Текст книги "Air Awakens"

Автор книги: Elise Kova

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

IT WAS EASY to wake up and get ready the next morning. Vhalla hadn’t actually slept. Her mind had spent the whole night processing everything that had happened. Things were moving faster than an avalanche, and it felt like her only option was to run with the moving ground under her feet—or be swept away by it.

The master would be headed to the library about now. Even during the Festival of the Sun someone had to tend to the books, and if the majority of the apprentices were off enjoying the celebrations, then it fell to the master.

Vhalla tugged on the hem of her shirt as she made her way through the mostly-deserted halls to some of the better levels of the palace. She would have to make her conversation short and direct.

Soon she found the courage to knock on Mohned’s chamber door. She waited, shifting her weight from foot to foot and fidgeting until she heard a soft shuffling sound right before the door opened. The timeworn and hunched frame of the master was swathed in a crimson robe.

“Vhalla?” Mohned adjusted his spectacles.

“Master, I need to speak with you,” she said before her resolve was lost and all hope along with it.

“Very well.” The master stepped to the side, permitting her entry.

Vhalla had been working with the master for seven years, but every time she entered his room she would still feel a sense of awe. Her time with princes had diminished some of that awe, but here she still felt some wonder as she looked at the bookshelves that ran the length of one wall. Each leather bound spine seemed to look at her, as if betrayed by what she was about to do.

“What do you need, Vhalla?” The master occupied one of three chairs around a small table, motioning at one opposite.

“I, well,” she sat as though pins and needles awaited her. “Master, I am so thankful for everything you have done for me all the years.”

“You are welcome.” The master’s beard folded around his weathered smile.

“But, you see, I...” Vhalla stared at the milky eyes of the man who had taken care of her since she had first set foot in the palace. She was going to betray all he had ever done for her. He had given her everything she had and now she was to tell him that she would leave. “I can’t...”

“What can you not do?” the master asked thoughtfully when words failed her.

“I can’t be in the library anymore,” Vhalla whispered. She saw nothing as the confession slipped past her lips and across the point of no return. The master’s silence worked her into an instant frenzy of fear and guilt. “Master, I want to be. I mean, part of me wants to be. But, you see, there’s this other part. There’s this part of me I never knew I had—and it may be something, something special. Master Mohned, I wish I could have both but I don’t think I can and I don’t think I can stay as a library apprentice.”

“I know, Vhalla,” he said softly, cutting off her rambling.

“You know?” she blurted in surprise.

“I do,” the master nodded.

“No, master, this isn’t—”

“You’re a Windwalker,” the master said simply.

Vhalla’s chest tightened. She suddenly felt raw and exposed, as though everything she knew had been stripped from her.

“M-master, that’s...” She couldn’t deny it, and the master did not make her.

“The prince came to me.” Master Mohned leaned back in his chair. “A few months ago he came to me and asked about you by name.”

“Prince Aldrik?” she whispered.

“The same.” Mohned nodded. “He came to me because he thought I could help him.”

“How?” Why hadn’t the prince told her that he had shared her secret with someone outside the Tower?

“Well, when I was a young man, about your age, I engaged in a certain kind of research,” Mohned began. “I wrote books, though many have since been confiscated, if they still exist at all.”

“Books about what?” Something was on the verge of clicking into place.

“About Windwalkers,” Mohned said easily.

“The Windwalkers of the East,” Vhalla breathed. “It really was you who wrote it, then?”

“Indeed.” The master nodded.

Vhalla’s head spun. Her world had suddenly entered into a backwards land that made less and less sense by the minute. It was a world where not everyone in the library was fearful of who, of what she was. The master knew enough about her magic that he had written books about it, enough that a prince had spoken to him personally. She was so off-balance that Vhalla did not even have time to feel anger or betrayal at the master for not telling her sooner.

“Vhalla, do you know where I am from?” the master questioned. She shook her head. “I am from Norin.”

“The West?” she pointed out dumbly.

He chuckled. “I know you have not forgotten your geography due to a day or two off work. Yes, I am Western.” Vhalla had never seen Master Mohned’s hair any color but white. His eyes were milky with age, and his skin had turned pale and ashy from years indoors. He could have been from anywhere.

“I was born in Norin to a poor family who lived on the edge of town, and not the good edge, mind you. I imagine my childhood wouldn’t have been unlike your own had I been in the country. But I was in the city, and the city is a harsh place for anyone to grow up in.”

