She sat behind the desk and amused herself by rolling a corked bottle of ink across. The doors opened again.
It was Roan. Vhalla sighed and pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the desk. The blonde took a seat next to her.
“Good morning, Roan,” Vhalla forced herself to say. Her voice sounded strange to her ears.
“Good morning, Vhalla,” she said with a smile.
“Have you seen Sareem yet?” Vhalla mumbled.
“Sareem?” Roan asked delicately. “No, why?”
“Nothing,” Vhalla sighed, not wanting to go through the effort of explaining anything.
“Are you all right?” Roan placed a hand on her friend’s back, and before Vhalla had a chance to respond the doors to the library opened again.
It was the master and Sareem, and they were talking. Vhalla was on her feet, pain ignored by her panicked heart. Why was he with the master? Her hands shook with paranoia, despite her tying to still them.
“Good morning, Vhalla, Roan,” the master started. “Today the jobs are much the same as yesterday. Cadance and Lidia are off receiving some final decorations for the Festival of the Sun from the Ministry of Culture. So Roan, you’ll continue transcribing, and Vhalla you’re back in the archives.”
Vhalla nodded and quickly stepped around the desk. She could feel Sareem’s stare but ignored it like she did Roan’s baffled look and the master’s quizzical gaze. If the master wasn’t kicking her out, then maybe Sareem hadn’t told him. All Vhalla knew was she wanted away from them all.
“What is wrong, Vhalla?” the master asked as he opened the Archive’s padlocked door.
“I’m fine, my head just hurts today.” She rubbed her temples again.
“I’m worried for you,” Mohned added thoughtfully, a palm on her back.
“Thank you, but there’s nothing to worry about.” Vhalla gave the master a tired smile. She looked away before emotion could get the better of her. She wished she could talk to him, but the master wouldn’t understand either. The name in the Tower book likely was a different Mohned Topperen, Vhalla told herself.
The master led her down to the same location as yesterday, pulling open a few curtains along the way. When she was settled, he instructed her to return to the main library should she feel worse. Vhalla nodded wearily and set to her work, trying to convey—with as much politeness as possible—that she had no interest in speaking. Mohned seemed to take no offense and departed with the quiet shuffle of his feet.
Vhalla tried to focus on the task at hand, but she found it hard to focus on anything. Every time she opened her eyes, the world was blurry—like two things were overtop of one another. Eventually she simply put her head on the table and tried to let the silence cure her brain.
The soft clanks of footsteps down the staircase were like knives to her ailing consciousness. Vhalla opened her eyes, but she didn’t even lift her head to see who it was. Aldrik’s walk was different, and it would’ve hurt less, somehow.
“Sareem, go away.” Her voice was low.
“Vhalla, we need to talk,” he started gingerly.
“Go. Away,” she repeated, her patience thin.
“No.” His was determined.
She looked up at him, trying to get her eyes to cooperate with her. He stood halfway in the room, clearly unsure if he was making the right decision. Vhalla had the pleasure of letting him know he was not.
“What do you want?” she snapped, putting her forehead back on the table.
“Are you all right?” he asked, taking a few steps closer.
“I’m fine. My head just hurts. What do you want?” Her sentences were clipped with annoyance.
“About yesterday, Vhalla...” he started.
“Did you tell the master?” she interrupted.
“What? No, I promised you I wouldn’t.” Vhalla looked up at him again through squinted eyes. “I didn’t, Vhalla,” Sareem insisted and sat with a sigh.
Vhalla put her head back on the table, closing her eyes. “So, what do you want?” she repeated.
“About yesterday...” He scratched the back of his neck. “You see, you kind of caught me off-guard.” He gave an uneasy chuckle, and Vhalla wanted to choke whatever he had to say out of him. “I think—”
A horn rang out from somewhere in the distance. Its call was echoed by one closer. Soon every trumpeter in the palace was heralding the rallying call.
