Fire Falling (2 page)

“You are not,” Larel insisted.

“I can barely do anything!” Her voice was pathetic, even to her own ears. But Vhalla was beyond caring. She’d summoned a false strength to make it through her trial, but it was gone now.

“Hush,” Larel ordered. The matter was no longer up for discussion. “You
must
sleep.”

Vhalla pressed her lips together. “Will you wake me?” she asked finally.

“I will,” Larel responded, as she did every night.

“I don’t know how I’ll sleep without you on the march,” Vhalla murmured softly.

“Don’t worry about that now, just rest.”

Larel kissed Vhalla’s knuckles softly, and Vhalla finally relented, closing her eyes.

Sleep was short, but it happened. Larel only woke Vhalla once more. It was an improvement from the previous four nights.

In the daylight Larel had the courtesy not to say anything about Vhalla’s night terrors. With the arrival of dawn, she departed Vhalla’s room quietly, leaving the Eastern woman to dress and prepare for the day.

Vhalla’s whole body felt stiff and sore, which made dressing take twice as long as normal. She rolled her shoulders and tilted her head from side to side as she shrugged on her black robe. Her reflection caught her attention: dark brown eyes flecked with gold were set upon a gaunt face and accentuated by dark circles. Even the usual yellowish, Eastern tan of her skin had turned ashen. Vhalla raised a hand to her short hair, remembering the afternoon following her verdict when she’d cut it all off.

“I hate it,” Vhalla declared, not sure if she was speaking to her hair or her reflection as a whole.

Her feet carried her against the stream of people heading toward the kitchens. She wasn’t hungry. Vhalla didn’t think she’d manage a bite today. She had one day left before she’d march away from everything she had ever known. Her normally small appetite had shriveled to a rock hard pit.

She entered the training rooms of the Tower, which encompassed the center of an entire level. The circular room was lined with a low outer wall that acted as a barrier for spectators and waiting trainees.

A woman already stood in the room behind a high desk.

“Major,” Vhalla called as she entered.

“Yarl.” Major Reale was a Southern woman who was built out of steel and was just as warm. A metal eyepatch had been melted directly onto her bone, covering her left eye. “You’re early.”

“I can’t stay away,” Vhalla retorted with a sarcastic tone, a tone that was beginning to permanently slip between her words. Vhalla didn’t know where it came from, and she was too tired to care.

“Well, you’re not working with me today.” The major glanced up only briefly before returning to marking up the papers on the desk.

“I’m not?” Vhalla didn’t know where else she’d go. She couldn’t leave the Tower per the Senate’s orders. She was still property of the crown until she saw the war in the North to its conclusion—or she died.

“The minister wants to see you.”

Vhalla knew a dismissal when she heard it, and Major Reale wasn’t exactly the friendliest of women to be around.

With breakfast underway, the Tower hallway was empty. Most of the residents packed into the kitchens a few levels up. As she passed the mess hall, the noise washed over her, but Vhalla was too numb to hear it.

Past her room and almost at the top of the Tower was the Minister of Sorcery’s office and quarters. All other doors held a name plaque on their fronts bearing the resident’s name. But the one before her had the symbol of the Tower of Sorcerers cast in silver, a dragon curling in on itself split in two: the Broken Moon.

Her eyes drifted upward.

There was one more door, just visible on the curve of the sloping hallway. It was completely unmarked. And, while no one could confirm with any certainty, Vhalla could only suspect who it belonged to. She hadn’t seen or heard from her phantom in days and had no way of reaching out to him, no matter how badly her poorer judgment begged her to. Vhalla swallowed and knocked on the door in front of her before the bad idea to proceed to the next door could overcome her.

“Just a moment,” a voice called from within. The door swung open and a Southern man with short-cut blonde hair and icy blue eyes greeted her, the goatee around his mouth curling into a smile. “Vhalla, come in, come in,” Minister Victor ushered.

She was welcomed into the lavish office; it was a level of wealth that she was still unaccustomed to. Plush cerulean carpet beneath her booted feet reminded her of the Imperial Library in a physically painful way. Vhalla quickly sat at one of the three chairs situated before the desk.

“I was just finishing my breakfast. Are you hungry?” He motioned to a plate filled with an assortment of pastries.

“No.” Vhalla shook her head, bringing her hands together and wringing her fingers.

“No?” The minister cocked his head. “You couldn’t have eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Now, Vhalla,” he scolded in a familial tone. “You need to keep up your strength.”

She stared at the muffin in his extended hand. Her training won out, and Vhalla listened to the man above her station. She picked at it listlessly, but that seemed to be enough for the minister.

“So tomorrow is the day,” he stated obviously.

“It is.” Vhalla nodded.

“I’d like to go over one or two things with you, before you march.” Vhalla continued to pick at her food as he spoke. “Foremost, I want you to know that no one in the Tower harbors any ill will toward you.”

Vhalla had a few bruises from Major Reale’s training that could beg to differ, but she busied her mouth with the muffin.

“I have informed all of the Black Legion that you are to be kept under close watch and be defended at all times,” Victor continued. “As the first Windwalker in nearly a hundred and fifty years I’d like to see you live long enough to study in the Tower.”

“Have you informed the Senate of this decision? I’m fairly certain they want me dead,” Vhalla replied numbly.

“Resentment doesn’t suit you.” The minister leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers together.

“Excuse me,” Vhalla mumbled a half-hearted apology and snuck the partly eaten muffin back onto the minister’s plate.

“You need to return alive, Vhalla.” Minister Victor regarded her thoughtfully. “I need you to believe that you will be able to do this.”

Vhalla didn’t know how she could be expected to keep herself alive when she could barely manage magic.
Mother
, she could barely manage to close her eyes for more than a few minutes without horrors haunting her. “Very well,” Vhalla feigned agreement.

