by Elise Kova
“I don’t know if I’m gifted,” he said bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck.
“What, what was that?” Vhalla forced out in shock when her tongue was working again.
“She’s like a newborn bunny!” Elecia giggled to Aldrik, as though Vhalla wasn’t even there. “She has never seen illusions before.”
Aldrik shot the woman a pointed look before turning back to Vhalla, his features relaxing. “Fritz, would you like to explain it to Vhalla?” the prince ordered the Southern man, but never took his eyes off her.
“Water affinities can use the water in the air to distort the light, to create smoke screens, fogs,” Fritz started, clearly uncomfortable by the praise and attention.
“And illusions, if the sorcerer is skilled enough.” Aldrik motioned to Fritz, directing Vhalla’s attention back to her friend.
Fritz waved his hand in demonstration and an identical image formed next to him.
Vhalla gasped softly, taking a step toward the apparition. It looked like Fritz in every way, and Vhalla raised a hand—no one stopped her. The illusion dissipated under her fingertips, nothing more than a puff of vapor.
Vhalla’s eyes widened.
She was no longer standing in that forest clearing; she was living a waking nightmare. Her twisted dreams merged with the reality before her and the horrible memories that she had pushed from her consciousness. There was wind, there was fire, there was death, and there was blood splattered across her arms and face as she watched bodies torn to shreds by howling gusts. It had been her desire. She had wanted them dead. She had wanted them more than dead, she wanted the Northerners to suffer.
Vhalla took a step back, shaking her head. That wasn’t who she was.
“No,” she whispered. Someone took a step toward her; all she saw were shadows from her dreams. Shadows she ripped apart by touching. “Don’t come any closer,” she gave a quivering warning. Vhalla brought up her hands to her ears, the screams of the people whom she had murdered filling her consciousness. She realized in horrible clarity what had been haunting her, the blood on her hands that she’d been ignoring.
She felt dizzy. Her legs buckled beneath her, and her body doubled over.
“Vhalla, what’s wrong?” Fritz asked, his voice faint.
“Go,” she panted. They shouldn’t be near her. At the edge of her guilt-shattered conscious she could hear a wind roaring. Vhalla gripped her head tighter. She had meant to kill those Northerners on the Night of Fire and Wind, but she had not known what killing meant.
Two strong hands gripped her wrists and she lashed out, shaking her head and twisting her body. Vhalla attempted to knock the person away with a strong gust, but they didn’t even seem to feel it.
“Vhalla.” Aldrik’s voice was strong and level, cutting through the din of the chaos in her head. “Stop. Breathe,” he instructed, and she forced herself to oblige. His voice rang over the storm raging within her. “Open your eyes.”
Vhalla squinted open one eye, and then the next. Even though it was almost night, the world had a hazy glow to it. Aldrik was surrounded in the golden, almost white, flame that she’d seen him in before. He burned brighter than any of the others assembled. She struggled to shift her vision back to normal, and her eyes fluttered closed.
“Look at me.” Aldrik shook her.
She opened her eyes and focused on his face, slowly regaining control of her magic sight. Her breathing was ragged, and her hands trembled. Concern was written across Aldrik’s furrowed brow.
“Mother save me, I really killed them,” she gasped.
His mouth fell open a moment, but he recovered and relaxed his grip on her wrists. Aldrik stood, helping Vhalla to her feet. When she had her balance, Aldrik finally let go of her and took a step away. “Fritz, take her back to camp,” he ordered briskly.
“Is it a good idea for me to—” Fritz was uncertain.
“Do not try my patience, Charem,” Aldrik growled. He was every inch the Fire Lord.
It was all Fritz needed to spring to life. He scampered over to her and paused. “Can you walk? I mean, do you want help?”
She shook her head. “I can do it.”
Elecia stepped toward Aldrik. Her voice was low, but it was loud enough for Vhalla to hear. “She is not ready. You need to give this up now; there isn’t anything you can do for her.”
“Neiress,” Aldrik barked out Larel’s family name, ignoring Elecia. “I could use a round, if you feel up to it.”
“It would be my honor, my prince.” Larel gave a bow.
Fritz tugged Vhalla’s attention from the scene, pulling her toward the forest that was between them and camp. She glanced back over her shoulder as a fury of flames burst out in the deepening darkness. Elecia stood, leaning against a tree. The flames lit her face, and she ran her thumb across her lips in thought. Vhalla turned forward, relieved the woman wasn’t following them after Aldrik’s dismissal.
Fritz and Vhalla walked in an uneasy silence as the sounds of clanking armor and bursts of flame began to fade and meld into the growing sounds of camp. Vhalla focused on the ground, letting him lead her by the hand. She chewed over her words, trying to find some kind of explanation.
“Vhalla, I’m really, really sorry and-and I don’t know what I did but I didn’t mean to upset you.” Fritz broke the silence like a dam shattering. “I thought it’d be interesting for you to see, and I don’t know if it messed with your magic or something, but I promise I won’t do it again.”
“It’s not your fault.” She shook her head, feeling guilty. “It reminded me of something ... You couldn’t have known. Please, don’t feel bad. It really was amazing.”
“If you want to talk about it,” he offered, returning to her side as they began to walk again.
“No.” She put an end to the notion sharply.
Fritz walked her all the way back to her tent. When she insisted she had no appetite, he went to dinner on the promise that he would set aside a portion for her. Vhalla wasn’t sure if he would be successful, but she was too tired to care. She barely found the energy to pull off her armor before collapsing in the bedroll.
