The Senate was there and seated. Some stared at her in anger, others regarded her with calm. Vhalla tried to determine if the senators who had called for her death looked angry or happy. She couldn’t decide. Egmun sat in the center, and he stared at her queerly. His eyes made her uncomfortable. Vhalla’s skin crawled, and she looked away.
The royal family sat on their thrones. Prince Baldair wore a conflicted frown. The Emperor was banging his staff again, but Vhalla barely heard it as her eyes met Aldrik’s. He wore a tortured expression on his features and looked away quickly when he saw her stare. Vhalla’s stomach turned upside-down.
“Vhalla Yarl.” The Emperor stood. “After much deliberation and review of the evidence,” Vhalla noticed he glanced at his eldest son a brief moment, “this high court has come to a verdict. Head Elect?”
Egmun stood. He held out a large piece of parchment before him that he read from. “Vhalla Yarl, on this day two hundred thirty-four years after the birth of the first Solaris, you have been judged for your crimes against the people of the Great Solaris Empire.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot, forcing her hands to stay at her sides.
“For the crime of recklessness, we have found you guilty.”
Vhalla breathed sharply through her nose.
“For the crime of endangerment, we have found you guilty.”
She clutched the sides of her burlap sack.
“For the crime of impersonation of nobility, we have found you guilty.”
Vhalla looked sideways at Baldair. Clearly he had not offered much defense for his role in that particular offense.
“For the crime of public destruction, we have found you guilty.”
She began to feel dizzy.
Egmun continued to read as they looked down upon her. “For the crime of heresy, we have found you not guilty.”
It was a start.
“For the crime of murder, we have found you not guilty.”
She gripped the bars taking a slow breath.
“For the crime of treason,” Egmun’s eyes flicked over to her a brief moment. “We have found you not guilty.”
Vhalla rested her forehead on the cool iron of her cage. She wanted to feel relieved, but something about the pain in Aldrik’s eyes cautioned her otherwise.
“To atone for your crimes it is the will of the Senate, the people, that you will be conscripted into the military to apply your abilities to the war in the North.”
Vhalla blinked. They were making her a soldier. She didn’t know anything about fighting; sending her there was a death sentence. Her eyes widened; that was the point. Either way they would win. If she succeeded they would claim the glory, or the Northerners would kill her for them.
“You are to be considered property of the Empire for the remaining duration of the war and will be deployed to the front in one week’s time,” Egmun continued.
“I don’t know anything about combat,” she said meekly.
The Head Elect looked at her slowly. “We have been assured your powers are special, beyond compare. If that is the case, I am sure you will learn quickly,” Egmun sneered at her.
Vhalla looked about frantically; Aldrik clutched his seat so hard his hands shook.
“Should you be found to disobey an Imperial Order, partake in any treasonous activities, or flee your duty, you will be put to death by the righteous flames of the leader of the Black Legion—” Egmun paused with a dark grin in her direction. “—the Crown Prince Aldrik.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she looked over frantically.
His face hadn’t changed. Vhalla turned to Prince Baldair, who glared at his brother. She turned to the other senators, but unsurprisingly there was little love there.
“This is the will of the Senate, on behalf of the people.” Egmun rolled the parchment and began to descend the risers of the Senate. His footsteps echoed like a hammer against her brain.
Vhalla felt numb; she wasn’t sentenced to death, but she might as well have been.
When Egmun was halfway to the Emperor, starting up for the Imperial Platform, she allowed herself to look at Aldrik. He shifted in his chair and for a brief moment he placed his hand on his hip. His message was clear.
No matter what, he couldn’t kill her because of the Bond.
This was an order just as dangerous to him as it was to her. She wasn’t sure if she was glad, or tortured by knowing where this placed him. If he was told to kill her and he refused, Valla had no doubt these very senators would turn it against him. Vhalla gripped the bars and barely kept in a scream. They did not know the true gravity of what they had done.
