Текст книги "Air Awakens"

Автор книги: Elise Kova

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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Silver Wing Press

Copyright © 2015 by Elise Kova

All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.

Cover Artwork by Merilliza Chan

Editing by Monica Wanat

ISBN (paperback): 9781932549935

ISBN (hardcover): 9781932549928

eISBN: 9781932549942

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015941847

Printed in the United States of America

This book is for ...

Alicia Davis, Kiri, Kay, IridescentSoul, Elanor Crumwell, RomanceObsessed, DarlingFaye, PowerMadGirl, yesiamhuman, queencarrot, Prodigee123, doc2or, Seriah Black Sheep, Your Loyal Bookworm, shinju asuka, puffgirl1952, musicboxmetaphor, shari, bfl2ma, Valerie, XtremeAngell, Mirirowan, Rebecca, prathyu, Alyss20, TwiinzRJ, Vyra Finn, Ozymandeos, Lady Altrariel, Ulsindhe, gizem524, musicalfishieXD, devonamorgan, blueeyesbrightsmile, Estheranian, Michelle Fang, Rizzy, Tessa, Sekhra, JustAnotherGal, Ashley, Izzy, Blanket Baby, hopewriteinspire, rosewood, appleeater1313, Wonderlander, A fan, Mizz Dustkeeper, lalalaughter101, LazyFakeName, carmensimagination, avery, avid reader, Mousey, Emmie, FreakinMarisa, Death’s Sweet Kiss, Kaf, Sephirium

... and everyone else who was with and supported me from the start. Without you, there would be no story.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

SUMMER STORMS WERE common in the capital and Vhalla Yarl had endured their visits in the seven years since she had moved from the East. But lightning and thunder were never welcome guests.

The burst of light through the shutter slats hadn’t set her heart to racing tonight; it was the solemn, low cry of a horn resonating off every post in the city that slowed her world with each reverberation. The noise faded before resounding once more.

Vhalla jumped to her feet, rushing to the small archer’s slit that served as her window. Unlatching the shutter proved to be a poor idea as the wind grabbed it, slamming it against the palace stone so hard that she thought it would rip from its hinges. The shutter was quickly forgotten as horns echoed their call on the palace wall below, and Vhalla blinked into the howling wind.

Horns could only mean one thing.

Her dark brown eyes—flecked with gold—fixed on the Imperial Gate far below as it opened to allow a military party to race inside. Leaning out as far as she could, Vhalla ignored the rain splattering her cheeks, straining to make out the shifting shadows of soldiers home from the front.

Had they won? Was the war against Shaldan over?

Vhalla’s heart beat harder. Through the intermittent flashes of lightning she only made out twenty horsemen.

Victory rode through the city in full force with sunlit pennons fluttering in the wind. Victory waited until better weather for their parades. Something was wrong. This was a messenger party, a delivery, an escort, a—

Vhalla’s mind went blank.

Palace servants rushed to meet the party and, by the flickering light of their torches, Vhalla was able to make out people. An Imperial White cape draped the haunch of a horse.

A prince had returned.

The servants helped the slumped royal from his saddle, pulling off the limp and sluggish body. She couldn’t hear the words shouted over the storm, but they seemed frantic and angry. Vhalla stood on her tiptoes, doubled at the waist and drenched halfway down her back, craning out the window until the injured man was carried away. Pulling herself from the rain, she closed her shutter and ignored the small puddle around her feet. One of the princes was injured, but which one?

Endless cerulean eyes filled her mind. Prince Baldair, the second son, had stopped into the library right before returning to war. Vhalla had never met a member of the Imperial Family before, but all the tales told about the Heartbreaker Prince had been true.

She gripped the front of her sleeping shift and forced herself to breathe deeply. The prince didn’t even know who she was, Vhalla reminded herself. He had certainly forgotten the library apprentice whom he had caught mid-air as she had clumsily slipped from one of the bookcases’ towering rolling ladders.

Now palace clerics were called, servants were woken to fetch blankets and stoke fires, apprentices of the healing arts would work all night, and all she could do was stand in silence.

Vhalla pushed away slick strands of dark hair sticking to her face. Roan was right, she was foolish for ever thinking of the Heartbreaker Prince. Vhalla was not the type of girl Prince Baldair would be interested in, she was far too plain.

