Air Awakens Book One (14 page)

Vhalla decided that she would actually give some care for her appearance today. It was her birthday. Another year older, another chance at maturing and developing womanly habits she had yet to find a taste for. Through her tarnished looking glass, Vhalla moved her head to fit in the palm sized reflection. Her hair seemed marginally better.

Vhalla had one special stop planned before she set out on her day. She headed upward into the sweaty din of the kitchens. It was a bustling place of noise and stomach-growling scents. Vhalla did not often have reason to frequent them, but on her birthday she hoped for one exception.

Lemons only grew in the far West and on the outer islands, so they were a delicacy in the other regions of the main continent. The kitchens served a small cake with tea or lunches for nobles and royals. White sugar glaze on top, Vhalla coveted the spongy yellow sweet throughout the year.

With just the right amount of begging—and luck— she had one palm-sized dessert wrapped in cloth and stashed in her bag for her birthday.

As far as Vhalla was concerned the palace had three worlds wrapped within it. The innermost world was the lowest in society; it was tucked away in closet-like spaces with servant dormitories, apprentice rooms, and hallways that ran through walls. It was the roughhewn stone, chipping mortar, and stairs that were not quite evenly spaced. Candlewax dripping down the walls was their artwork and all the pleasurable scents of the plumbing—the palace’s and Empire’s sophisticated aqueduct system was their perfume.

Above that world was the public world. This had the showy rooms common folk were permitted to see and the halls nobles and ministers walked through. It was polished and swept with fresco artwork and stone sculptures.

This was where Vhalla walked today. Not completely unorthodox for an apprentice, she enjoyed the beauty of the palace at her leisure. Most of the halls stood empty as Court was in session and the ministers were at work.

Vhalla had never stepped foot in the last world of the palace. Not unless she counted passing through in secret stairwells behind a prince. The quarters for royalty and their high ranking noble guests were closed off with a gold-gilded gate. The most dangerous guards were posted day and night, keeping out all who would presume to force entry. Vhalla had only set eyes upon it once as a curious girl before she had been shooed away.

Vhalla did not know what she was looking for, she simply walked. Spiraling upward and downward she drifted from one thing to the next. She passed one or two other servants, but they asked her nothing and she offered nothing.

Vhalla might not have had a goal when she started this meander, but she knew she had found it when she saw it.

Through an upper window Vhalla gazed upon a garden she had never seen before, hidden within a palace courtyard. Graveled pathways spiraled through the dense hedges, plants, and trees. Many of them were beginning to lose their green foliage, changing into the fall orange and reds. The trees looked aflame as they swayed in the bright sunlight.

She spotted a gate through the windows as Vhalla spiraled around the garden. However, none of the stairwells up or down led her to a passage that connected to it. Frustrated but determined, she found the lowest window she could. It was almost impossible to see over the hedge positioned right before it.

Opening the window, Vhalla stepped over the stone and landed lightly in the garden below. She could barely close the portal behind her and would need to find something to stand on to return later. The wind ruffling her hair, Vhalla plunged through the bushes and into another world.

A breeze swept down the mountainside, stopping Vhalla in her tracks. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before. The world was alive around her, and each gust of air was like the whisper of a lover upon silk.

In awe, she held out a hand, inspecting it as though she could see the air visibly slipping between her fingers. This was more than the soft huffs that managed to breeze through her window. She could not see it, but she could
feel
it. Not in the way that one normally feels a breeze. No, recalling Larel’s words, Vhalla could feel the essence of the wind. It was as though she could grab it and close her fingers around something finer than any silk or chiffon.

An upward gust drew her gaze skyward, and Vhalla’s breath hitched in her throat. Towering high above her was Imperial Housing. Her whole body tingled at the sight. It was the first time she laid eyes on the golden spires since her fall.

She had no reason to be alive. The spires were astonishingly high with a straight drop down. Vhalla tried to imagine what she might have hit, but nothing seemed to make sense. All the ledges and decorations were to the sides of the tower; it was a far descent before there was anything that could’ve broken her fall. From her current vantage she could discern that she would’ve had to have moved a good six or seven body lengths in the air to have hit anything. It all seemed vastly impossible.

Shaking the painful memories from her mind, Vhalla gripped her bag and began walking through the garden. She had seen an unorthodox structure from the windows and attempting to find it was a much better use of her time than musing over princes and near-death experiences.

Fortunately, all paths seemed to wind toward her goal and Vhalla’s heart beat in a weird rhythm at its beauty.

The building looked almost like a birdcage. Silverwork arched together, holding large panes of swirled glass upright as walls. At its apex stood a silver sun. Vhalla fidgeted with her fingers, thinking. She had only ever seen the blazing sun of the Empire crafted in gold.

The glass had a touch of fog to it. While she could make out hazy shapes and green blurs, it was impossible to discern what was inside from where she presently stood. Three silver steps led up to an arched door.

Her hand paused on the silver handle. Her heart was racing but she couldn’t place why.

Roses assaulted her senses upon entering. They grew along the outer walls and up a large central post. The temperature within the greenhouse-like structure was warm, perfectly kept for ensuring the Western crimson flowers stayed in bloom.

Her slippers did not make a sound as she walked lightly over to the pillar, inspecting one of the buds. Movement drew her attention past the stunning foliage to a silver bench in the back, opposite the door.

She was not alone.

A man sat hunched over an open ledger and seemed to be deeply engrossed in the notes he was taking. Vhalla’s blood ran cold, and she took a step back. This was not supposed to happen. Out of all the people in the world she was not meant to meet this man clad in black, with his slicked back hair and dark eyes.