When she nodded her understanding, he continued, “My father was a guard, and my mother a kitchen maid in the castle of Norin. My parents did not have many prospects, but they always put food on the table and a lit fire in the hearth. They also knew the value of literacy for the prospect of advancement. So, one spring my father told me that he was going to take me with him to work. That there was a man who was willing to teach me my letters.” The master shifted in his seat, adjusting his robes before continuing.

“What started out as an occasional lesson quickly evolved into daily practice. But I soon realized that these lessons were not free.” Mohned looked through her as he recounted his tale.

Vhalla thought back to her own parents. If her mother had not been able to teach her to read, Vhalla had honest doubts her parents would have been able to pay for a tutor.

“I did not want to be a burden to my family, so I began to help my father and the guard to earn small amounts of change here or there. I was only a boy, younger than you were when you joined us, but the other guards were kind enough to keep things off the books.” Mohned stroked his beard a moment. “Eventually, my father began telling me strange stories on the way home. They were stories of a land far to the east and people who could control the wind like our own sorcerers controlled the flames. For a while I thought my father was making up tales to entertain me.”

“But one day when I was delivering lunch I found him sitting outside of a prison cell deep in the dungeon.” Mohned sighed softly. “In the cell was an old man, he was hunched and frail. He wore a long beard, and his hair was uncut. He had never seen the sun. His parents were taken when they were young, and he had been born in captivity.”

“A Windwalker,” Vhalla whispered faintly.

Mohned nodded. “The last Windwalker,” Mohned corrected.

“From then on I began sneaking to the dungeons in my free time,” Mohned continued his story. “I’d steal lead and scraps of paper from my writing classes and take notes on what he said. Some days were better than others. Men were not made to live in cages, Vhalla; it does things to the mind that are unlike any other hardship. But I recorded his words faithfully—including his insanities. For my final project with my teacher, I compiled the stories and knowledge the Windwalker had given me into a book titled, The Windwalkers of the East.”

Vhalla stared at her lap, unsure of how to process everything. There were forces at work that she barely understood. Men and women enslaved in the depths of the West. Aldrik’s Western black eyes flashed before her mind.

“I tried to warn you.” The master’s shoulders hunched and his eyes seemed dull. “I saw your growing distractions. I knew the prince had confirmed what you are.”

“Master,” Vhalla whispered her borderline treasonous words. “Is he as dangerous as they say?”

He looked at her for a long time, just stroking his beard in thought. Vhalla swallowed and wondered if she really wanted the answer to her question. She balled her fingers into fists to keep them from shaking or fidgeting.

“I suppose it depends on who asks that question,” he finally said.

“I am asking.” Vhalla pressed. “I know what they say about him. I know they call him silver-tongued and a Fire Lord, that his eyes glow red with rage. I know he can be thoughtless when it comes to something he wants. But he’s not, he’s also...different.”

“I think,” the master gave her a tired smile, “you already know the answer to your question.”

“I want to join the Tower.” Vhalla finally found enough courage to say it aloud.

“I figured as much.” The master nodded, and then shook his head. Vhalla tried to make sense of the conflicting movements. “I should have told you all of this sooner. Forgive me for being a selfish old man, Vhalla, but I suppose I didn’t want to see you go.” She smiled softly, as if that would ever upset her. “I envisioned your opportunities in the library; I wanted you to replace me someday.”

Vhalla inhaled sharply. There was a time where that would have been her dream. But her dreams had changed.

“Thank you, master,” Vhalla said thoughtfully. “I wish, I could have been that for you.”

“No,” Mohned shook his head. “You are destined for far greater things.” The master began to struggle to his feet, and Vhalla stood as well, realizing their conversation had reached its natural end.

She wanted to think of something else to say, overcome with an overwhelming desire to continue their discourse in any way possible. There had to be more to talk about, things she needed to tell the master and he needed to tell her. Perhaps they could order a light breakfast and reminisce. Vhalla thought frantically for something to elongate their discussion—at the fringe of her thoughts was the frightening realization that she had just set change in motion.

“It is the last day of the Festival,” the master pointed out thoughtfully, ignorant of Vhalla’s internal turmoil. “I will contact the Minister of Sorcery tomorrow. No one intends to do any work today.”

“That’s fair,” Vhalla agreed with a nod.

A gnarled hand closed around her shoulder. “I wouldn’t look so scared if I were you.” The master was not as ignorant as she thought. “I think your shadow is looking out for you.”

