by Elise Kova
The doors did not obstruct her; like the fake wall in the Tower, they allowed her to pass through with ease. Vhalla soon found herself in the moonlit library. She turned, starting for her window seat. Her heartbeat fluttered faster than a hummingbird’s wings. There, she had to go there.
The world began to blur, the bookcases fading into a haze. Everything slipped around her as she raced toward her destination. Upon her favorite perch sat the hunched figure of a man. Hazy and shadowed, she could not make out his features and, when he finally turned, the movement was pained. Surprise tensed his shoulders, and Vhalla could only make out a pair of dark eyes set upon a blurry face, struggling to focus on her much as she was struggling to focus on him.
“Who are you?” The man’s words were as deep and dark as midnight. They resonated directly into Vhalla’s core, and it fractured the faded world around her.
Wait, Vhalla cried. Wait! Only air passed through her lips. Everything surrounding her lost its sharpness and began to crumble beneath her feet. She fell into darkness.
Vhalla awoke with a start, her covers upon the floor from thrashing about in her sleep. She pressed a palm to her forehead. Her skin wasn’t fevered, but it was clammy from night sweats.
It was a dream, she insisted while readying herself for the day. But nothing seemed to be able to calm the nerves upsetting her stomach, not even the familiar scratch of her rough spun woolen clothing. She had worn the same clothes for years, though Vhalla was suddenly tugging at her robe’s sleeves uncomfortably.
She had a similar dream the next night, and the night after that, each time more vivid than the last. She ignored the shakes the dreams left in their wake. Vhalla blamed it on the black-clad figures who seemed to stalk her every movement—just beyond the edge of her vision. She did not go a day without seeing a sorcerer swathed in black, but only out of the corners of her eyes.
They stood at the edge of a bookshelf, the junction of a hall; sometimes they passed through doors that would be locked when she tried the knob. No one else ever saw them. Not Roan, who sorted books with her. Not Sareem when he walked her back to her room after dinner, meals that sat too heavy in her stomach.
The feel of eyes upon her became as common as breathing. What they wanted from her—they did not say. What they were waiting for they did not reveal.
Vhalla ignored her suspicion that she already knew what they sought.
One day, she was working alone in the library when the hairs at the nape of her neck raised on end.
At the end of the row stood a woman. She wore a variation of the Tower’s apprentice robes that Vhalla had only seen once or twice before. The black jacket still ended at her waist, but the sleeves were capped over the shoulders. Vhalla could not guess the significance of having different styled robes. Library apprentices all wore the same.
The woman did not move, she did not even seem to breathe. Dark brown eyes, almost black, were set upon deep tan Western skin. Black hair fell straight around her face with horizontal fringe cut right below the woman’s brow. Her hair was longer in the front and shorter in the back, exposing her neck.
It was the first time Vhalla had seen one of her watchers long enough to examine their appearance. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but the woman looked like any other Westerner. Wasn’t she always told that sorcerers were different from normal people?
“What do you want?” Vhalla whispered. Her eyes watered, she did not even allow herself to blink for fear the woman would vanish.
“Have you ever read any of these?” The woman had a thick accent, holding her a and y like those of the West. Vhalla had heard traces of it in Sareem, even though he had been born and raised in the South.
“These?” Vhalla repeated carefully.
“These books,” the woman clarified. “Have you ever read any of them?”
“Of course I have,” Vhalla retorted defensively. People did not often question her knowledge of the library, especially when it came to her reading.
“And you still fear us?” The woman squinted slightly, tilting her head.
Vhalla subconsciously took a step away. “I-I don’t fear—” the woman’s approach stilled her words. What would this person do to her? Vhalla looked over her shoulder to make sure Sareem or Roan weren’t nearby. She jumped when she looked back—the sorcerer stood right before her.
“This one.” Pulling a manuscript from the shelf the woman passed it to her. “Read this.”
“Why?” Vhalla accepted the manuscript from the woman with hesitant fingers. She read the title quickly: An Introduction to Sorcery.