The door slammed open. A petite blonde with ringlet curls stood breathless in the door frame. Vhalla blinked at the woman, a woman Vhalla seemed to have summon with her passing thought.

“Vhalla...library. Now,” Roan panted. It was like she spoke another language, and Vhalla’s body failed to oblige the command. “Vhalla, now!” Grabbing her wrist, Roan pulled her down the dimly lit halls, giving Vhalla no time to even dress properly.

“Roan. Roan! What’s going on?” Vhalla demanded as they rounded a tight corner.

“I don’t know much. Master Mohned will explain,” Roan replied.

“Is it the prince?” Vhalla blurted.

Her friend paused, turning. “You still have the Heartbreaker Prince on your mind? It’s been—what, two months?” Blue eyes, slightly darker than the prince’s, rolled at Vhalla.

“It’s not that. I—” she struggled, a hot flush rushing to her head.

“And why are you all wet?” Roan blinked, assessing her friend for the first time. Before Vhalla could answer, they were winding through the narrow servants’ passages again. “It doesn’t matter; just don’t get water on the books.”

The Imperial Library was housed within the palace, a part of the mountainside capital city of the Solaris Empire. Gold-gilded, cherry wood bookcases, which stood taller than four men perched upon each other’s shoulders, housed the vast knowledge of the Empire. Stained glass ran along the vaulted ceiling and, during normal sunny days, cast a kaleidoscope of color upon the floor.

Now, however, the library was swathed in darkness. Each apprentice stood by a candle at the central circulation desk in various stages of dress.

Her eyes passed over the motherly Lidia and briefly landed on the girl Cadance before falling on Sareem. Vhalla stared at his olive skin, a richer hue than hers, on display without a shirt. He was surprisingly toned, and Vhalla struggled to remember when her childhood friend had become a man. Sareem’s eyes caught hers, and he seemed almost startled. Vhalla quickly looked away.

“We need every book on the magic and poisons of the Northern Sky Citadels of Shaldan. Bring them here. We shall read through them and take notes on what may be useful before forwarding them to the clerics.” Master Mohned spoke as guards began to light more candles throughout the library. He looked every year of his ancient age, his long white beard unruly like the spindly roots of a tiny plant. Noticing they all stood, mouths catching flies with shock, he snapped, “This is an Imperial Order! Go!”

Vhalla took a running start at a rolling ladder, using momentum to glide the length of a bookshelf. Her eyes scanned the titles, and her hungry hands plucked books. With three manuscripts cradled in her arms, she sprinted back to the central desk, depositing them on the floor before repeating the process.

The piles grew and sweat dotted Vhalla’s brow. The master often scolded her for reading during work, but seven years of disobedience had burned a large list of titles into her mind. Book titles appeared before her eyes faster than her feet could carry her to them.

When the third stack of bound parchment stood taller than her, Vhalla noticed the other apprentices had stopped searching and claimed places on the floor to begin confirming the contents of each manuscript. She placed a palm over the stitch in her side. Their piles were so small. She could think of five tomes in potions alone that Sareem had missed.

The prince occupied her mind as she retrieved more books, his face in the forefront of her thoughts. His injuries must be serious if the clerics needed research beyond their common knowledge. Vhalla bit her lip, staring at her towers of books before the desk. What was wrong with him?

“Vhalla.”

She missed the master’s weathered voice while running through more titles in her head. There was one missing, there had to be. Was it in mysteries?

“Vhalla.”

The prince’s life could slip between their fingers due to missing only one line of text. Vhalla ran the back of her hand over her forehead, sweat or water rolled down her neck.

“Vhalla!”

“What?” she replied sharply, staring at Mohned. Vhalla instantly realized her disrespectful tone.

The master let it slide. “That’s enough; we have enough. Help us research, write down anything you find of use.”

Master Mohned motioned to the floor, and Vhalla took her place between Roan and Sareem. The library staff ignored all rules and decorum as they grabbed from a communal pile of quills, ink pots, and parchment in the middle of their circle.

Vhalla pulled the first book into her lap. “Master.” She raised her head, turning away from the pages sandwiched between her trembling fingers. The sage looked at her through his spectacles. “Who’s sick?”

“The prince.”

Those two words were all the master needed to speak for Vhalla’s throat to feel drier than the Western Waste. She wished she had been wrong.

