Air Awakens Book One

  “A Windwalker,” she repeated, glancing at him.

  He put his hand against the window frame and took a long breath. “Are you sure? I know the awakening can scramble the brain a tad and, well, we don’t hear things right. You know how it is.” Fritz continued to stare at her in disbelief.

  She looked at him, slightly annoyed he was ruining her moment of reuniting with books by being so daft. “My Affinity is air. I don’t know much, but everyone has told me that makes me a Windwalker.” She spoke very slowly and tried to accentuate each word.

  “You’re serious,” he choked out. She nodded in frustration. “Oh by the Sun, you’re serious.” He snatched her hand again and shook it vigorously. “This is an honor. An honor! To meet you. I wondered why the minister was so tight-lipped about the newly woken. A Windwalker. A Windwalker here, in the capital, safe, in one piece. Not burnt up to little bits.”

  “You’re hurting me.” Vhalla smiled through a grimace, rubbing her throbbing shoulder as he relinquished her hand apologetically. “What do you mean, not burnt up?”

  “Well, given the history of Windwalkers...” Fritz trailed off, as if she understood what he was talking about. She didn’t, and he finally realized that fact. “Wait, you don’t know the history?”

  “I’ve read some on the history of sorcerers,” Vhalla answered vaguely. He was giving her that same feeling that the prince had, guilt at ignoring a whole area of knowledge for years.

  “Tell me what you know.” Fritz smiled and the resemblance to the prince was gone. “I’ll help fill in the rest.”

  “Well,” Vhalla took a deep breath. “I know that Windwalkers are—were—from the East. I am Eastern. I know there hasn’t been one in a hundred-something years and that some people thought there wouldn’t be any more.”

  “That’s the basics.” Fritz smiled. “But only just.”

  He led her along with gentle hand tugs and slow steps through the books. His palm was cool, but not uncomfortable. Vhalla allowed herself a small smile. It was about time that she met a sorcerer with gentle and happy manner.

  “Over here, this section is our histories.”

  There were no rolling ladders, and Fritz was left scurrying for a nearby foot stool. At least the bookshelves were only half as high as the ones in the library. It took a ladder with twenty rungs for Vhalla to reach the tops of those. “Windwalkers... There hasn’t been much new material since—well, there haven’t been any Windwalkers in some time. Books are rare too; Mhashan didn’t want any left.”

  “Mhashan? The old West?” Vhalla blinked, wondering what the Kingdom of Mhashan had to do with Windwalkers.

  “I won’t explain it well.” Fritz shook his head doubtfully. “Here, read this.”

  Vhalla looked at the title of the manuscript the messy-haired librarian placed reverently into her hands: The Windwalkers of the East. It was an old manuscript, and the library apprentice in her noted immediately that the book would need to be rebound soon. A quick flip and the inspection of a few middle pages proved that at least the ink was still legible.

  “Thank you.” It was like a breath of fresh air. Something about holding a book again made her feel better.

  “Don’t worry about it!” Fritz smiled a wide and toothy grin.

  “Can I read here?” Vhalla had no interest in returning to the room she had been recovering in.

  “This is a library.” He chuckled.

  Fritz led her over to a window with a wide bench placed before it. It wasn’t quite a window seat, but it was close enough that Vhalla instantly relaxed into her new surroundings.

  Flipping open the book, she diligently started reading at the first page. Vhalla did not count a book as read unless one’s eyes fell on the very first word of the first page and the very last word of the last.

  Her brow furrowed, and her fingers trailed over the script. She tucked some flyaway hair behind her ear only to have it fall in her face again.

  Something was amiss.

  The writing was familiar. It was slightly less jagged, less spiky than what she knew. This was written by a steadier hand, likely a younger hand. But it was impossible. Vhalla blinked at the title page.

  The Windwalkers of the East

  A collection of accounts from The Burning Times

  Composed by Mohned Topperen.

  MOHNED TOPPEREN. THE name had to be a mistake. Perhaps, it was a very common name, and Vhalla did not know it. Why else would the Master of Tome’s name be in a book on magical history? Then again, the master could boast authorship of more than a hundred manuscripts. Why should he have a problem writing on magic?