“My shadow?” Vhalla whispered.

The master only smiled. “And Vhalla,” he continued without further explanation. “You have been like a daughter to me all these years. Don’t think you can walk out with any expectations of visiting me often.”

“Of course not, master.” Vhalla’s eyes suddenly burned.

“I will tell you one more thing.” The master paused at the door. “The prisoner told me that it was a shame the East and West could not have worked together. He said, ‘Fire needs air to live. Air fuels fire, stokes it, and makes it burn brighter and hotter than it ever could alone. But too much air will snuff it completely, just as too many flames will consume all the air. They are far greater than the sum of their parts together, but are equally as dangerous to each other’s existence.’”

VHALLA ATE BREAKFAST alone. Sareem was nowhere to be seen, which was easier than the looks and silent treatment from Roan. The blonde sat with Cadance and let the young girl jabber on as though she was interested in the inner workings of a twelve year old’s mind. Vhalla glanced over from time to time but Roan never made eye contact.

It was for the better. Roan may not understand now but Vhalla was out of her life. After learning that Sareem had been looking up books on eradication, she had no doubt that the two would go on to live their happy little normal lives as far from magic and her as possible. Vhalla left her tray and mostly untouched food at the receiving window. She stole one last look at Roan.

Yet, despite it all, Vhalla wished she could have told her friend. Roan looked over suddenly and Vhalla quickly stepped out of the hall before any exchange could happen.

She would apologize to Roan after things were settled with the Tower, Vhalla decided. After the initial shock had faded and people had a chance to absorb her transition, she would find Roan alone, and explain everything. She would apologize to her friends for the secrets and harsh words.

Maybe, Vhalla paused to look through a window at the rising sun, she would even tell her friend about the prince. Aldrik would be in the South by then and who knew when, if ever, he would be coming back. Her gut felt like it had been stabbed by an ice cold dagger. The last time he had went to war he almost died. Vhalla gripped her shirt above her stomach.

It made her walk all the faster to the servants’ entry to the royal halls. She had to see him tonight. She had to tell him that she had decided to join the Tower. She had to thank him for helping her all the weeks they had been together. Vhalla leaned against a wall for support. She had to tell him, how she felt—whatever that was.

Vhalla tilted her head back, taking a slow breath. Too many things needed to be said. She could only pray she would find the time to say them.

Less than an hour later, Vhalla was ushered through the small door that blended seamlessly with the wall beyond.

The servant waiting for her spoke little and locked the passage behind them before leading her down the vaguely familiar hall. Vhalla said nothing, skeptically wondering if this was one of the people who had spread rumors of her and the Heartbreaker Prince.

The man turned away from the prince’s chambers and walked up some narrow side-steps. Vhalla wondered if Aldrik was just beyond reach, preparing for the Gala himself. These thoughts, and anything else, were lost as she was brought to a guest chambers.

While not as lavish as the prince’s quarters, Vhalla was mesmerized by the large sitting area with an attached bedroom. Connected to that was a private bath. Vhalla’s hands touched every inch of white marble, porcelain, and gold within reach. It was physical verification that the splendor before her was not a magnificent dream. Her fingers rested on two gold handles attached to matching hot and cold spigots.

Turning the knobs Vhalla sat in wonder of the magic that was hot water on demand. The servant and staff baths had running water, but it was whatever temperature happened to come out of the tap that day. Sometimes there were only large barrels to fill smaller bowls to take a sponge bath with.

“Ouch!” Vhalla snatched her hand back from the steaming water.

“Be careful, my lady,” a servant girl said from the doorway. Vhalla stood, looking at the two silent shadows who had taken over her care. Her flesh was pink, but it wasn’t a bad burn.

“I’m not a lady,” Vhalla said softly, opening and closing her tingling fingers.

“We know,” a darker skinned girl replied, clearly from the northern regions of the West. “Would you like help washing?”

“No, I can do it.” Vhalla shook her head, looking away in shame.

Vhalla drew her own bath and stripped—after the servants had left the room. She wondered if it was customary for royalty and nobility to have assistance while bathing. In the servants’ baths everyone bathed together, so it was not the idea of eyes on her that left her wondering. Just the notion of what nobility was unable to do on their own.

She wondered if Aldrik needed help while he bathed. Vhalla laughed aloud, blowing bubbles into the water with her giggles of amusement. No, she decided. Aldrik most certainly did not need help bathing.