He was in the palace, somewhere beyond her reach. He needed help, and she was no one. Vhalla was barely above the servants who swept the halls and mucked the toilets as punishment for petty crimes. But maybe her years of reading could pay off and she could actually do something.

Vhalla grabbed another piece of parchment. Her quill roughly marred its blank surface with streaks of ink. This was all she could do. It was all she was ever good at. She could read and perhaps pass on some knowledge to a cleric who would save a man she hardly even knew.

Snapping a quill, Vhalla cursed and threw the broken tool aside before reaching for another. Sareem shot a curious look towards her, but the brown-haired girl was a world away. The more Vhalla wrote, the calmer she felt. The pen was like an extension of her being and she forged the ink to her will as if she were under the spell of the words.

Slowly, the books began to grow in a new stack. Each had a note behind the cover, listing information she had found that she thought may be helpful. Vhalla hardly noticed her vertical workload diminishing as soldiers began to carry books out armfuls at a time. She also did not turn to say goodbye as her friends wearily departed throughout the night.

Though her energy was fading, the more books that left the room, the more she was compelled to read. Gradually, warmth budded within her. Slowly at first, then growing with each passing hour until it flourished into a blazing heat.

The sound of the last book closing woke her from her trance. Vhalla blinked at her empty ink-stained hands. In the sunlight, she turned her eyes toward the heavens, and she stared tiredly at the magnificent rainbow of colored glass that ran the length of the ceiling. Dawn had arrived, and she could not even remember the night. Two hands clasped themselves tightly around her swaying shoulders.

Blinking the haze from her eyes, Vhalla looked at the man who appeared suddenly before her. An unfamiliar face stared back. He was a Southern man with icy blue eyes, goatee, and short blonde hair. While he wasn’t menacing, she was certain that he was no one she had ever seen.

“This is the one?” He spoke to someone else, though his eyes were fixed on her.

“It is, minister,” another unfamiliar voice replied.

“Thank you. You are dismissed,” the Southern man ordered. Footsteps faded away with the sound of clinking armor.

“Who are you?” Vhalla’s tongue found life again, the daze of feverish heat fading. She tried to make sense of who this man was and why he was touching her. Her eyes settled upon a crisp black jacket. It contrasted starkly to the morning light. No one in the palace wore black.

She felt dizzy. Almost no one wore black. “Wait, you’re a—”

“No questions here.” A large hand, clammy and cold, clasped over her mouth. “Don’t be afraid; I’m here to help you. But you need to come with me.”

Vhalla looked up at the man with wide eyes. She breathed sharply through her nose and shook her head in protest against the silencing palm.

“I must speak with you privately, but the Master of Tome will return soon. So, come with me.” He slowly peeled his hand from her face.

“No.” She almost fell backwards. “I won’t go with you! You shouldn’t be here, I won’t go there.” Her mind was jumbled from panic heightened by the night’s exertion.

The man grabbed her once more with an annoyed look and a glance over his shoulder.

Vhalla opened her mouth to call out for help, but all she inhaled was a strong herbal scent from the cloth that was suddenly pressed against her face. Right before she lost her struggle with consciousness, Vhalla saw the symbol embroidered on the man’s jacket as he leaned forward to pick her up. Stitched over his left breast was a silver moon with a dragon curling around its center; split in two, each half was off-set from the other. She had never seen it with her own eyes, but she knew what that ominous image meant: a sorcerer.

IT FELT AS though someone had taken an axe to the back of her head, split it open, and allowed her brain to leak out upon the unfamiliar pillow. Vhalla groaned and cracked her eyes. Her face felt hot, and not from the sunlight that streamed through—in Vhalla’s opinion—an enormous window.

The previous day came back to her in a rush. She sat and grabbed her temples as a chill raced through her. The prince’s return, finding every book she could think of, practically passing out while reading, and the man and his strange black jacket—it all came back with sickening speed.

Vhalla looked around the room cautiously, as though a specter may lurk in any shadow. The walls were the palace’s stonework, fitted and mortared. A decorative edge ran around the top of the room, unlike her own unadorned chambers. Sculpted dragons danced around moons.

Her eyes finally settled upon a small glass jar hanging from an iron hook bolted into the wall. Flickering within was a tongue of fire. There was no oil or wax to fuel it, no source for the flame. It simply hovered within its container.

