Vhalla braced herself for an attack. She readied for an ambush, for Egmun to turn and lunge for her. But the senator only glanced over his shoulder, his eyes glittering with crazed and broken amusement.
“Ask yourself, Vhalla Yarl. . . Ask yourself, is your life worth more than this world?”
With that, the senator departed.
Long after he’d vanished, Vhalla contemplated the hall where he had disappeared. She took a step, stumbling over her feet and leaning against the wall for support. She was shaken down to her soul. Egmun, her most hated entity in the world, had shown her an emotion she didn’t know he’d had: compassion. Not for her, but for the people of the Empire.
She gripped the saddlebag with white knuckles, holding an axe that could sever souls. Another piece fell clearly into her mind as Vhalla realized she’d just succeeded in bringing the last crystal weapon back to the South, nearly back to the land of the Crystal Caverns.
The North had just been the battle. There was a much greater struggle at play here, and people had yet to show their true hands. The war still raged on.
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, Vhalla hadn’t really spoken much with the Head of Senate. But it seemed every time she did, the impression was destined to linger, and Egmun’s words repeated in Vhalla’s mind, imprinting themselves as she made her way for the bottom entry of the Tower of Sorcerers. She clutched the saddlebag, her fingers tracing the outlines of its stitching in thought. Egmun.
Egmun had been the Minister of Sorcery, and then something changed. He said he had traded his magic; was it taken from him somehow? If so, by what? Vhalla’s mind went down every dark path when thinking of the Senator and came up with a memory that wasn’t even hers, of Egmun egging on a boy Aldrik to commit his first murder.
The questions circled like a tornado, faster and faster, until all other thoughts were destroyed by their repetition. Vhalla pushed open the door for the Tower of Sorcerers, completely absorbed in trying to recall every word she’d ever written in her journal on Aldrik and deeply wishing she’d taken it with her from Gianna’s. It took her five steps to notice she wasn’t alone.
The large, circular lobby was filled with people, as it had been the last time she’d been there. But now they weren’t wearing armor, and there wasn’t the tension of dread. Hope glittered in every flame bulb. Hope for a future that they would see because they were the ones who had survived the battles. Their eyes looked to her in admiration, as though she was the foundation of those dreams.
Vhalla hastily took in those assembled, and her eyes fell on a man. Words and thoughts and emotions tangled into a knot and lodged themselves in her throat. She had cried so many tears of sorrow that it made the moisture at the corners of her eyes burn sweetly with joy.
Fritznangle Charem, Waterrunner and friend of the Windwalker, stood opposite her, already crying like a babe. The room blurred until only he remained in focus. Fritz took a step forward, and Vhalla matched his sprint.
There was only one thing that could’ve made her part with the bag containing the axe, and that was the man she threw her arms around. The saddlebag was forgotten on the floor, and Vhalla clutched Fritz as though he was nothing more than an illusion about to fade on the wind.
The room was congratulating her; there may have even been cheers. But Vhalla focused on her friend’s face, wiping away the rivulets of tears streaming around his wide grin with her thumbs.
“I missed you, Vhal,” Fritz hiccupped.
“I missed you, too.” Vhalla leaned forward and rose to her toes to give her friend a light kiss on the forehead.
The room hummed around her, and Vhalla took stock of the other Sorcerers. Their robes bore the seal of the Tower of Sorcerers, a dragon curling in on itself as a circle, split in two and off-set. But above the standard insigna, were pins of a silver wing.
“We knew the Windwalker would return to us, heralding her good fortune.” A man rose his hand to his chest, explaining the pin.
“I don’t know about that,” Vhalla laughed.
“Do not discredit yourself, Lady Yarl.” Vhalla turned to the source of the voice. A man with sharp blue eyes and a neatly cut goatee stood in long black robes, different from the rest of the apprentices. Victor, the current Minister of Sorcery, smiled down at her. “You have brought much good fortune, without even being here, by helping ease tensions between sorcerers and the common folk.”
“Tensions I made worse with the Night of Fire and Wind.” Vhalla couldn’t let herself just take the compliment.