“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.