The servants provided her with towels once she finished. The cloths were perfumed, and she smelled of flowers and sweet soaps. Vhalla wore a silk robe and sat in a chair in the center of the room toweling herself dry.

The darker skinned of the two servants began tugging and pulling at Vhalla’s hair, vigorously shaking the water out. The Eastern woman began filing Vhalla’s nails. Vhalla looked disappointedly at her fingers. She really should stop picking at them when nervous.

“Why are you doing this?” Vhalla finally asked, unable to handle the silence any longer.

“Because you are a noble lady from a mysterious and foreign land.” The Eastern servant grinned up at her. The servant behind her snorted, and Vhalla rolled her eyes.

“You know who I am,” Vhalla said, unsure of what made her so determined to find out the answer.

“Well, that’s why we’re helping you.” The woman with her fingers in Vhalla’s hair said thoughtfully. Vhalla attempted to turn and look at the person speaking, but she was only left immobile as her hair snagged on something. “Don’t move, idiot.” The servant sighed. “Listen, even if we weren’t ordered to help you, we still wouldn’t mind.”

“Mmhm.” The Eastern servant had shifted to Vhalla’s feet. Vhalla wondered why she needed her toenails done as well. Wouldn’t they be in shoes? “We asked around after Chater was called in. The Heartbreaker Prince has entertained lots of ladies for lunches and, well, you know what else.”

Vhalla shifted in her seat at a look from the servant. They all thought she had slept with the prince. Every one of them assumed she had crawled into his bed. Vhalla frowned, even Roan must have.

“I didn’t sleep with him,” Vhalla said defensively.

“You don’t have to be so modest around us, we’ve been here since we were ten.” The woman was rolling Vhalla’s hair around strange circular spools. “I didn’t,” Vhalla insisted.

“Well, if you didn’t, it makes it all the more peculiar,” the Eastern servant continued. “Prince Baldair has never ordered one of his common women to be prepared for a formal function. It’s all on the wrong side of the sheet, hush between the pillows. You’re the first he’s ever brought out in public.”

“But, I, this is not...” Vhalla wished she had something to quench her dry throat. Her and Prince Baldair? Was there more than she had previously thought?

“So, we want to show all those stuck up nobles that we’re just as good as they are.” The woman who had previously been working on Vhalla’s hair went over to a large wardrobe. The doors thrown open, Vhalla saw a single garment: a long black gown with a bustier top, capped sleeves, and a skirt of endless draping.

“Is that mine?” Vhalla barely heard her own words, the wonder of it sounded like a chorus in her ears.

“A Chater original,” the girl affirmed with a nod.

Vhalla said nothing during the process of getting into the dress. Her ribcage was squished into the most frustrating garment that she had never even seen before. It was laced in the back and tightened to accentuate her figure. The servants called it a corset, but Vhalla could think of a handful of other colorful words to use.

They painted her face and applied lotion to her whole body. Vhalla was like a living doll and equally clueless. So she sat, mostly silent, and allowed the servants to accomplish their tasks.

The dress fit her perfectly. The bustier top was silk with velvet sleeves and skirt. Vhalla shamelessly ran her palms over the fabric. It felt soft, like what she imagined clouds felt like.

By the time the girls pulled the last curler from her hair, the sun hung low in the sky. They touched up her curls with a rod stoked over coals, after much assuring to Vhalla that it would not burn her hair. Skeptical by the steam and scent that her hair gave as they wrapped locks around the poker, Vhalla obliged them.

Eventually, the servants took a step back and assessed their work. They would touch up this or that before reassessing. With a final nod, they pulled her to her feet.

“Are you ready?” The Easterner helped her slip her feet into heels. Vhalla’s ankles wobbled unsteadily.

“Am I?” Vhalla asked, thankful the young woman had not yet let go.

“There’s a mirror behind you,” she said with a small smile. There was a wistful longing on her cheeks, and Vhalla felt a twinge of guilt for having this opportunity. She turned in the direction of the mirror. Awkward in the tall shoes, she tripped on her skirt—almost toppling forward were it not for the Eastern servant’s support. The young woman laughed loudly. “You need to work on that, Miss Lady.”

Vhalla didn’t even hear the jest. Staring back at her in the mirror was a woman who Vhalla could not recognize. Frizzy and untamable hair had been curled, falling in brown, almost ringlets, over her shoulders. In the black gown, her yellow-hued skin almost seemed to glow golden. The hazel of her eyes lit with the touch of smoky shadow upon her lids, enhanced by a dark liner. Vhalla took another step closer.