“What?” Vhalla picked up her head off the table. “What is—”
“Horns, Vhalla! Horns playing like that, you know what it means.” He was on his feet, already cleaning up her book and supplies without thought. “Come on, we have to go.” Sareem was practically picking up her limp body from the chair, and Vhalla felt too groggy to fight.
They made haste through the library. Vhalla squinted, the world was moving by so fast that it unsettled her stomach, and she was forced to rely on Sareem. At least if she was sick she could aim for his feet.
Her eyes didn’t know what to focus on. Everything came to a sudden halt as they stood before the circulation desk. The master was talking, and Vhalla struggled to listen. Mohned handed Sareem something, sending the young man running back in the direction they had just come from.
“—will catch up with us. We should start making our way to the Sunlit Stage.”
The master and Roan started toward the castle door. Vhalla followed behind them, and Sareem soon joined in tow as they left the library proper. He noticed she was not stable on her feet and linked an arm with her. Vhalla was forced to depend on his support again as they joined the masses moving quickly through the palace.
The Sunlit Stage was the official entry to the palace. While the stables’ entry was more practical, the Sunlit Stage held large-scale ceremonies before the public. It was a semi-circular area where the capital’s residents could enter through many golden archways in the outer wall. Giant stands extended up from the wall that were supposed to be reminiscent of the sun’s rays. Dignitaries, nobles, and members of the Court sat there, all facing the palace.
White marble steps led up to a large platform with columns set at wide intervals. Behind this stage were golden doors leading into the palace; they were equally large and ceremonial. Four or five horses could ride abreast though them without a problem. Higher on the wall was a balcony, which the Emperor had used once or twice to make short announcements or decrees to his people. Today, soldiers in polished armor and helmets fitted with large golden plumes lined either side of the stage.
Cadance and Lidia joined Vhalla and her escorts along the way, and the whole library personnel positioned themselves upon the outer wall with most of the other castle staff. With a loud groan, the stage doors opened and two people walked out to the edge of the top step.
The Empress was a short woman with long flowing blonde hair that cascaded to her waist. While she appeared youthful, her stance was modest and motherly. She wore a classically Southern draped gown of white silk that pooled around her feet and extended in a train behind her. It flowed in the air with ease.
Vhalla’s eyes shifted to the figure standing next to the Empress. He wore pressed white trousers and a long white coat, which was military in style with two rows of golden buttons running down the front. Its high collar was pinned down by two golden decorative metal plates on the shoulders. A number of military medals decorated the front. A golden rope ran from his shoulder to his chest. Despite all this, his hair was as he always wore it, slicked back and out of his face, flaring out slightly at the sides. The prince regarded the world with poised ambivalence as he looked down at the people, his nose and high cheekbones accented in the sun.
It wasn’t until Roan gave her a quick elbow to the side that she realized she was laughing. Aldrik looked so different in white, but it was still him. Roan shot Vhalla a confused look, and she only shook her head in response. Vhalla wasn’t sure why she found it so funny but she pressed her eyes closed, trying to regain control of herself. The sun still hurt her eyes any
ways.
The rumble of the crowd quieted and was replaced with a different rumbling: the sound of horses’ hooves over stone. It started as a distant noise and slowly escalated to loud thunder. Realization of why they had been summoned swept across the people and soon their cries and cheers matched the horses’ clattering hooves.
The first horse blazed through the gates. A pure white stallion held a man wearing golden armor. Every piece of the plate was embellished with careful metalwork and plated with gold. A shrill cry rose through the crowd and the cheers became near deafening.
Vhalla put a hand to her forehead. She didn’t have to look to know who the commotion was for.
The broad-shouldered golden prince stepped down from his horse. He waved his hands to the people, and they reached for him like babes to their mother. Pulling off his helmet, his cropped golden hair clung to his face with sweat and he grinned like a fool as he shook the hands of countless people, making his way to the stage.
