“Right, well, I always thought that worshiping the Mother Sun came from the South, since the Emperor says his wars are to rid the world of heathens. But it’s actually Western. King Solaris names himself Emperor, invades Mhashan, takes their religion, and uses it to claim Cyven and now Shaldan,” Vhalla mused aloud. “But, he’s doing it to spread a faith—or at least he claims—that isn’t originally his.”
“All right, what are you reading?” Roan hummed in amusement.
“Don’t you think that’s interesting?” Vhalla asked, dropping all mention of sorcery.
“I do.” Her friend smiled. The expression quickly turned into a teasing grin. “I also think someone’s been reading strange things when they should be working.”
Vhalla looked away, guilty as charged. Her friend only laughed, nudging her side. Roan was less than a year older than Vhalla, and they had always looked out for each other. When they met seven years ago, only Lidia and another man, who was now long gone, worked as library apprentices. Two eleven-year-old girls hardly had any interest in twenty-somethings; Vhalla and Roan had taken to each other out of necessity and kinship in the written word.
Rounding a corner, they came to a small landing that overlooked the ground below. Vhalla ignored a shadowed figure on the edge of her vision. The stables were two large buildings built into the walls of the castle, each on either side of the main road leading up to the palace. They stretched on for an impossibly long time, and she always felt a little awe at all the horses, carts, and carriages they could contain. Presently, most of the stalls stood empty due to the strain the war was putting on the Empire’s resources.
After their brief escape into the sunlight, the women returned inside and descended a short, spiral staircase and exited out a small door onto the rocky, dusty ground. By the smaller portal were two, massive, opulent doors that Vhalla knew were for decoration over function. Behind them was a viewing room where the Emperor would—from time to time—allow common folk to speak of their troubles, on those rare times when he wasn’t off at war. She had only stood in that throne room once before when her father had first brought her to the capital to ask the Emperor to exchange his promotion into the palace guard for an opportunity to find an apprenticeship for his daughter.
The first six stalls belonged to the Imperial Family. All but two were empty. The Empress’s mount, a beautiful white mare stood stoically in place. In the adjacent stall resided a War-strider that snorted as she passed. Vhalla stopped, captured by the beast’s eyes.
“I hear the soldiers call it thenightmare stallion.” Roan was suddenly next to her, also studying the oversized creature as she spoke. “I think it comes—in part—from the prince’s reputation, but I hear the beast is pretty foul toward most.”
“His reputation?” Vhalla looked quickly at a plaque on the stall door.Prince Aldrik Solaris.
“He’s a sorcerer. It makes people uncomfortable. Magic is something that should stay within the Tower.” Roan tucked a piece of hay-colored hair behind her ear.
Vhalla had always been jealous of Roan’s hair and generally everything else about her. Vhalla’s hair was a dark brown mess of frizz and untamable waves; Roan’s fell in beautiful curls. Southerners were lucky with their light skin and features. Even the Gods were shown that way. Vhalla felt perpetually inadequate compared to Southerners and Westerners. Those in the East had yellow-hued skin with dark brown eyes and wavy hair. Nothing was fantastic about her.
“They say the prince’s eyes glow red with rage,” Roan murmured.
“What do you think?” Vhalla whispered, looking up at her friend.
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen a battlefield, and when I have seen the prince, his eyes have never been red.” Roan put her hands on her hips, squinting at the horse as if it would give her some secrets about its owner. “But I think that in every rumor there is a small piece of truth.”
They started walking again, closing the distance to the cart section of the stables.
“Then, do you think it’s true he’s a bastard?” Vhalla asked quietly, not wanting to be overheard by any others walking about, particularly those in black robes she suspected to be lingering in the shaded stalls.
“I don’t know if it matters. The Emperor married our late Empress before she showed. Who is to say whether or not she was with child before their wedding bed? But the Emperor calls him as his legitimate heir and, since our first Lady Solaris walks the lands of the Father now, no one can say differently.” Roan shrugged.
Vhalla nodded, recalling a book she read on the Imperial Family when she was fresh to the capital. After conquering the West twenty-five years ago, the Emperor quickly took a Western bride to his bed, tying loyalties with blood. But there were always whispers surrounding the wedding to the youngest daughter of the late Western king when she had two older, eligible sisters. Her death while giving birth to the Empire’s crown prince within one year of the wedding had only made it worse.
Upon reaching the cart section, the young women met the Master of Horse. After navigating through greetings and polite chatter they retrieved the books they had come for. The crates that held the manuscripts were too heavy to carry, and the contents had to be split into smaller boxes, the rest to be retrieved at a later date.
It took almost triple the time to cover the same distance back up the palace. At first both girls seemed to be playing a game of denial and determination, but once Vhalla suggested they take a breather, those breaks became something that occurred liberally throughout the rest of their ascent.
After parting ways with Roan at the desk, Vhalla disappeared into the books to pretend to work. She retrieved her manuscripts from mysteries without thought, carrying them over to her window seat. It wasn’t until everything was set out that Vhalla noticed the piece of paper folded around her bookmark. She looked around quickly, there were no black-clad observers.
A tingle shot through her fingers as she touched the paper, prompting a sharp intake of breath. The book fell open-faced to the floor, forgotten. Vhalla stared at the foreign, slanted, tight script.
To Vhalla Yarl...
DEEP LINES APPEAREDbetween 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?