The minister only sighed at her response. “Will it help you if I give purpose to your days?” Minister Victor leaned forward, his elbows on his desk as though he was to impart a great secret upon her. “There is something I need ... and only you, as a Windwalker, can retrieve it.”

Vhalla instinctually sat straighter. “What?” She finally asked as the words were left hovering in the air.

“There is something very powerful hidden in the North. The longer it sits unattended, the greater the likelihood of it falling into the wrong hands or being used against our forces, should the Northern clans understand what they possess.”

Vhalla wondered how this was supposed to help her. “What is it?” Curiosity won the war of her emotions.

“It’s an ancient weapon from a different time, a time when magic was wilder and more divine.” He paused, mulling over his next words. “It is an axe that is said to be able to sever anything, even a soul.”

“Why would such a thing exist?” Vhalla struggled to think of a reason.

“Well, the latest records of it read as much fact as fiction.” The minister rubbed his goatee in thought.

“How are you sure it’s real?”

“I have it on very good faith it is.” The minister returned to the point, “I need you to retrieve it and bring it back here.” He tapped his desk.

“But if it’s so dangerous ...” Vhalla mused aloud. She felt like she was missing an important piece of information, but the minister was uninterested in imparting it to her.

“As I said, we want to keep it from the wrong hands. Beyond that, it would make the wielder
nearly invincible
.” Minister Victor let that hang and Vhalla was smart enough to piece together what he was trying to tell her. If the wielder was nearly invincible, and she managed to find it, then perhaps she could make it out of the North alive. “Will you help me with this, Vhalla?”

She hesitated for one last, long moment. Vhalla stared into the minister’s icy blue eyes, the eyes of the man who had kidnapped her when they had first met. But they were also the eyes of a man who had harbored her, healed her, and protected her when the world was ready to tear her limb from limb. The Tower was a mysterious place, but she knew sincerity when she saw it.

“Of course, minister,” Vhalla said obediently.

The Tower took care of its own.

V
HALLA DID NOT
sleep that night. She stayed awake, fighting through the uneasy hours with a book that she quickly realized she’d never finish. Closing it with a soft sigh, Vhalla tucked it away in her wardrobe as the sky began to lighten.

Two large panes of glass acted as both windows and doors, opening to the railed strip of stone that served as her secondary gateway to the world—what would generously be called a balcony. The beginnings of a bad winter flowed into the city at the end of each breeze. Vhalla let the chill numb her cheeks as she watched the edge of the horizon slowly turn crimson with the Mother Sun’s waking.

A knock on her door pulled Vhalla’s attentions inside. Larel had told her that she’d be bringing Vhalla’s armor and helping her clip it on for the first time. Vhalla took a deep breath, trying to muster up the scraps of courage she had scavenged the night before.

The air vanished from her lungs with a soft choking noise at the person who awaited her.

His hair was as black as midnight. His eyes were crafted from piercing darkness and were perched upon high cheekbones carved from flawless alabaster skin. He wore meticulously crafted and finely pressed clothes—not a single stitch out of place. He was the opposite of the haggard woman whose clothes hung more limply with each day. But it was only expected as he was the crown prince.

Vhalla stood helplessly before him, and he seemed just as lost at the sight of her. Neither spoke.

Vhalla realized, very self-consciously, that this was the first time he’d seen her since she cut her hair. Short hair or no, could he even bear the sight of her any longer?

“I have your armor.” His low voice resonated smoothly across her restless mind.

Vhalla heard the demand in the statement, moving aside so he could maneuver a small wooden armor stand into her room.

The sound of the door shutting behind him sent a nervous shiver up her spine. The last time Vhalla had been alone with the prince was the day of her verdict. The last time she’d seen him she was being escorted out of a courtroom by two armed guards, her sentence having been read—a sentence that gave the prince the ability to kill her should she disobey.

But Aldrik wouldn’t kill her. The way he looked at her revealed that certainty. He couldn’t kill her, if the magical force—the Bond—between them was real.

“Where’s Larel?” Vhalla wanted to smash her face against the wall.
That was what she decided to say?

“I thought I might help you.” It was awkward, everything between them felt awkward. It was as though five years, not five days, had passed.

Everything had changed.

“I can’t deny you, my prince.” Vhalla brought her hands together, fidgeting.

Instead of his usual scolding of her restless tic, the prince took her fingers in his.

“Why the formality?” he asked softly, slipping the gloves onto her hands.

“Because ...” The words stuck in her throat.

“Just Aldrik is fine,” the prince reminded her.

She nodded mutely, still working through the knot of syllables behind her lips. With both gloves on, Aldrik passed her a chainmail tunic. Its sleeves were full, extending to the top of her gloves. Vhalla was surprised to find it had a hood fashioned of tiny links. Her hair fell just above where it pooled at the back of her neck. The weight of his stare brought her eyes to his, and Vhalla’s hand fell from where it played with the ends of her hair.

“You had it cut.” His hands paused on the armor.

“I cut it,” she corrected, staring at a corner of the room. It felt as though she was on trial all over again.

“I like it,” Aldrik said after what seemed like an eternity.

“You do?” Her mouth fell open in dumb shock.

“Long or short ... suits you.” The prince gave a small shrug.

Vhalla didn’t point out the fact that he had just contradicted himself. Her insides were in turmoil, and she suddenly felt like crying.
He liked it?
What about her was left to like?

The armor she slipped into was crafted out of small scales of black steel. It hung to mid-thigh and had shoulder coverings that only minimally hindered her movement. Her heart raced with conflicted emotion as she watched the prince’s long fingers demonstrate the locations of latches up the front of the armor.