  Vhalla paused, suddenly feeling very small. This whole time she was fearful of sorcerers when the man who was her mentor, who had been like her father in the palace, had written about them long before she was even born. She leaned against the wall, her head swimming. What was wrong with her?

  Mohned had raised her better. Her father had raised her better. Vhalla had lived in the South for so long that the Southern fear of magic had seeped into her. Yes, sorcerers were different. But the South had been different, and she hadn’t feared moving into the palace, she had been excited at the prospect of expanding her knowledge. Her world had grown and, as a child, she had accepted that better than as a young woman.

  Why did growing up shrink her mind?

  “Vhalla?” the library boy whispered softly, sitting next to her.

  “Yes?” She blinked at him, worried her magic was acting up again; he was inexplicably blurry.

  “Hey, you okay?” He placed a hand on her knee, and Vhalla stared at the foreign contact. It was strangely welcome. “You’re crying.”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head, looking away, rubbing her eyes in frustration.

  “Don’t apologize.” Fritz shook his head. “It must be a lot.” Vhalla nodded mutely. “Were you in the palace before this?”

  “I was,” Vhalla answered, finding talking helped work out the lump in her throat. “I was a library apprentice. I’ve lived here since I was eleven. Almost seven years now...”

  “That’s good,” he smiled. Vhalla stared at him, puzzled. Before she could ask what was good about her situation, he elaborated. “Some of the new apprentices are dropped off by their families. They’ve never lived in the palace before—or even out of their homes. The worst is when their family disowns them as well.”

  “Disown? Their own family?” Vhalla blinked. She didn’t know what her father really thought of magic, but Vhalla wanted to believe that nothing would make him abandon her on a doorstep. He had been teary eyed leaving her in the South.

  “They’re afraid.” Fritz shrugged. “They don’t think it’s natural, even though people can’t choose magic.”

  “Is that what happened to you?” Vhalla asked.

  “No,” Fritz chuckled. “No one in my family is a sorcerer, but they hardly minded. My sisters thought it was hilarious when I couldn’t stop randomly freezing things.”

  “Freezing things?” Vhalla mused aloud. “That would make you a-a—” She couldn’t remember the proper name. “You have a water Affinity.”

  “A Waterrunner,” Fritz filled in the blank helpfully. “Okay, right, well, I’ll let you read. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t in pain.”

  “Don’t,” Vhalla grabbed the hand resting on her knee as he went to stand. “Don’t leave.” She looked away, a flush rising to her cheeks. Vhalla didn’t want Fritz to go. He was the first stable person in the whole Tower, and she needed someone warm and genuine right now. Something about his Southern hair and eyes reminded her of Roan.

  “All right,” Fritz agreed with earnestness, settling next to her. “I’ll read with you; it can’t hurt to brush up on my history.”

  They began reading together and Vhalla appreciated that he read almost as fast as she did.

  The story of the Windwalkers started centuries before the last Windwalker died during the great genocide that was known as The Burning Times. It was
a rich history of Cyven, the old East, that Vhalla had never been taught despite being born there. The story was incomplete in some areas, being taken from oral histories, but it wasn’t until Vhalla reached the middle section on The Burning Times that she began to have questions.

  “I don’t understand.” Vhalla shook her head. “The King of Mhashan was invading Cyven?”

  “Mhashan could have been greater than the Empire Solaris if they had kept Cyven, some say,” Fritz confirmed.

  “Why didn’t they?” The book took a distinctly Eastern viewpoint, and the explanations for the West’s actions were lacking.

  “King Jadar claimed the invasion was to spread the word of the Mother Sun.” History was clearly a favorite area for Fritz by the way he spoke and through the animation in his hands. Vhalla wondered how many nations would use the Mother as an excuse for conquest. “But really, what he wanted was the Windwalkers’ power.”

  “Why?” Vhalla tried not to sound too eager. The prince and minister’s conversation was still fresh in her mind.

