“Very well.” The master stepped to the side, permitting her entry.
Vhalla had been working with the master for seven years, but every time she entered his room she would still feel a sense of awe. Her time with princes had diminished some of that awe, but here she still felt some wonder as she looked at the bookshelves that ran the length of one wall. Each leather bound spine seemed to look at her, as if betrayed by what she was about to do.
“What do you need, Vhalla?” The master occupied one of three chairs around a small table, motioning at one opposite.
“I, well,” she sat as though pins and needles awaited her. “Master, I am so thankful for everything you have done for me all the years.”
“You are welcome.” The master’s beard folded around his weathered smile.
“But, you see, I...” Vhalla stared at the milky eyes of the man who had taken care of her since she had first set foot in the palace. She was going to betray all he had ever done for her. He had given her everything she had and now she was to tell him that she would leave. “I can’t...”
“What can you not do?” the master asked thoughtfully when words failed her.
“I can’t be in the library anymore,” Vhalla whispered. She saw nothing as the confession slipped past her lips and across the point of no return. The master’s silence worked her into an instant frenzy of fear and guilt. “Master, I want to be. I mean, part of me wants to be. But, you see, there’s this other part. There’s this part of me I never knew I had—and it may be something, something special. Master Mohned, I wish I could have both but I don’t think I can and I don’t think I can stay as a library apprentice.”
“I know, Vhalla,” he said softly, cutting off her rambling.
“You know?” she blurted in surprise.
“I do,” the master nodded.
“No, master, this isn’t—”
“You’re a Windwalker,” the master said simply.
Vhalla’s chest tightened. She suddenly felt raw and exposed, as though everything she knew had been stripped from her.
“M-master, that’s...” She couldn’t deny it, and the master did not make her.
“The prince came to me.” Master Mohned leaned back in his chair. “A few months ago he came to me and asked about you by name.”
“Prince Aldrik?” she whispered.
“The same.” Mohned nodded. “He came to me because he thought I could help him.”
“How?” Why hadn’t the prince told her that he had shared her secret with someone outside the Tower?
“Well, when I was a young man, about your age, I engaged in a certain kind of research,” Mohned began. “I wrote books, though many have since been confiscated, if they still exist at all.”
“Books about what?” Something was on the verge of clicking into place.
“About Windwalkers,” Mohned said easily.
“The Windwalkers of the East,” Vhalla breathed. “It really was you who wrote it, then?”
“Indeed.” The master nodded.
Vhalla’s head spun. Her world had suddenly entered into a backwards land that made less and less sense by the minute. It was a world where not everyone in the library was fearful of who, of what she was. The master knew enough about her magic that he had written books about it, enough that a prince had spoken to him personally. She was so off-balance that Vhalla did not even have time to feel anger or betrayal at the master for not telling her sooner.
“Vhalla, do you know where I am from?” the master questioned. She shook her head. “I am from Norin.”
“The West?” she pointed out dumbly.
He chuckled. “I know you have not forgotten your geography due to a day or two off work. Yes, I am Western.” Vhalla had never seen Master Mohned’s hair any color but white. His eyes were milky with age, and his skin had turned pale and ashy from years indoors. He could have been from anywhere.
“I was born in Norin to a poor family who lived on the edge of town, and not the good edge, mind you. I imagine my childhood wouldn’t have been unlike your own had I been in the country. But I was in the city, and the city is a harsh place for anyone to grow up in.”
When she nodded her understanding, he continued, “My father was a guard, and my mother a kitchen maid in the castle of Norin. My parents did not have many prospects, but they always put food on the table and a lit fire in the hearth. They also knew the value of literacy for the prospect of advancement. So, one spring my father told me that he was going to take me with him to work. That there was a man who was willing to teach me my letters.” The master shifted in his seat, adjusting his robes before continuing.
“What started out as an occasional lesson quickly evolved into daily practice. But I soon realized that these lessons were not free.” Mohned looked through her as he recounted his tale.