It wasn’t like her palm mirror in her room. She didn’t have to bob her head around to attempt to see her whole face. Vhalla could see her whole body, and she stared in awe. Her arms were scrawny and her chest wasn’t much to speak of, even with the help of the corset. But her waist was small and her neck looked long and regal. She looked—

Vhalla couldn’t bring herself to even think it.

“You’re beautiful.” The woman who had done her hair filled in the word for her.

“Thank you,” Vhalla whispered. There wasn’t anything else she could say, but it wasn’t nearly enough for what these people had given her. She looked like a lady, a real lady.

“Let’s practice walking in those shoes before we turn you over to the hounds of polite society.” The Easterner took her hand and began to lead her around the room.

Vhalla walked around the guest rooms, hand in hand with each of the young woman. Like children learning their first steps, it was a slow process but Vhalla eventually took to it. By the time they called for a servant to escort her to the Gala, Vhalla hadn’t tripped in over a fifty steps.

“Will Prince Baldair be escorting me?” she asked the servant who led her down a small side hall.

“He is already greeting the Gala’s attendees.” The servant kept his eyes forward.

“Am I late?” Vhalla wondered if her walking practice had gotten her into trouble.

“No, my lady, you are on time,” the servant responded.

Vhalla wondered how she could be on time if the prince had already arrived to greet others, but she kept her ignorant questions to herself.

Eventually the hallway merged with a major hall of the palace. On one end two doors stood open wide. Vhalla saw the fabled glittering chandeliers of the Mirror Ballroom hanging from the ceiling before its second story entrance. The servant who escorted her gave a nod to a different man positioned at the door before turning away without a word.

“Wait, where are you going?” Vhalla asked, suddenly aware of how alone she was.

“You didn’t think I’d walk in with you, did you?” The man turned with a chuckle. “Good luck, Lady of the Common Folk.”

Vhalla stood dumbly watching the man walk away. She listened to the sounds drifting up through the doors. It sounded like half the city was in that bright and mysterious ballroom. Vhalla looked down the opposite end of the hall. A few people were making their way up, but nothing would stop her from turning and running back to her room.

Taking a step away from the doors, she looked at where the servant had disappeared. This wasn’t her. She wasn’t some lady from a foreign land. She was Vhalla Yarl, the farmer’s daughter whom no one expected to be able to read or write. Her feet stopped.

That wasn’t all she was. Vhalla turned and started for the doors before her resolve failed her. She already had secrets. She was the first Windwalker. She was something the crown prince had claimed he would protect. Vhalla’s toes stopped at the edge of the light in the doorframe. She didn’t yet know what she was about to blossom into, but it was far greater than a library girl.

“Are you ready?” the servant asked softly.

“Yes. No.” Vhalla swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

“Listen to the name I say.” He took a step out into the light, drawing a deep breath. “Presenting, Lady Rose.”

Vhalla stepped out into the light and was almost blinded. If one full-length mirror had been overwhelming, the walls of the mirror ballroom were enough to make her feel dizzy. A long stairway challenged her footing, and Vhalla descended, trying to keep a smile on her face.

The room was reduced to hushed whispers, even though the ambient music continued. People were multiplied by the reflective walls and Vhalla began to feel her resolve diminish under all the prying eyes. Why had Baldair chosen the name Rose? It clearly was a fake name. Who was actually named after a flower?

She walked slowly, determined not to fall, her eyes darting throughout the room as she tried to hear the hushed words from the crowd.

They were not whispering about the name, Vhalla quickly realized. It looked as though all the colors of the library’s stained glass ceiling had come to life. Vibrant hues dotted the large dance floor waiting beneath her. Southern blue seemed to be the preferred shade, with a few reds of the West; there were even purples of the East sprinkled in. There were no other dark colors.

Vhalla scanned the crowd almost frantically until her eyes fell on a white marble dais far opposite the stairs. There, standing with the royal family was a prince, her prince. Although the rest of the royal family wore gold and white silks, he stood all in black, as if a waiting counterpart for her ensemble.

Aldrik’s face was dumbstruck. He hadn’t even noticed, or didn’t care, that his jaw had fallen loose. Vhalla smiled brightly at his wide eyes as she walked over to the royal family. The crown prince gaped at her openly the whole way.