She scrambled to her feet, bolting for the door. Her hands closed around the metal handle, and she tugged vigorously. The sound of iron on iron filled the room as the lock engaged and the door refused to budge. It was louder than the panicked scream stuck in her throat. The memory of the black-coated man flashed before her eyes; Vhalla blinked it away.

Taking a step back from the locked door, she frantically looked around the room. There was a bed, a small table, and a chamber pot. She ran to the window, throwing open the glass and looking downward. It was a dizzyingly straight drop to the ground far below.

The sound of the door latch disengaging brought her attention back within the room, and Vhalla plastered herself against the far wall. A sorcerer had taken her, and she did not want to believe where. The door swung open and a vaguely familiar pair of icy eyes met hers.

“Good to see you’re awake,” the man smiled cordially. “How do you feel?”

“Who are you?” Vhalla plastered herself to the wall, so close that it would be impossible to fit even a piece of parchment between her back and the stone. She eyed the man warily. He wore different clothes today; long robes atop a tunic and trousers. Over his left breast was a patch that reaffirmed her panic: a black swatch with a broken moon.

“Do not be afraid.” The man raised his hands unthreateningly. “No one will hurt you.”

“Who are you?” Vhalla repeated. She knew by his floor-length robes and belled sleeves that the man was of higher rank than her, as almost everyone in the palace was. Vhalla struggled to keep her voice as calm and respectful as possible. She failed.

“Wouldn’t you like to sit down?” He continued to ignore her question.

“I’d like to know who you are,” Vhalla repeated slowly, her eyes glued to his left breast. A nail chipped as she dug her fingers into the stone. “Why did you take me?”

“My name is Victor Anzbel,” the man finally revealed with a small sigh. “I am the Minister of Sorcery, and you are in the Tower of Sorcerers. I took you because I need to speak with you, and doing so upon the library floor was not an option. Forgive me, but it was already dawn, and we didn’t have time for relaxed introductions there.”

“Wh-what could you possibly need to speak with me about?” Vhalla stuttered, leaning against the wall for a wholly different reason. She was in the Tower of Sorcerers speaking to the Minister of Sorcery. She must be dreaming.

“Please, come.” He motioned to the door. “I do not wish to discuss this across a room.”

Without waiting for her response the man walked away, leaving the door open behind him. Vhalla heard his boots upon the stone floor in the unknown beyond. She didn’t want to leave her wall. Her wall was safe and stable.

Sorcerers were odd, they were dangerous; they kept to themselves and left normal people alone. That was why they had their own Tower, so they kept out of sight and mind. Everyone in the South had always told her so. It was the last place she belonged.

“Would you like black or herbal tea?” the minister called nonchalantly from the other room.

Vhalla swallowed. Perhaps if she stayed still long enough she could become part of the wall and vanish from the world.

“I have cream and sugar also.”

Vhalla weighed her options, ignoring the odd fact that he actually had cream and sugar at his disposal and would offer some to someone like her. There were two ways out: the window or the door. The former involved a long fall to certain death. The later involved facing the sorcerer who had kidnapped her. She didn’t like either of her options.

Vhalla inched forward toward the open door, wringing her hands into the sleeping gown she still wore. She didn’t care if it was against Southern fashions, she’d give anything for a pair of trousers.

The minister was busy at a far counter in the connected room. A kettle sat over another unnatural flame as the man fumbled with jars of dried herbs and mugs. It was a workroom of sorts with a table, more beds, and bandages. Vhalla recognized some clerical salves and her eyes fell on a row of knives. Was she to be part of some living experiment?

“Ah, there you are. Please, take a seat.” The man half turned, motioning to the table. His eyes held a youthful spark that Vhalla was unaccustomed to. She had always thought palace officials were ancient, like Master Mohned, but this man couldn’t be more than ten years her senior.

Vhalla slunk along the far wall, careful not to bump into anything. She almost jumped out of her skin when her feet fell on something soft. Nothing more than a rug accounted for the plushness beneath her. Vhalla blinked at it. It was far nicer than what decorated the library. She curled her toes into the soft fibers.

“So then, black or herbal tea?” the man persisted, as though nothing about their situation was strange in the slightest. His hand hovered over the kettle, one mug already steaming.

“Neither.” Vhalla had not forgotten the cloth he used to make her unconscious.

“Are you hungry, perhaps some food?” He accepted her refusal with grace, but left an empty mug on the countertop where he worked.

