. She began to read books on magic.”

She couldn’t believe the same person the master was describing was the icy woman whom Vhalla had just faced.

“But presented with you, in the flesh . . . I think some wounds are still too fresh.”

“I know how that is,” Vhalla sighed.

“So give her time.”

“How long?”

“It could be weeks, months, even years. You’ll know when it begins to feel right again. When her pain has been softened by love once more.” The master paused at the door to the archives. He gave Vhalla another long look. “I am glad, truly, to see you well.”