For a brief moment Vhalla wondered if she had been one of the masses reaching for him, would he have recognized her from their meeting in the library months ago.
Vhalla looked back to Aldrik. He stood as still as stone, his face offering as much emotion. His hands were folded behind his back as he looked down upon his younger brother, who was slowly making his way forward. Vhalla briefly recalled the unceremonious return of the crown prince. There hadn’t been a single cheer for him.
The cry slowly evolved into a unified chant as the main host entered the gates.
“Solaris, Solaris, Solaris.”
Everyone around her had given into the cry as the Emperor himself, clad in white and golden armor with a cape draping off the back of his horse, entered the stage area. On the back of his cape the golden sun blazed. He rode all the way up to the first step. Dismounting, their ruler strode toward his family, his walk steady and easy for a man of his age. Prince Baldair had taken his place next to his brother. The Emperor kissed his wife chastely and then greeted his eldest son with a firm handshake.
Vhalla saw nothing in Aldrik’s cold gaze and was becoming frustrated at being so far away—and at her eyes continued refusal to focus.
The Emperor turned to face the crowd; all the people, young and old, fell to their knees before their leader. Vhalla was no exception.
“My most loyal subjects,” his voice rang clear through the hushed area, “we have returned from our campaigns in the North with many victories to recount.” A cheer rang out again, then quickly stilled.
“The Northern Capital, Soricium, holds out, but they will fall in time. Their country is in shambles before the blazing might of the Sun.”
For a brief moment amidst the cheers Vhalla wondered, if the Mother Sun was truly a loving Goddess, then why did she send her people to kill and die?
“We will bring the spoils of war under one unified banner.”
People rose to their feet, and Vhalla returned to leaning against the wall. If Aldrik had moved she couldn’t tell.
“With this, let a most grand Festival of the Sun begin!” The Emperor raised his hands and a few explosions rang out, fireworks entering sky. Everyone turned their gaze skyward, save for Vhalla and the crown prince. He continued to stare forward, motionless.
Vhalla closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. For a moment, the pain in her head subsided. The world slowly rebuilt itself around her in astounding clarity. She looked forward—but not with her physical eyes— and saw him, a distant point of light. She pushed her vision closer, to really see if his face looked as it had from a distance.
He looked tight-jawed and cold-eyed. Even though he stood among hundreds of people, he might as well have been standing on an island. She didn’t understand. They were beginning a festival; this was a time for happiness.
Don’t look so sad.
His head quickly snapped in her direction, and Vhalla’s eyes opened wide. She cried out, pressing her palms to her face. The sunlight was like fire on her brain. Behind her eyes burned a blazing white light that threatened to rip her apart. She shook her head and stumbled into someone. Vhalla thought she heard a man talking to her, but it was distant and faint, barely registering over the roar in her head.
Lunging forward, she clung to the wall as though it was the only thing grounding her to the physical world. She wanted it to stop; she would do anything to make it stop. There was a hand on her back, and she tried to stand, squinting open her eyes. The cannons fired again, and Vhalla saw the second round of blazing fireworks shoot toward the sky right before her knees buckled beneath her and her body gave out.
SHE FLOATED IN the air. No, not floated, she was being carried. Her right ear rested against a man’s chest, a frantic heartbeat underneath. Why were they going so fast? Vhalla wanted to tell him that it was all right, that he could slow down, but nothing seemed to be connected to her mind. It was as though she was trapped in her own body.
But wherever she was, it was warm and the pain had gone. That was good enough for her. Deciding she was tired again, she went to sleep.
She jolted back to awareness when she felt her body being put down. She heard talking again, but she couldn’t quite seem to get her ears to work. The man was asking her something. What could he possibly want? Didn’t he see she was in no position to give anything? Then he was gone. She could feel that he was gone, something in her just knew.
More darkness and silence. Vhalla sat in the confines of her own mind wondering how she got here. Her body still refused to obey her.
