“You are!” Fritz insisted.
“You sound like my father.” Just mentioning her father made Vhalla ache for the East. But it was an odd sort of nostalgia. Vhalla didn’t think she could go back there for some time. She was too different; she wouldn’t have a place there any longer.
“Then your father is a genius,” Fritz insisted.
“He’d tell you my mother was the smart one.” Vhalla rested her forearm on her forehead.
Fritz rolled onto his stomach, propping him up by his elbows. “You never talk about her.”
“Nothing to say.”
“That can’t be true,” Fritz probed.
“She died when I was young, autumn fever.” Vhalla knew she’d told the Southerner that much before. “But,” Vhalla sighed sweetly. “She could coax a plant from the sandiest soil in the driest of years. She had strong legs that were never afraid to climb up to where I’d roosted in our tree, or on the roof. And she had the loveliest singing voice.”
“Do you sing?” Fritz interjected.
She shook her head. “I inherited my father’s voice, not hers.”
“Sing me a song.”
“No,” Vhalla laughed. “You don’t want to hear it.”
“Please,” Fritz begged.
He insisted until Vhalla finally agreed. The melody was slow and low, the lullaby her mother had sung every night. It told the story of a mother bird keeping her chicks in the nest, of plucking their feathers so they’d never fly. Vhalla didn’t even get to the part where the baby birds began to wear the other animal’s pelts when Fritz burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” Fritz wheezed. “You’re right, your voice is awful.” Vhalla rolled her eyes. “I told you so. My mother kept her singing voice, but she gave me her mind. She was the one who taught me how to read.”
“How did she learn?” Fritz asked. It wasn’t common for people of Vhalla’s status to be literate.
“Her parents worked at the post office of Hastan.” “Did you know them?”
Vhalla shook her head. “They didn’t approve of her marrying my father. They’d hoped her literacy would let her marry someone ‘better’ than a farmer.”
Vhalla wondered if her grandparents were even still alive. If they were, she mused over what they’d think of her being involved with the crown prince. The thought brought a pang to her stomach.
As if on cue, the tent flap was thrown open. Jax grinned at the two of them. “Told you she’d be here.”
Vhalla sat and Fritz followed as a bewildered-looking Baldair knelt at the entrance to the tent. His endless cerulean eyes absorbed hers, and Vhalla shifted uncomfortably. There were unspoken volumes within them.
“He’s lost his mind,” Baldair whispered.
“What’s happened?” Vhalla scrambled out of the tent. Even after all her frustrations, she was ready to run to Aldrik’s side.
“I went to his room to check on him and he was gone, bottles smashed.” Baldair placed a palm over his forehead in disbelief.
“Alcohol?” Vhalla whispered.
Baldair nodded.
“He’s helping run drills with the Black Legion now,” Jax contributed.
“Which he hasn’t done in years.” Baldair tilted his head to catch Vhalla’s bewildered eyes.
Her heart was racing in her chest. She had to see it—to see him—to believe it. “Where is he?”
Jax and Baldair led her toward one of the many training rings where the Black Legion worked. Firebearers sent tongues of flame racing toward each other, kicking and punching with blazing hands and feet. Aldrik walked among them, the fire glittering off of his armor.
Vhalla saw the bags under his tired eyes, but no one else seemed to. All the other soldiers cautiously admired their prince. Vhalla remembered what Major Reale had said about the Black Legion growing up with Aldrik.
He was trying, she realized, in more ways than one. Aldrik was trying to be their prince, to be a better man, and—if she dared believe it—to be better for her. He was serious about making an effort for her and for them.
“Remember, a Firebearer must always be on the offensive.” Aldrik’s hands were clasped at the small of his back. “Our skills are best for a relentless pursuit.”
The soldiers nodded in understanding, continuing their sparring.
“If you’re magically superior, you can burn through a Groundbreaker’s stone skin or take control of another Firebearer’s flames; if not, you’ll need to go for the eyes like a Commons. A Waterrunner’s ice is no trouble, either, unless they are particularly strong.”
“And what about a Windwalker?” Vhalla called out. Everyone stalled, noticing her presence alongside the Head Major of the Black Legion and the younger prince. Aldrik turned with desperate, searching eyes. Vhalla swallowed and allowed a knowing smile to grace her lips.
“That, Lady Yarl, is not often a problem,” Aldrik replied tentatively, probingly. “There aren’t too many Windwalkers about.”