Vhalla was debating how best to make her escape when his pen stopped and his chin slowly rose. His eyes widened, and his brow furrowed as his lips parted slightly in shock. The deep, rich voice that broke the silence made her teeth grind.

“Are you real?” Prince Aldrik whispered in obvious surprise.

W
ITH ANNOYANCE
, V
HALLA
wiped the confusion off her face.

“Of course I’m real, and I was just leaving.” She turned, starting for the door.

“Wait!” He was on his feet, papers scattering across the floor. She looked back at his clumsy and haphazard movement. “Wait.”

“Is that an order, my prince?” Vhalla focused her gaze on the door handle. A quiet anger rose in her.

“Yes. No.
No
, it is not. If you want to go then go; but please, just—wait.” He sighed and ran a hand over his hair, adjusting his long double-breasted coat.

“Why?” she demanded. Vhalla half-turned toward him, her hand still on the door handle.

“Because,” he cleared his throat, attempting to continue with more conviction, “I want to talk to you.”

“And if I don’t want to talk to you?” she sighed.

“Then go.” He stood, his posture slack. When she made no motion in his direction, he knelt and began to pick up his papers.

Vhalla stood in limbo, watching this strange, frustrating, and infuriating man on the floor, collecting his scattered parchment. With another soft sigh, the apprentice within got the better of her, and Vhalla walked over to kneel across from her prince, collecting a few papers within reach and holding them out expectantly.

He looked up at her and took the papers from her hands, his jaw slightly slack and lips parted.

She waited for a moment. Receiving nothing she stood and turned for the door, frustrated. What had she expected? He was a prince, and—if the palace gossip was to be believed—he never thought of anyone beyond himself.

“I am sorry.” It was so soft she barely heard it over the rustling of the trees. Vhalla held the halfway open door. Surely she’d only imagined it, she took another step. “Vhalla,
I am sorry
.”

She turned slowly, looking back at him, one foot outside, one foot in. The words sunk into her, and she waited to see if they could be enough to soothe the anger she felt toward the black-clad man.

“I should not have lashed out at you, magically or verbally, as I did,” he continued. There was a spark in his eyes that was pleading with her for something she didn’t know if she could give. “I was eager—and foolish. I did not think of how it would affect you.”

Vhalla took a step back in, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for much needed support.

“I am certain you have heard all of the stories about me.” Prince Aldrik rested his folio on the bench behind him. Vhalla wondered why he seemed unable to meet her eyes. “I assure you, they are all true. I am not exactly versed in, in...” He paused, looking for words.

“In creating real relationships with people?” Vhalla finished spitefully. If he wanted to cast her from the palace for her lack of proper decorum, he would have already. She had no idea why he didn’t. But Vhalla was ready to find out and wash her hands of royalty.

“I have hurt you with my words—and actions. I know that. And, it likely means nothing to you to say that I did not intend to.” He sighed, looking away.

“They say you are the silver-tongued prince.” Her voice was fainter than she would’ve liked. “You already spoke me onto a ledge. How can I believe you now?”

“Because there are things you do not know about us,” Prince Aldrik responded cryptically.

Vhalla shook her head, there was no “us” between them. “You could’ve thrown me to my death and— what’s worse—you didn’t even care.” Her voice broke, and she took a deep breath. Vhalla clenched her jaw; she had been the one who suffered. He had no right to look so pained.

“You are wrong. I did care. I knew you were a Windwalker, so I never realized the possibility of you dying.” The prince took a small step toward her. Vhalla glared at the toes of his boots as though they had offended her.

“Fine,” she started, trying to turn his logic back on him. “Even if you knew my Affinity—which not even the minister himself seemed to know—how did you know the fall wouldn’t kill me, that’d I’d be strong enough?”

“Because air cannot hurt Windwalkers, like fire cannot hurt Firebearers,” he pointed out.

“It seems we know almost nothing about Windwalkers. You didn’t know that fall wouldn’t kill me.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“I knew you would not die, because you saved my life.” The prince’s voice was slow and deliberate, as if he struggled to speak. Her arms dropped to her side. “When I first arrived home, I was going to die. The...
weapon
that pierced my flesh was laced with a strong poison. Were it not for an immunity I have built up over many years, it would have killed me halfway home. The clerics did not know what to do, so they called on the library and the Tower for any clues as to an antidote or course of treatment.

“I knew it was the end. The clerics could not make sense of the poison and how it had been altered magically to affect me.” Aldrik clenched a fist and Vhalla listened to his tale intently. “Yet I began to stabilize as they pulled certain notes from the books. Some were comprehensive, others devolved into gibberish, but somehow they all made sense to me, and I was able to guide my treatment. They were all yours.”

“That’s impossible,” Vhalla protested. “How did you know they were mine?”

“I had the minister ask the guards who wrote them. A guard led Victor to you,” the prince explained. “I knew you were exerting a fair deal of magical energy to keep me alive, and I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“What?” she said weakly. The minister had kidnapped her because the prince had been worried for her wellbeing? It was backwards and hardly made sense. But if it was true, Vhalla began to paint a different image of that night and the events that followed.

“I was not completely enthused about Victor’s methods,” Aldrik mumbled. “But he found you, and I knew who to look for.”

Vhalla was finally stunned into silence.

“For lack of a better explanation, you wrote magic. I do not know why you did it—or how. But you cared so much about saving me that it forced your powers to Manifest. You made vessels and sent them to me. As utterly impossible as that should be for someone who was not even Awoken, you did it. And if it had not been for that, I would not be standing now.” The prince’s voice had found strength.