“I’ll be back with help.” That’s what he had said, her mind put together. More people were coming. He was going to bring more people. She had to wake up. But it was too late, they were already here. More familiar voices, rushed speech, who were they this time?
There were hands, more hands, different from before but not completely new. A woman’s hands this time. She was carrying her to another location. Vhalla wanted to feel terrified at the prospect, but she found herself unable to feel much of anything.
The world shifted around her, the air changed. It was once more different, yet strangely familiar. She’d been here before, even if she didn’t know where here was.
She was placed on another bed. Trapped within her mental prison, Vhalla rallied against the silence. She slowly stretched outward, and the world built itself before her.
The room was unfamiliar, but Vhalla instantly recognized the dragon molding near the ceiling; she was in the Tower. There was a wardrobe, Vhalla had expected it to be black but it was a gray, ashen-colored wood. A small desk, chair; her eyes fell on the bed, and Vhalla panicked.
She was there. Motionless, hardly breathing, Vhalla did not know if she was alive. The foreign room aside, Fritz’s and Larel’s presences ignored, Vhalla stared at her corpse-like form. Dead, she was dead, and this was the start of the afterlife.
“We need to get the minister.” Fritz pulled at his hair, pacing.
“She’s breathing. She doesn’t look pained. Check her Channels.” Larel remained calm, situating Vhalla’s legs. The rise and fall of her chest was so minimal it was almost invisible, but Vhalla was relieved to hear it was there. Whatever was happening she wasn’t dead, yet.
Larel? Vhalla whispered. Fritz? Neither seemed to hear her wispy words.
“No, I can’t. I’m not a magical healer, Larel. My lessons have only—” Fritz was leaving himself breathless in his panic.
“Check her!” Larel demanded sharply.
Fritz finally obliged. His hands rested on Vhalla’s throat, fingertips behind her ears, delicate and gentle as though she was made of glass. With closed eyes he ran his palms over her shoulders down her arms, flat against her stomach.
“I can’t find anything wrong.” Fritz shook his head.
The slamming of a door, echoing from the hall beyond, momentarily paused all response from Larel.
“Check her again,” the dark-haired woman demanded before dashing out the door.
Fritz returned to his duty.
His palms slid down the outside of her thighs and down to her feet. Suddenly Larel’s door was thrown open so hard it almost bounced against the wall.
Aldrik stood in the doorframe, both commanding and disheveled. His white coat was unbuttoned and hung loosely around him, a plain shirt underneath. His cheeks were flushed, and his breathing hard. Even his hair looked less than perfect, long strands hanging over his eyes.
He stepped in quickly, Larel shutting the door behind him. Fritz looked as dazed as Vhalla felt. The crown prince did not stand in an apprentice’s rooms, but Aldrik did not seem to care. The only thing that bothered him was the sight of her lifeless body.
“My prince,” Fritz squeaked.
Vhalla took a step away, a window to her back.
“Out.” Aldrik hardly seemed to notice the presence of the Southerner. With one word Fritz had diminished to less than a fly on the wall.
“Larel?” Fritz glanced over at the woman, but Larel only shook her head. “Right, well, I can’t find anything wrong with her.” He inched toward the door, removing the barrier of his body between Vhalla’s form on the bed and the prince. “Should I get the minister?”
“No,” Aldrik replied with a glare. His hand shot out faster than a viper, Fritz’s collar balled in his fingers. “If I hear you breathing a word of this to anyone, consider your time in the Tower finished.”
A threat lived in Aldrik’s last word. It made Vhalla uncomfortable just to hear. The library boy gaped, frozen to the spot.
“Now, out,” the older man hissed. Fritz bolted from the room as though his life depended on it. Vhalla didn’t want to even entertain the idea that it did.
Neither Larel nor the prince said anything. Fading sunlight filtered through the window behind her, and Vhalla noticed she cast no shadow.
“What’s wrong with her?” Larel asked. Her voice had a surprising amount of emotion.