Egmun handed the parchment to the Emperor and slowly returned to his seat.
“Vhalla Yarl, before the Light of the Mother I have heard your crimes, your evidence, and the people’s will in your fate. I find this to be a fair and just punishment for the offenses you have committed against the Empire.” A servant brought a small bowl of hot wax and a large metal seal on a platter. The Emperor dripped the molten liquid onto the parchment and pressed his seal onto the paper that held her future.
“So it has been written, so it shall be.”
“Guards, return her to the palace via the care of the Tower,” Egmun said with a gleeful grin.
Vhalla was ushered away by Craig and Daniel. She didn’t even have a chance to see Aldrik once more. Instead of turning back to her cell, they began heading upward.
They ascended through an inner passage, the stones of the wall and floor slowly became more polished and carefully laid. The torches lining the walls became more frequent and the hallway began to be bathed in more light than darkness. After a series of doors they reached an archway that emptied into a larger hall. A girl waited, her hands folded before her.
“Larel?” Vhalla blinked.
The Western woman smiled faintly, turning to Craig and Daniel. “I will take her from here. I am her escort to the Tower,” Larel informed Vhalla’s companions.
They nodded. “We will leave her to you then,” Craig said.
Vhalla turned. “Thank you for your kindness,” she said in earnest.
“Take care, Miss Windwalker,” Daniel added, with a sad but genuine smile. “Maybe we’ll see you on the march?”
“You’ll be there?” Vhalla asked as Larel took her hand gently.
“We will,” Craig affirmed with a nod.
Vhalla opened her mouth but there wasn’t time to say anything else. She gave her guards one more nod of appreciation before allowing Larel to lead her away. Vhalla had never been more ready to leave anywhere in her life. Her head was still reeling from the verdict.
Larel lead her quietly and efficiently through the hallways of the castle. They wove between main halls and down small side passages, avoiding all people. Eventually, they arrived at a large painting of the Father. He was leaning against a pile of rubble, lusting after a distant point of light in the sky. Larel pushed it to the side, motioning for Vhalla to step through.
Vhalla immediately knew she was in the Tower, as the candles and torches had been replaced with flame bulbs. A wave of emotion washed over her, and she leaned against the stone, trying to catch her breath. It hadn’t sunk in yet. Larel rested a hand gently on her shoulder.
“Your room isn’t far,” Larel spoke softly, focused on one task at a time.
“My room?” she repeated.
“And your black robe,” she said very matter of fact. Vhalla followed her numbly to the main stairwell. They turned left and proceeded upward. They passed the door that Vhalla knew led to the room where she had healed, then they continued up. A few doors after, they reached one that looked much like any other, save for a unique steel plaque in its center. She rested her hand upon it, feeling the letters engraved on its surface, Vhalla Yarl. Larel produced an iron skeleton key and unlocked it.
The room was an upgrade from her previous quarters. It had similar standard-issue furniture. There was a decent-sized wardrobe, mirror, desk, and chai
r. None of this attracted her attention.
Vhalla walked over to a large floor-to-ceiling window, unhooking the latch. She stepped out onto a small balcony, barely more than a window ledge with a railing. It was the first time she had been outside in days, and the cold crisp air greeted her like an old friend.
“Is this really my room?” she asked in awe.
Larel nodded. “The minister thought, given your Affinity, that a room like this would be good for you.”
Vhalla wondered how many other apprentices in the Tower—in the whole palace—had a room with outdoor access, however small and limited.
She walked back inside. Opening the wardrobe she found all her clothes neatly hung inside.
“I brought your things,” Larel explained.
Vhalla noticed a familiar trunk beneath her bed. The rest of her meager possessions had been neatly organized at the base of her wardrobe. Vhalla bit her lip when she noticed a thick pile of notes, organized and bound tightly with a piece of twine. She looked back at Larel.
“I didn’t read them,” Larel said softly. “Your correspondence with the prince isn’t my business.”
