Sidestepping around carts and tiptoeing over bile from the prior night’s revelries, Vhalla made her way to the main markets. Pennons fluttered overhead, and Vhalla made it a point to ignore them. For every two of the West, there was one of the Empire. And for every two of the Empire, there was one black pennon bearing a silver wing—a silver wing that matched the one on the watch around her neck, a silver wing that had somehow become synonymous with the Windwalker.
Stories travelled as fast as the wind, and Vhalla had listened in on conversation after conversation about the Windwalker. A woman given shape on the Night of Fire and Wind, partly her own air, partly flames of the crown prince. A woman who brought Shaldan to its knees and made fire rain from the sky during the North’s last stand.
It was fascinating to Vhalla. She had learned long ago that rumors and reputation could be crafted as easily as armor. But underneath it all, she was still very mortal. A mortal who bled if she was cut too deep, a mortal afflicted with life’s great curse: death.
“Are you closing shop?” Vhalla arrived at her preferred sundries store, only to find the owner locking the door.
“For the day.” The man nodded, recognizing one of his common patrons.
“May I get ink?”
“I’m afraid it’s already late—”
“Two silver for it,” Vhalla interjected.
The man’s keys paused in the lock before turning the opposite direction. “Be quick about it.”
That wasn’t hard. Vhalla knew exactly where his writing supplies were stored and raided them liberally. Within a minute, her bag was two ink blocks heavier and two silver coins lighter.
“Why are you closing so early?” Vhalla hovered, curiosity getting the better of her.
“You haven’t heard?”
Vhalla shook her head no.
“Lord Ci’Dan is coming ahead of the Imperial army. He’ll be holding audiences open to the public.” The man started toward the center of the Crossroads, and Vhalla fell into step alongside him. He eyed her up and down, taking an extra step ahead. “But nobles will be given priority, then land owners, then merchants, then Westerners . . .” The man accounted for her brown eyes. “I doubt there will be time for others.”
Vhalla’s lips twitched with the makings of a smirk. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t cut your place or try to go against convention.”
She walked with the merchant. Soon, they walked alongside half the Crossroads as the masses poured into the sunlight at the center of the world. Vhalla adjusted her scarf once more and found a perch atop one of the pedestals bearing a lamppost. She waited with the rest of the crowd, and then watched as a group of nobles trotted in to all the cries and the pomp and circumstance the Crossroads could muster.
Atop the largest War-strider was a man with short-cut black hair, graying at the ears, and a closely cropped beard along his chin. He was an older image of a royal she knew well; the family resemblance between him and Aldrik was uncanny. Vhalla gripped the lamppost tighter, the only one not screaming the Ci’Dan name.
Aldrik had told her to seek out his uncle if he died in the North because he trusted the man to see to her well-being. Aldrik had told her she would be safer with his uncle than anyone else because Lord Ophain knew the movements of the Knights of Jadar. Her chest ached at the memory, but Vhalla ignored the pain. She needed to know if it was true.
She needed answers.
THE LINE FOR hopefuls seeking an audience with Lord Ophain was long, wrapping around the center of the Crossroads and snaking down the main market and out of sight. Vhalla wondered how many people Lord Ophain could possibly see in one day. She watched the steady flow of people entering and leaving the lavish hotel, which had a front dominated by three large, circular windows.
It reminded her of the day her father had brought her to the palace seeking to trade his place in the Palace Guard following the War of the Crystal Caverns for an apprenticeship for his daughter. That day, Vhalla had felt much the same as the commoners’ faces appeared now as they anticipated meeting the Lord of the West: excited, hopeful, and enthralled with avid anticipation. She slid down the lamppost to sit on the base, kicking it lightly with her heels.
She was older now, more versed in the world. Lord Ophain’s advisors were hard at work prepping every person. By the time people were brought before the Ophain, he’d already been told what his council thought the best decision was and echoed it after the person had their moment to speak. Leadership, Vhalla had learned, was about illusions. The people were happy because they felt their voice was heard by their lord, but their fate was decided before they even stepped foot in the same room as he.
She’d come with the mission of asking questions, but now Vhalla wasn’t sure how she’d go about it. Certainly, she could just stroll in, and he’d make time for her. She was Vhalla Yarl, Duchess in the West, Lady of the Southern Court, Hero of the North, and the Windwalker. Her name had become such an unnecessary mouthful.