IT WAS FAR easier to feign normalcy when she was in her drab apprentice robes being scolded by the master for arriving almost four hours late for her duties. His words were restrained and her punishment was nothing more than being reprimanded in front of Roan, who sat at the desk transcribing. The other girl looked at Vhalla with curiosity; a glint in Roan’s eye revealing she didn’t buy Vhalla’s excuse of oversleeping. The master did give it heed, however, after the prior night’s excitement.
The master assigned Vhalla the most boring task there was in the library: alphabetization. Most of the staff resented the chore, but Vhalla found the dance of her fingers along the spines therapeutic. This was her world of safety and consistency.
“Vhalla,” a voice whispered from the end of the aisle. Sareem glanced up and down the intersection where the shelves met. He motioned for her to follow, and she was down the ladder without a second thought, winding though bookshelves behind him toward the outer wall.
“What is it, Sareem?” Vhalla asked softly as they reached her window seat.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked, motioning for her to sit at his side.
“I’m fine.” She could not meet his eyes as she sat. How could she sum up the unorthodox events of her day?
“You’re lying,” Sareem scolded. “You’re a bad liar, Vhalla.”
“It was a long night. I’m tired,” she mumbled. That much was true.
“It’s not like you to be late. I was worried.” He frowned.
“Sorry to worry you,” Vhalla apologized.
She had known Sareem for almost five years. He had started his apprenticeship only two years after her and they have been fast friends. Certainly she could trust him.
“Sareem, do you know any sorcerers?”
“What?” He leaned away, as though she had made some kind of threat. “Why would I associate with sorcerers?”
“I know your father is from Norin. I hear magic is more accepted in the West. I thought that maybe...” What began as a rushed excuse quickly lost its momentum.
“No,” Sareem shook his head. “I don’t know any sorcerers, and I don’t plan to.”
“Right,” Vhalla agreed half-heartedly. She felt cold.
“What book is your head in now?” Sareem tapped her chin with his knuckles, bringing her eyes back to his. Vhalla attempted to make up some explanation but he wasn’t about to allow it. “I know you, Miss Yarl.” Sareem wore a satisfied smirk. “Read all you want, fine. I can’t judge you for it, not after it likely saved the prince. But don’t go seeking out sorcerers, all right?”
Vhalla couldn’t stand his caring gaze.
“They’re dangerous, Vhalla. Look at our crown prince. His mood is tainted by his flames, or so they say.” Sareem rested a palm on her head, holding it there for a long moment. “Vhalla, you’re warm.”
“What?” She blinked, fretting that somehow he felt the magic within her.
“You’re fevered.” Sareem’s hand had shifted to her forehead. “You shouldn’t be here. We should go tell the master.”
“I feel fine.” Vhalla shook her head.
“No, if you strain yourself it will only get worse. Autumn Fever will be upon us before we know it, and you should keep your strength.” He was helping her up when she caught movement on the edge of her vision.
Vhalla’s eyes shifted. At the far end of the shelves stood a figure shadowed between the beams of light cutting through the dust from windows. Her heart began to race. A black jacket covered their shoulders, the hem ending at the bottom of their ribs, and sleeves stopping just below their elbows. She couldn’t suppress a fearful chirp.
“Vhalla, what is it?” Sareem regained her attention, and by the time he turned to follow her wide-eyed stare, the person was gone.
“N-nothing.” Vhalla struggled to keep her voice stable.
Sareem helped her back to the main desk, where he was in turn scolded for not working. Her friend disappeared back into the stacks with a small grin in Vhalla’s direction. The master affirmed Sareem’s claims by placing a wrinkled palm on her forehead. With father-like worry he sent her back to her chambers early to rest.
Alone outside the library, Vhalla quickly found the statue that was spaced far enough from the wall to allow someone to side-step behind—and disappeared. Vhalla knew every crack in the walls, every uneven stone beneath her feet, and every servant passageway. She had been walking this route for almost seven years since her father traded an opportunity to advance from foot soldier in the militia to palace guard after the War of the Crystal Caverns; a trade he had made to see that his daughter had a better future than a farm in Cyven, the East.
Her hand paused upon her door handle; footsteps at the far end of the hall called her attention. A group of servants and apprentices passed along one of the passageways’ crossroads. She squinted past them, further down still. A pair of eyes stared back at her. Vhalla disappeared quickly into her room, throwing herself upon her bed. Sleep would not have come so quickly were it not for the exhaustion that seeped from her very bones.
Her sleep was restless and filled with a vivid dream.