“Because you are too smart to be so afraid of what you are,” the dark-haired woman replied simply, turning to walk away.
Vhalla blinked, reeling from the strange interaction. “Wait,” she called a little too loudly. “What’s your name?”
The woman stopped. Vhalla clutched the book with white knuckles, holding her breath. Dark eyes assessed her, silently thoughtful.
“Larel.” With that, she vanished down the rows. Vhalla did not even try to pursue.
By the time the closing bells rang out across the library, Vhalla’s neck ached from being hunched over reading for so long. She had acquired additional manuscripts on magic to aide her on the more complex points. One was on magical Affinities, the other on sorcerers’ history.
Retrieving her worn bookmark from the powder blue sash holding her robes closed, Vhalla put it delicately between the pages. She returned the manuscript to its place, stacking her references on either side, out of order. No one else would be reading in the section of mysteries.
The next morning she trailed behind Roan as they walked through the palace. War was still being fought in Shaldan, and they had received a shipment of books to process from a conquered city. The guards had refused to carry the heavy crates up to the Imperial Library. Why two of the smallest girls in the palace were sent instead was a mystery to Vhalla.
As they descended through the outer wall, she began to wipe sweat from her brow. The library opened into the town at one of the palace’s highest access points and was always cooler, even in summer. The stables were further down along the capital’s main road.
“Did you know that when we first began to worship the Mother, all the Crones were Firebearers?” Vhalla blurted out suddenly, recalling the prior day’s reading.
“What?” Roan blinked, turning. “What’s a Firebearer?”
“I...” Vhalla opened and closed her mouth like a fish, formulating words. The last thing she wanted to do was admit to reading books on magic by explaining Firebearers. Ignoring Roan’s question she continued on. “Well, I didn’t know this, since the Empire invaded Cyven to spread the word of the Mother.”
“I know the history of the Empire’s expansion,” Roan laughed lightly. “It’s not that long.”
“Right, well, I always thought that worshiping the Mother Sun came from the South, since the Emperor says his wars are to rid the world of heathens. But it’s actually Western. King Solaris names himself Emperor, invades Mhashan, takes their religion, and uses it to claim Cyven and now Shaldan,” Vhalla mused aloud. “But, he’s doing it to spread a faith—or at least he claims—that isn’t originally his.”
“All right, what are you reading?” Roan hummed in amusement.
“Don’t you think that’s interesting?” Vhalla asked, dropping all mention of sorcery.
“I do.” Her friend smiled. The expression quickly turned into a teasing grin. “I also think someone’s been reading strange things when they should be working.”
Vhalla looked away, guilty as charged. Her friend only laughed, nudging her side. Roan was less than a year older than Vhalla, and they had always looked out for each other. When they met seven years ago, only Lidia and another man, who was now long gone, worked as library apprentices. Two eleven-year-old girls hardly had any interest in twenty-somethings; Vhalla and Roan had taken to each other out of necessity and kinship in the written word.
/> Rounding a corner, they came to a small landing that overlooked the ground below. Vhalla ignored a shadowed figure on the edge of her vision. The stables were two large buildings built into the walls of the castle, each on either side of the main road leading up to the palace. They stretched on for an impossibly long time, and she always felt a little awe at all the horses, carts, and carriages they could contain. Presently, most of the stalls stood empty due to the strain the war was putting on the Empire’s resources.
After their brief escape into the sunlight, the women returned inside and descended a short, spiral staircase and exited out a small door onto the rocky, dusty ground. By the smaller portal were two, massive, opulent doors that Vhalla knew were for decoration over function. Behind them was a viewing room where the Emperor would—from time to time—allow common folk to speak of their troubles, on those rare times when he wasn’t off at war. She had only stood in that throne room once before when her father had first brought her to the capital to ask the Emperor to exchange his promotion into the palace guard for an opportunity to find an apprenticeship for his daughter.
