“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.