“How did you know they were from him?” Vhalla asked dumbly.
“I’ve known the prince a long time. He is a talented and powerful Firebearer. It’s hard for him to make anything without leaving a little trace magic on it. It’s faint enough that even most magical people wouldn’t know much by it, but...” she shrugged, not really finishing.
Vhalla ran her fingertips over the top of the stack wistfully. If only she could return to those days.
“Did you hear the verdict?” Vhalla asked, shutting her wardrobe.
“The minister just told me you were part of the Tower now.” Larel shook her head.
“I was found not guilty for half—the better half—of my crimes. But for what I was found guilty for... I’ve been drafted into the army. I’m property of the Empire now. I will leave with the soldiers as they head back to fight.” Her tone was level and dull, the numbness hadn’t worn off yet.
“Property?” Larel gasped. Vhalla simply nodded at her. “Do you know anything about combat?” Vhalla shook her head. “Have you ever fought someone before in your life?” Vhalla shook her head again. “They’re trying to get you killed.” Larel was brave enough to say it aloud.
“Yes, I think that’s the plan,” Vhalla agreed weakly.
“They march soon, I hear.” Larel sat heavily in the room’s single chair and took a moment to let it sink in.
“Well, you can have my room when I’m dead,” Vhalla remarked darkly. It wasn’t as though she deserved as nice a room as this.
“You will not die,” Larel announced, determined. “We will heal you and then, when you march, you will be trained in the legions. I’ll speak with Prince Aldrik and Major Reale.”
“Major Reale?” Vhalla swallowed. She wanted to share the woman’s determination, but that would mean everything happening to her was real.
“Major Reale is one of the leaders of the Black Legion under Prince Aldrik and Head Major Jax, though I think Jax is still at the front. Major Reale is here, and she will be marching back as well. The march will take two or three months headed north,” Larel explained. “It only took a month to get here, but the men were lighter loaded with enough horses to go around. This time there will be new recruits, so they will be marching on foot. There will also be heavily burdened pack horses and carts bringing food and supplies. And the army will stop to pick up additional soldiers from the West at the Crossroads, I hear. You’ll gain some time there also. All that time you will be training.”
As Larel elaborated, her confidence became infectious. It seemed less impossible and marginally probable that Vhalla might learn enough to keep herself alive. That is, until the memories of the Northerners in all their ruthless resolve came back to her. Vhalla, bit her lip, it was hopeless to think she would be able to do anything.
“Come, we’ll speak on this later.” Larel stood as if sensing her shifting determination. “Let me show you the baths. I’m sure you’d like a wash.”
Vhalla nodded; there was little that appealed more in the world than bathing. Perhaps she could scrub her skin away and find a new person beneath it.
Just like everything else in the Tower, the baths were a significant upgrade from the servants’ baths. It was communal, unlike the lavish private room she had used to bathe in before the Gala. But here too, there were spigots with hot and cold water; two in each of the ten stalls that sat ready for people to wash with before soaking in a steaming pool that covered the back third of the floor.
Vhalla hadn’t even wanted to touch her clean clothes, she felt so filthy. Larel had been kind enough to carry them for her, and the other woman placed them in a small changing area before a large mirror. Vhalla stopped and looked at herself for the first time in almost four days.
Her hair was a bird’s nest, sticking this way and that. It was a good three inches shorter with all the knots. Her face was streaked with blood, soot, and caked makeup. Her eyes looked tired and worn, and her cheeks a more hollow than she remembered them being. Vhalla ran a finger down the gash that ran between a black eye and a split lip, beginning to laugh.
“Vhalla?” Larel asked gently, her concern evident.
“I’m a mess. No wonder the senators had little difficulty seeing me as a crazed killer,” Vhalla continued to laugh. It echoed through the empty hopelessness she found within her. She shook her head.
