“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.