Despite being overwhelmed and at the brink of exhaustion, sleep didn’t come. Vhalla watched shadows from campfires dance on the walls of her tent. She closed her eyes briefly, but every time she did a new horror awaited her. Vhalla wasn’t sure how much time had passed but Larel’s entrance was a relief.
“Welcome back,” she whispered.
“You’re awake?”
“Can’t sleep,” Vhalla explained the obvious.
“You need to try,” Larel ordered softly, putting her armor at the foot of her bedroll.
“How was the rest of the training?” Vhalla asked, changing the subject.
“Whenever the prince steps into the fray, the memory of your experience always lingers.” Larel rubbed her shoulder generously as she crawled under her blanket.
Silence settled heavily between them, suppressing the words that needed to be said. It lasted so long that Vhalla was sure Larel had fallen asleep. But the other woman took a slow breath. “Vhalla.”
“Yes?” she whispered back.
“I know it isn’t my business ...” Larel’s uneasy start set Vhalla’s heart to racing. “But you know he cares for you, right?”
Vhalla stared into the darkness at Larel’s shadowy outline. She shifted, her stomach getting that strange feeling again—likely because she hadn’t eaten. “He’s a friend,” she confessed for the first time to anyone. Vhalla thought back to the day in the chapel and her mind betrayed her by also flooding her with memories of a dance in the water gardens of the palace on the night of the gala. It all seemed like a dream from where she was now.
“A friend?” Larel mused over the notion aloud.
“A dear friend ...” Vhalla felt the strange urge to qualify.
Larel clicked her tongue but withheld further comment.
Vhalla curled into a ball with a sigh and finally closed her e
yes. Horrors did not greet her. A prince with a golden circlet was painted across her memories.
“VHAL ... Vhal.” Fritz nudged her gently.
“What?” Vhalla yawned.
“You need to eat something.”
This again. “I’m not hungry.” She rubbed her eyes with the soft leather that covered her palms. It had been three days since the night in the forest, and none of them had mentioned training since. It made Vhalla feel all the more broken, defective.
“When was the last time you ate?” Larel was in on it now too.
“I ...” Vhalla struggled to answer the question honestly. “I ate breakfast yesterday, and dinner the night before.”
“You call that eating?” Fritz shook his head. “Those were hardly snacks.”
“Let it go.” Annoyance crept into her tone.
“Vhalla,” a voice said sternly to her left.
Apprehension filled her at the sound of his voice. Aldrik had hardly spoken to her since the night Vhalla broke down, and she hadn’t had the courage to say anything to him. It was fine to imagine that she could cut her hair and become someone strong, the monster that the Senate had every right to fear. But the moment she was presented with the beast she was, she fell apart. She was weak, so it made sense that he wanted nothing to do with her.
“You are already a risk to everyone by not being skilled in combat or having a handle on your magic. The least you can do is keep your body in good condition by eating.” He gave her a long stare. “And sleeping,” the prince added, as if noticing the darkening circles under her eyes for the first time.
With a sigh, Vhalla grabbed the meat Fritz held out to her and tore into it. It was cold, and slimy, and tasteless. The food on the march had quickly lost its novelty, and now it was just another reminder of where she was, of who she was.
“Eat it all,” Aldrik instructed dryly. “It will be more graceful if you eat it yourself rather than one of us forcing it down your throat.”
She took smaller bites, but managed to get—and keep—it all down. The food settled heavily in her stomach and threatened to come up with the swaying of the horse.
As if to capitalize on her sour mood, Elecia appeared out of nowhere and wedged herself between Vhalla and Aldrik.
“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.
Aldrik stood on the opposite side of the room removing his greaves and gauntlets.
/> “Come and help me with the plate?” he asked casually, catching her off-guard.
“M-my prince?” Vhalla stumbled over her words. It was as though the second they were out of sight she was in a different world with a different man.
“Since when are you formal in private?” Aldrik arched a dark eyebrow. “Some help?”
He turned and raised his arms. Vhalla noticed a small seam on the back left of his plate. She crossed the room hastily and began fussing with the latches underneath.
“How, um, how do you get it on?” she inquired, desperate to talk over the blood rushing in her ears.
“I have help—a squire,” he explained logically. Vhalla’s clumsy fingers finally undid the last clasp and he unhinged it, slipping out through the side. Aldrik placed the plate on the ground and began to unfasten his scale.
“Aldrik, is this really ...” Vhalla swallowed, taking a step back and looking away.
“Do you think me naked under my armor?” A small grin curled up the corners of his mouth as he slid off his scale, leaving just chainmail beneath.
“Your armor is the same as mine,” she observed, inspecting the thin links curiously.
“Of course it is.” He ran a hand through his hair, and Vhalla watched it cascade back into place around his fingers.
“Why?” She felt like she was missing something obvious.
“I made it.” His eyes caught hers, and Vhalla couldn’t find words between her surprise and the look he was giving her.
“Why?” Vhalla repeated again, remembering Larel telling her once about how Firebearers were jewelers or smiths due to their ability to manage flames.
“Why? Why do I make my own armor, my parrot?” Aldrik had to know that her inquiry was more than him making his armor. “Because I do not trust other craftsmen with something as important as my life.”
There was a hidden meaning between his words, and Vhalla felt overwhelmed trying to understand its layers. Aldrik spared her from the task when he shrugged off the last of his armor—and her mind went blank. He was in a loose-fitting, long-sleeved white shirt that hung mostly open at his neck. On his lower half were a pair of well-tailored black pants that clung close to his legs. It was more casual and undressed than she’d ever seen him before, and just the sight brought a bright blush to her cheeks.