“I need to see your wounds, Vhalla.” Larel pressed her fingertips together. “I’ll go get whatever salves are necessary once I know their status.”
Vhalla paused a moment as the other woman waited expectantly. Larel was telling her to undress, she realized.
With a breath, Vhalla pulled the sack over her head. Her hands trembled as the air hit her skin, and Vhalla forced herself to be brave. With an angry grunt she threw the burlap ball and underclothes into a corner.
“Burn it, Larel,” she barked, a dark tone in her voice that tasted heady and almost sweet in its rough tang.
Larel nodded, and with a glance it was consumed in an orange flame until nothing was left but a small black spot on the tile.
The Western woman rounded her and seemed to be making a mental list. She looked closely at Vhalla’s shoulder, pulling away the remaining bandage that Vhalla hadn’t fussed with. She moved to her head next, taking off the soiled gauze.
Normally Vhalla would not feel very comfortable being naked in the presence of another woman. Larel had a clinical manner to her, which made it all the easier. But Vhalla saw the remnants of Rat and Mole’s abuse, the purpling of her abdomen, arms, and legs. Larel spared her any unhelpful coddling or pointless anger, saying nothing of abuse.
“All right, they don’t look too bad, physically at least,” she said thoughtfully, after another turn. “I’ll go get a few things and be back. Go ahead and start washing up. I asked the other girls to stay away for a bit, so you should have privacy.”
Vhalla sat in a stall and turned on the hot water. She doused herself the second the bucket was full. The water was scalding, and Vhalla took a breath, repeating the process. It couldn’t be hot enough, and after the fourth bucket her skin was bright pink and slightly steaming.
Working a bar of soap to a lather, Vhalla found a small pumice stone and used it liberally. She applied all the pressure she could. At first, it was for the thick layer of grime but each time she stopped, the thought of Rat and Mole’s assault raining down on her consumed her. Eventually her skin was splotchy with raw—almost bleeding—spots where bruises once were. Vhalla threw the stone away before she could harm herself further.
She poured water over herself again and turned to her hair. She lathered in soap with delicate fingers, working on the tangles and scabbing at her scalp. The water ran red with dried blood, so Vhalla washed it again. After the third washing she found a small brush and attempted to comb through the hopeless mess.
It w
as slow going; each time she put the brush in her hair, it hit a snag. Vhalla started with the crown of her head and began working downward. Around halfway, all the knots began to stack on each other and she couldn’t work the comb through. Vhalla attempted to brush from the bottom, but to no avail. She tried the left side, then the right side, but found no luck.
Vhalla threw the brush against the wall and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to cry anymore; she was tired of feeling weak and sad. She was tired of feeling hopeless, tired of fighting, and tired of feeling like the world was against her. Standing, she walked back over to the mirror, looking at the mass of knots halfway through her hair.
A glint of silver caught her eye, and Vhalla picked up a razor. Grabbing a hunk of hair she took a breath. The wet clump that fell to the floor was one of the most psychologically beneficial things she’d done in some time. Vhalla grabbed the next fist of hair and the razor glided through it effortlessly, then the next, and the next.
She would cut it away. She would cut away the anger, the pain, and the frustration. She’d cut and cut until she was sculpted into something better, something stronger. They wanted to kill her, so this Vhalla would die, she resolved, and a new Vhalla would be born from her ashes.
“Vhalla?” Larel’s faint voice broke the silence. Vhalla wondered why her shoulders wouldn’t stop shaking.
“It was a hopeless mess; I didn’t really like it anyways.” Vhalla shrugged at the pile of hair on the floor, as though she were indifferent to the length she had always carried on her head. Her fingers went easily though the remaining hair now, short enough that the nape of her neck showed.
“Sit,” Larel instructed, motioning to the stool in the stall while retrieving the straight razor. Larel proceeded to apply a more masterful hand to her hack job. “Do you want bangs?” Larel motioned across her own forehead at the hair that landed right before her eyes.