  “I don’t really know,” Fritz replied apologetically.

  Vhalla felt her chest deflate. Whatever the reason, the king had enslaved every Windwalker found by his armies and a specially trained secret order of knights. In the process, most of the East was put to the flame. There came a point when the Windwalkers admitted defeat, hoping to spare the rest of their people. Compared to the West’s military, they were disorganized and weak. The king accepted their surrender; after the last of the sorcerers were in irons he burned every remaining resistance or love for those with the air Affinity, as though he wanted to erase them from the earth.

  Vhalla stared at the words, realizing she was nearing the end of the tale. The last quarter of the book focused on what the West did with their captives. Live experiments and forced labor that churned contents of her stomach sour.

  “Why would they do this?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know.” The Southern man patted her knee. “But it was a long time ago. Things are different now.”

  “How have I not known this happened?” Vhalla tried to wrap her head around what she had just read.

  “In my history lessons they always told us that the East made all magic taboo following The Burning Times. Cyven was afraid of drawing the wrath of the West anew so they banned magic, discussions on magic, or books on it,” Fritz explained. “Eventually magic was forgotten by the average person, and the laws became social norms.”

  Vhalla stared forward, the book gripped loosely in her palms. The chatty Fritz stayed silent, letting her process everything that she had just learned. If she had been born more than a century and a half ago, the West would have killed her for her magic. She had something that kings killed for. But Vhalla still didn’t understand what made her magic more significant than any of the other Affinities. It frightened her. But she also recognized that it was something she must uncover before the prince, minister, or even the Emperor could uncover—if they hadn’t already.

  However, the energy flowing through her veins was not all fear.

  Excitement, Vhalla realized. The girl in her who had never amounted to anything other than an avid reader now had something that kings killed for. She had power, and her curiosity surrounding it finally surpassed exhaustion and fear.

  “Fritz,” Vhalla said suddenly. She stood, swayed a minute on weak knees, but planted her feet firmly on the ground. “How do I use magic?”

  “What?” The blonde-haired man was startled by the sudden flurry of movement.

  “I am a sorcerer, right? I can use magic then. How do I do it?” Vhalla feared she would lose whatever possessed her before she even saw the truth.

  “I’m not a teacher,” Fritz cautioned.

  “Do your best.” Vhalla gave him a weak smile. She remembered the last man she had considered her teacher. Fritz couldn’t do worse.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it? You’re still kind of messed up. No offense, but I don’t want to tax your body.” Fritz swayed from one foot to the other.

  “Please,” Vhalla pleaded, her resolve about to vanish. “I need to know.”

  “Fine, fine.” Fritz placed his palms on her shoulders and turned her around gently to face one of the glass bulbs that were positioned on either side of the window. He leaned forward pointing at the flame. “Look there, look close. I’m no magical teacher, please realize. So I’m sorry for any bad advice I’ll give you. Now that I’ve warned you, you can’t blame me. I was told half of magic is visualizing what you want, and the other half is allowing it to come to pass. Does that help?”

  “Maybe?” Vhalla said honestly.

  “I don’t know how it works for Windwalkers. I’m a Waterrunner so I feel the water in me to help open my Channel. So, feel the wind in you, I guess?” he explained clumsily.

  “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered doubtfully. Her conviction quickly vanishing.

  “Yes, it is. You haven’t even tried yet.” He gave her shoulders an encouraging squeeze.

  Vhalla stared at the glass. The fire kept burning within, and she shrugged.

  “You call that trying?” He gave her a gentle nudge. “If looks alone could stop fire, then that would’ve done the trick.”

  Vhalla scowled, and she closed her eyes, taking a breath. She had no idea how to go about this and felt rather silly for even trying. She took another slow breath. Vhalla heard the air passing through her, felt it enter her body, felt it give her life.

  Hesitantly, doubtfully, she tried to imagine the position of the bulb in front of her, the fire inside. The picture formed before her almost as clear as if her eyes had been open.

  Magic, she had magic within her.

  She would accept that. Hadn’t she been kidnapped and pushed off a roof to force her accept it?