“No.” Vhalla studied him carefully as he sat in the chair opposite her. The minister curled his fingers around his mug with an annoyingly relaxed little smile.

“If you change your mind you only have to say the word,” he offered.

Vhalla’s throat felt too gummy to do little more than nod. Tea would be nice, but the Mother Goddess in all her shining glory would cease to rise for dawn before she accepted anything from this man.

“What’s your name?”

Vhalla bit her lower lip, torn between respecting the official sitting before her and the fear that threatened to set her balled hands to shaking. He could easily find out her name, she reasoned. Though forcing it between her lips was harder than confessing her darkest secret. “Vhalla,” she answered. Perhaps if she obliged him he would let her go. “Vhalla Yarl.”

“Vhalla, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He smiled over his tea.

She tried to keep her face blank, something she was never really good at.

“I know you have many questions, so I will try to explain things as simply as possible. First, allow me to commend you on your efforts on our prince’s behalf.”

Vhalla nodded mutely. The library seemed like a different world. The only reminder that it was real was her clothing and the fever heat still radiating throughout her body.

“Last night, I was summoned by the clerics to inspect the prince’s magical Channels,” he continued. “As a Waterrunner, they needed my knowledge.”

“Prince Baldair doesn’t have magic,” Vhalla interrupted. She didn’t understand the strange squint to his eyes.

The minister stroked his goatee, sitting back in his chair. “Prince Baldair is still at the front,” he said finally.

Vhalla could not stop her mouth from falling open. If Prince Baldair wasn’t in the palace then that meant the prince she saved was...

“It’s Prince Aldrik?” Every servant’s whisper and mean spirited-word about the snobbish heir to the throne echoed in her ears. That was the man she had struggled all night for?

“It is,” the minister chuckled, amused by her confusion and shock. Vhalla shut her mouth quickly. “While I was examining him, there was something peculiar about a certain set of notes tucked under some of the books’ covers. Once the prince was stable, I had time to properly inspect them. They were crafted by a magical hand,” Minister Victor explained, leaning forward. “Imagine my surprise when they were not from any of the Tower apprentices conducting similar research on our prince’s behalf, but from the library.”

“That’s impossible.” Vhalla shook her head.

“When a sorcerer makes something, trace amounts of magic might be left behind,” the minister elaborated. “Especially when that sorcerer is not yet properly Awoken and their power Manifests itself in unexpected ways.”

“I don’t understand.” Vhalla wanted to go home. She needed this man to say whatever it was he wanted to and then let her go back to her library. Work had already begun for the day, and she was late.

“Vhalla, you are a sorcerer,” the minister finally said outright.

“What?” The world ground to a halt, and the silence weighed upon her shoulders.

A memory flashed before her eyes, a young girl standing before a farmhouse, begging for her father to stay. But he had to go; the Empire had called for soldiers to fight the magic taint that was seeping into the world from the Crystal Caverns. Vhalla remembered her father leaving.

“What?” her voice was sharper, stronger. She was on her feet. “No, you have the wrong person, the wrong books. My notes must have gotten mixed up with someone else’s. I’m not a sorcerer. My father was a farmer, my mother’s parents worked in the post office of Hastan. None of us are—”

“Magic is not in the blood,” the minister interrupted her hasty words. “Two sorcerers can give birth to a Commons,” explained, discussing those with and without magic. “Two Commons can give birth to a sorcerer. Magic chooses us.”

“I’m sorry.” Vhalla was laughing as though the world was one giant joke and she was the punchline. “I am not a sorcerer.” She started for the door despite not knowing where it led. Her logical facilities weren’t quite functioning. She just wanted out.

“You cannot run from this.” The minister stood as well. “Vhalla, your powers have begun to Manifest. You are older than the normal age of such Manifestations, but it is happening.” He blinked a few times. “Even now, I can see traces of magic woven around you.”

She stopped, halfway between the minister and the door, and wrung her hands. Just because he claimed to see it did not mean it was there. He might be lying, Vhalla insisted to herself. Could she trust the word of a man who abducted her?

“Your magic will continue to grow. Nothing will stop it, and eventually you will be Awoken to your powers in full. It will be either at the hands of another sorcerer, guiding you, or your powers will simply unleash themselves.” The minister’s tone held no levity. But the lack of jest made it no easier to believe.

