Her phantom was haunting her anew, but no longer with notes. The prince spirited her away the next day, and two days after that. Each time there was some clever excuse, and when those ran out he simply materialized between the shelves in the library and they would slink off together like children.
With his dutiful tutelage Vhalla began to master basic magic. His palm would rest on the back of her hand, lacing his fingers firmly between hers to keep her hand in place as she tried to attempt magic without physical movement. Vhalla met with little success at this tactic— and a great deal of distraction. He promised her that she would learn something called “Channeling” soon that would make magic easier. But, whatever the technique was, he was holding it over her head until she made a decision over joining the Tower.
In time, Vhalla peeled back the layers to Prince Aldrik, even though he still avoided anything remotely personal. In fact, she knew more about him from what she read in books than what he told her. But what she did learn in person was not written anywhere. Vhalla learned he favored a strong Western-style tea that was almost as dark as ink. She learned that when his lips parted it meant he was surprised, and when his eyebrows raised it meant he was impressed. She gathered very quickly that he did not like speaking of his family under any circumstances.
It took Vhalla a week to realize that, for the first time, she did not actually want to be in the library.
As the master led her back through the shelves toward the heavily fortified door of the archives, Vhalla caught herself staring longingly at a tapestry upon the same wall—a tapestry she now knew led toward a world of wonder and magic that was hers alone.
The hinges complained loudly as they granted the master and her access. Vhalla followed Mohned into the dim world that was the Imperial Archives. She barely suppressed a cough induced by dust.
The Imperial Archives almost created a library unto themselves. When a book was an old original, rare, or the last copy of its kind, it was moved into the archives for safekeeping. There were five levels to the archives, filled with books and an iron spiral staircase through the middle. Some of the oldest manuscripts and the earliest records for humanity were kept there. Vhalla felt a sense of awe whenever she entered.
Heavy curtains covered every window when no one was present, preventing the light from fading or damaging the manuscripts. Mohned pulled a few of the curtains back, quickly expelling the darkness. Dust caught the beams of light, dancing through the air like tiny fairies.
“There are some Eastern works that are close to falling apart.” He led her around the staircase to the second floor down, opening a few more of the curtains as he went.
“Eastern?” she asked.
“Yes, we don’t have many older works from the East actually.” The master started.
“Because of The Burning Times?” Vhalla asked offhandedly.
Mohned stopped and stared at her, adjusting his spectacles. “That is quite right, Vhalla,” he replied softly. “Haven’t I told you to stop reading books when you should be working? You should be careful where you place your nose, Vhalla,” he added cryptically.
“Master...?” Vhalla asked, confused.
“Ah, here it is.” Mohned carefully pulled a large tome off the shelf with two hands.
Vhalla instantly saw where the leather binding was flaking off and helped him gently ease it down onto the table.
“If you finish this one, the other three in this series will also need attention.” He motioned to the shelf. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No, I remember how to change bindings,” Vhalla said with a shake of her head.
Mohned nodded, and she gave him a small bow as he shuffled back without further word.
Vhalla settled in one of the chairs, carefully starting her work. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she heard a set of footsteps lightly treading down the iron stairs. They were too heavy for the ancient master, and it was well before closing.
She ignored the heated flush brought on by the frantic beat of her heart. The prince had said he was likely to be busy today. Vhalla knew he couldn’t steal her away every day, but she was shamefully hopeful.
Vhalla glanced up and saw a man’s boots appear. They were brown, worn, and nothing of quality. Her shoulders slumped.
“Hello!” Sareem whispered.
“Sareem,” she replied, hoping she disguised the disappointment in her voice. “What’re you doing here?”
“I finished a little early and thought I’d come check in on you.” He smiled.
“The master won’t be pleased if he finds you slacking off,” Vhalla argued.
“The master is behind the desk with Roan, transcribing like always.” Sareem shrugged.
Vhalla looked down at her book, tying off one of her stitches. “You should be working,” she muttered softly.