  Vhalla thought of the prince, her mood instantly souring. She had summoned magic then. That pigheaded infuriating man had made her summon magic. If he could bring it out of her, then she would be damned if she could not bring it out through her own will. Inhaling sharply, she snapped open her eyes just in time to watch the fire blow out, and the bulb shatter.

  “You did it!” Fritz’s hands were off her shoulders, and he was clapping them together like a madman.

  “I broke the bulb.” She stared at the shattered glass on the floor. Thinking of the prince led her to breaking things. It wasn’t really impressive—or healthy.

  “Who cares? We have a lot more.” Fritz laughed, something about his laugh was infectious, and she smiled despite herself. “You are a Windwalker!” He took both her hands in his and spun her around a few times until she felt dizzy, but slightly giddy. “Next, do that one.”

  Vhalla turned to the opposite bulb and repeated the process, this time trying to think of the wind staying only within the glass, but never actually touching it. She tried to quell her emotions some, but still reach from the same font she felt when her mind turned to angry thoughts of the crown prince. The bulb shuddered before cracking and breaking. This time there were significantly fewer pieces.

  “You’re amazing Vhalla!” Fritz cheered.

  His words and the world around her was lost as Vhalla stared, mesmerized by the shattered glass. She had done it, more or less. Magic had been scary, mysterious, painful, or intellectual. But this was the first time she could’ve described any moment as fun or rewarding. For once, it felt good.

  And, for the first time in her life, Vhalla felt strong.

  “Vhalla,” A familiar voice broke her trance. “I’m sorry, I stepped out for some lessons and training and you were gone.”

  She turned to look at the Western woman approaching quickly. Vhalla saw genuine concern in Larel’s eyes. It was tempered with a look at Fritz, noting that Vhalla had not been alone.

  “How do you feel?” Larel asked, inspecting her bandages.

  “I’m fine.” Vhalla braved a smile and was surprised to find her face still moved as she expected it to.

  ?
??She’s better than fine!” Fritz clasped a hand over her shoulder, and Vhalla grimaced as it shot sharp pain down her arm. “Look, Larel, the Tower’s first Windwalker broke a bulb!”

  “Really?” Larel half stepped around Fritz to inspect Vhalla’s accomplishment, if it could be called that. “Do you feel fine?”

  “I do.” Vhalla nodded, rubbing her shoulder where Fritz had given her his painful version of encouragement. “Well, other than the obvious.”

  “You need more potion.” Larel nodded in agreement. “I’ll tell the minister about your success and then we’ll get you food and medicine.”

  “Come visit me again, okay?” Fritz asked hopefully.

  Vhalla fidgeted with the bandages on her hands and fingers. She did not want to go back to that lonely room just yet. Things had been feeling normal, a strange and different normal, but normal nonetheless.

  “Can I eat with both of you?” Vhalla asked timidly.

  “Of course you can!” Fritz bounced. Larel had a small and knowing smile, but spared any comment and simply nodded.

  Vhalla sat next to Fritz in the Tower’s dining hall. She was surprised to find that they had their own kitchens, and the apprentices took turns cooking. Fritz explained that, as a result, they got to try all kinds of food from the different regions of the continent.

  The strawberries hadn’t been a fluke. Not only was the variety apparently better, but the quality of the food was as well. The meat was fresh, and it was actual cuts. Not the reject pieces, riddled with chewy fat and tendons, that she would get in the normal servants’ and apprentices’ dining hall. The vegetables were so fresh they still had a crunch. Vhalla felt cheated.

  Larel noticed her disapproving stare within moments, and Vhalla wondered if the power to read minds was part of a Firebearer’s Affinity as Larel found herself quickly explaining the cause of the differing food system.

  There was a saying that Vhalla had heard before: The Tower takes care of its own.

  Sorcerers knew how hard life could be, and they stuck together as a result. The Tower had a large number of sponsors who, after training, had gone out into the world and earned their fortunes. But they never forgot the start the Tower gave them and regularly sent coin and gifts to take care of the current apprentices. The cycle repeated itself generation after generation.