“What could happen?” The nervous energy within her sought an outlet. Her whole body trembled as she waited for the answer.

“I don’t know.” Minister Victor reached for his mug of caramel-colored liquid, taking a long and thoughtful sip. “If you are a Firebearer, perhaps you light a candle with a glance. Or you could set the entire Imperial Library ablaze.”

Vhalla nearly lost her balance and collapsed, the words knocking the wind from her. She shook her head, as if she could cast reality away.

“I want to go home,” she finally breathed.

“I am sorry, Vhalla, but you should stay—”

“I want to go home!” Vhalla’s cry interrupted him. Through burning eyes she glared at a man to whom she should show respect and subservience.

He let her catch her breath before he spoke. “Very well,” Minister Victor said with a soft and thoughtful voice.

“Really?” Vhalla’s fingers relaxed, her fingernails leaving crescent moons in her palms.

“I can see this is a decision that will not benefit from force.” He held up both hands in a sign of surrender. “Usually when I bring a budding sorcerer into the Tower, they come around. I had hopes that I would be able to show—”

“I don’t want to see it!” Vhalla nearly shouted. Her hand went to her mouth, as if to catch back the rough and rude words.

“Perhaps, some other time.” The minister smiled.

As he led her out the door, Vhalla’s eyes remained on her feet. The hall was a sloping downward spiral with doors at random intervals on either side. There were no windows, and she presumed the light to be from more of the unnatural flames that she had seen in the previous rooms.

Vhalla did not want to look at any of it. She didn’t want to take anything away from this place, not even a memory. She didn’t want to have anything in common with the strange Tower people who currently gave her and the minister a wide girth. Biting her lip, Vhalla choked back a sob. She was tired, and she did not have the energy for this sorcerer’s lies. He was mistaken, and when she returned to the real world she would never have to think of this place again. Bringing her hands together she fidgeted with her fingers.

Yet, despite her mental and emotional withdrawal, Vhalla did see. She saw the endless rugs of dazzling patterns that lined this hall. Where one rug ended, the next began; her feet never even touched stone. She saw the start of ornamentation upon the walls, sculptures embellished with iron and silver, forming shapes she stubbornly would not permit herself to look upon. Vhalla saw the feet of those who passed, boots and polished shoes. Why did sorcerers have such nice things when the slippers she owned were almost worn to holes? When her windows were archer’s slits and her halls were barren, cracked, and roughhewn?

The minister wordlessly led her down a side hall. The stones began to shift into shapes and colors she was more familiar with, the lighting dimmer. Vhalla looked up finally as they stopped. Before them was a narrow, pointed dead end.

“Minister?” Panic blossomed in her anew.

“The Tower lives and dies by the moon, by the Father who keeps the realms of chaos at bay and guards the celestial gateway in the heavens above,” he informed her cryptically. “When you have calmed down, I know you will come find us again. Most Manifesting sorcerers do when they think logically.”

“Will you take me by force again if I don’t?” Vhalla took a half step away, strongly doubting she would ever seek out this man and his Tower by choice.

“My apologies for that.” The minister had a glint in his eyes of what she almost believed to be sincerity. “I didn’t see any other way to speak privately with you. I thought if you were in the Tower you would be willing to see what it held for you.”

“I would have listened...” Vhalla looked away in annoyance. She wasn’t sure which frustrated her more: his actions or the fact that he was right about her not being willing to mingle with sorcerers.

“Very well, I will see you soon I’m certain,” he said lightly; little seemed to bother Victor Anzbel. Vhalla wondered how many times he had performed this same dance with another.

The minister held out a hand, motioning toward the dead end. Vhalla blinked at him, but he said nothing else. She stepped forward hesitantly. Reaching out a palm she expected to push some form of hidden door. Her fingers vanished right into the stone.

Vhalla gasped and she looked back to the minister for explanation, but he was gone. She barely suppressed a shiver before plunging herself into the magic wall.

Emerging on the other side, Vhalla instantly recognized her location. The stone behind her looked the same as at it had every day as she’d passed it growing up. Squinting, Vhalla noticed something she never had before—a circle, cut in two, its halves offset from the other—the broken moon of the Tower. How had she missed it all these years?

Timidly, she reached a hand back, and it vanished back into the false wall. A spark of curiosity blossomed within her. What magic could do this?