The first six stalls belonged to the Imperial Family. All but two were empty. The Empress’s mount, a beautiful white mare stood stoically in place. In the adjacent stall resided a War-strider that snorted as she passed. Vhalla stopped, captured by the beast’s eyes.
“I hear the soldiers call it the nightmare stallion.” Roan was suddenly next to her, also studying the oversized creature as she spoke. “I think it comes—in part—from the prince’s reputation, but I hear the beast is pretty foul toward most.”
“His reputation?” Vhalla looked quickly at a plaque on the stall door. Prince Aldrik Solaris.
“He’s a sorcerer. It makes people uncomfortable. Magic is something that should stay within the Tower.” Roan tucked a piece of hay-colored hair behind her ear.
Vhalla had always been jealous of Roan’s hair and generally everything else about her. Vhalla’s hair was a dark brown mess of frizz and untamable waves; Roan’s fell in beautiful curls. Southerners were lucky with their light skin and features. Even the Gods were shown that way. Vhalla felt perpetually inadequate compared to Southerners and Westerners. Those in the East had yellow-hued skin with dark brown eyes and wavy hair. Nothing was fantastic about her.
“They say the prince’s eyes glow red with rage,” Roan murmured.
“What do you think?” Vhalla whispered, looking up at her friend.
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen a battlefield, and when I have seen the prince, his eyes have never been red.” Roan put her hands on her hips, squinting at the horse as if it would give her some secrets about its owner. “But I think that in every rumor there is a small piece of truth.”
They started walking again, closing the distance to the cart section of the stables.
“Then, do you think it’s true he’s a bastard?” Vhalla asked quietly, not wanting to be overheard by any others walking about, particularly those in black robes she suspected to be lingering in the shaded stalls.
“I don’t know if it matters. The Emperor married our late Empress before she showed. Who is to say whether or not she was with child before their wedding bed? But the Emperor calls him as his legitimate heir and, since our first Lady Solaris walks the lands of the Father now, no one can say differently.” Roan shrugged.
Vhalla nodded, recalling a book she read on the Imperial Family when she was fresh to the capital. After conquering the West twenty-five years ago, the Emperor quickly took a Western bride to his bed, tying loyalties with blood. But there were always whispers surrounding the wedding to the youngest daughter of the late Western king when she had two older, eligible sisters. Her death while giving birth to the Empire’s crown prince within one year of the wedding had only made it worse.
Upon reaching the cart section, the young women met the Master of Horse. After navigating through greetings and polite chatter they retrieved the books they had come for. The crates that held the manuscripts were too heavy to carry, and the contents had to be split into smaller boxes, the rest to be retrieved at a later date.
It took almost triple the time to cover the same distance back up the palace. At first both girls seemed to be playing a game of denial and determination, but once Vhalla suggested they take a breather, those breaks became something that occurred liberally throughout the rest of their ascent.
After parting ways with Roan at the desk, Vhalla disappeared into the books to pretend to work. She retrieved her manuscripts from mysteries without thought, carrying them over to her window seat. It wasn’t until everything was set out that Vhalla noticed the piece of paper folded around her bookmark. She looked around quickly, there were no black-clad observers.
A tingle shot through her fingers as she touched the paper, prompting a sharp intake of breath. The book fell open-faced to the floor, forgotten. Vhalla stared at the foreign, slanted, tight script.
To Vhalla Yarl...
DEEP LINES APPEARED between Vhalla’s brows as she studied the note. The writing was unfamiliar. Lidia’s slanted the other direction. The master’s was far spikier. Sareem’s wasn’t half as lovely. Cadance was a child, and her writing showed it. Roan’s was the closest, but Vhalla knew how Roan formed every capital letter from years of penmanship classes together.
No, this wasn’t anyone from the library.
To Vhalla Yarl,
To the one who denies her heritage and seeks out danger by dismissing the tutelage and open arms of the Tower of Sorcerers. To the foolish girl who risks her life and the lives of those around her by walking about, Manifesting freely. To she who is so selfish that she would inconvenience her peers by making them babysit her every movement.
It is time to stop pretending. It is time to become serious about who you are and your future as a sorcerer. Enough time has been wasted already.
She stared numbly at the antagonistic note. With a cry she crumpled and threw it across the window seat, watching it bounce off the opposite wall. Had it been the woman, Larel? The note seemed nothing like her, but what did Vhalla know? What did she know about any of them?
Vhalla ignored the crumpled parchment for the rest of the day before reluctantly picking it up, folding it, and placing it beneath her sash as the closing bells rang. Sareem linked arms with her, walking toward the mess hall, but Vhalla quickly excused herself, encouraging Roan and the young man to go ahead. She wasn’t hungry and meals were the first thing she sacrificed when her mind was full.
Alone in her room sitting in dim candlelight, Vhalla inspected the note over again. Every word sent red heat to her cheeks. Before she could stop herself Vhalla was reaching for quill and ink.
Of the phantoms stalking my waking hours, I don’t know which one you are, but you know nothing. I am no sorcerer. If this is Larel, you may speak with me in person as you did last time. I am not about to indulge someone so cowardly that they will not even sign their name. I am reading books on magic purely for—
For what? Vhalla’s quill paused. Why was she reading the book the sorcerer had handed her? There wasn’t any point to it. It wasn’t as if Vhalla would—or could—ever use the knowledge it contained.
—personal intellectual improvement and learning. Go bother someone else.
She dropped her face into her palms. This wasn’t who she was. Vhalla muttered a curse under her breath. She did not speak harshly to strangers—or even those she knew. This was the Tower’s fault. Were it not for their persistence with wearing her down with every waking hour, Vhalla would not be so exhausted. She crumpled the note once more and threw it into her closet, trying to ignore it.
Her exhaustion was not helped by that same recurring dream. Every night she chased shadows and asked hazy figures for names, only to have her words vanish into wind.
The next morning she shrugged on her apprentice robes, not even trying to run a brush through her hair.
Grabbing her reply off the closet floor, she resolved to give this sorcerer
a piece of her mind. She hardly cared if she offended some random apprentice in the Tower of Sorcerers. The note went in An Introduction to Sorcery, and Vhalla expected that to be the end.
She was wrong.
The person exceeded her expectation in their stubbornness.
Yarl,
I am not stalking the halls. I do not slink or dodge. I am waiting to see if you are even worthy of my time. I am not a phantom with little better to do than keep an eye on your wellbeing. I am the phantom in the darkness.
However, if your last note and desperate attempts at research really are any indication, you are not worth an iota of the ink on this page. Perhaps you should do the sorcerer community a favor and Eradicate yourself before you embarrass us all?
That should have been the moment when she stopped writing. That should have been the moment when Vhalla threw her hands in the air, marched to the Tower, and demanded to be Eradicated. At least, after looking up that eradication meant the removal of a sorcerer’s powers and not some horrible death sentence.
But Vhalla had little that she called her own. She did not have clothes, gems, or precious metals. She had never even eaten fresh fruit other than what her mother had grown around their farmhouse when she was a girl. Vhalla did have one precious thing though, her knowledge. And she would be cursed before she would let an apprentice of the Tower show her up intellectually.
To the one who declares themselves The Phantom, Perhaps I should demand to be Eradicated! I read
about the War of the Crystal Caverns; the magic unleashed there was not only capable of warping men’s minds and bodies into abominations but it is also written that the magic was set free by sorcerers’ meddling. It was a two-year war against monsters that kept my father from my mother and I as she lay sick and dying. War and horror spawned and fueled by magic.
Perhaps the world should be Eradicated!
Vhalla had never been more certain that she should rid herself of whatever magic she may possess. Everything she had always been told was right, and it only took half a book on the history of the Empire’s most mysterious war to understand this. Magic changes things; magic made more men die at war, magic could turn a human into an abomination.