minister for assistance, but he had already departed. “Don’t touch it, Fritz.”
Fritz’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Sorry, I . . .” She didn’t want to lie to him. She didn’t want to lie to her friends. She had sworn off lying. But what else could she tell him? Her hands tightened around the saddlebag. “There’s something precious inside.”
“What is it?”
“Just something I picked up along the way,” Vhalla muttered, grabbing at straws for a new topic. Her eyes fell on an Eastern man who had been lingering by Fritz’s side since Vhalla had first seen him. “Grahm? Right?”
“Welcome home.” The man beamed at her. “I’m surprised you remember me.”
“Of course I would!” Vhalla stared up the Tower. “I heard so much about you.”
“You did?” Grahm seemed honestly surprised.
“Vhal!” Fritz was redder than scarlet.
“Just that you’re quite talented,” Vhalla spoke to Grahm, giving Fritz a knowing wink while the other man’s eyes were averted. Clearly, Fritz had been making slow use of his time when it came to the man he was so obviously pining for. Vhalla paused. “Where’s Elecia?”
“Still in the West.” Fritz pouted, affirming Vhalla’s suspicion that she wasn’t in the Tower. If she had been, Vhalla had no doubt that things with Grahm wouldn’t have faltered so.
“Wasn’t she coming to study here a bit?” Trying to recall details between the final battle and leaving the North was a struggle, it all blurred together into one ugly mess.
“In spring.” Fritz sighed heavily. “She doesn’t like Southern winters.”
“You can’t blame her.” Vhalla thought back to the time she’d spent in the West. If she’d grown up in such a climate, she’d truly loathe the chill that was already slipping into the halls.
“I can blame her and I do!” Fritz grumbled. “I’ve missed her, and you.”
“Tell me what I’ve missed.” Vhalla pulled her friend close, enjoying having him at her side once more.
They strolled leisurely and began what would be the long process of catching up. How she had missed her favorite Southerner. His laughter was like sunlight, and his heart was more golden than his scraggly hair.
“You remember where your room is, right?” Fritz asked, pausing with Grahm at a door.
“You’re not coming with me?” Vhalla blinked. She expected Fritz to be glued to her side, demanding all the details of their adventures apart. But it seemed he presently had other priorities.
“To your room?” Fritz laughed. “No, I figured you’d want some time to wash up alone. Unless you want me to scrub your back?”
Vhalla grinned. “I doubt you’d be let into the women’s baths.”
“Grahm was beginning to teach me the process of making vessels, you see,” Fritz explained, taking a step closer to the other man. “I want to keep studying.”
Fritz was studying something, all right.
“I’d enjoy learning more about vessels, from an expert.” Vhalla smiled nicely at Grahm.
“I actually need to speak with you on the subject, now that you’re back.” Her fellow Easterner was completely oblivious to the silent but certain exchange between his two companions.
“Oh?”
“Yes, but it’ll keep for now. Go and relax,” Grahm encouraged.
So Vhalla finished her journey as it had begun, in silence and alone. Her future felt as equally uncertain now as it had the first time she’d entered the Tower. Vhalla ran her fingers over the nameplate that was on the door of one of the highest rooms in the Tower of Sorcerers. Her name had been engraved in tight, slanted script.
With a deep breath, she opened the door and was hit with an unexpected wave of nostalgia. This had not been her home for long. She’d only slept in the bed for a few nights between her trial and departing for war. But it was her home now. It had been the place she had dreamed of returning to with Larel and Fritz. She’d been the library apprentice everyone expected—and hoped—would die. Now she was the Windwalker, a lady and hero, and this was her home.
Vhalla ran her fingers reverently over the small table, the bed, and stopped at the wardrobe. Opening the doors, Vhalla stared at the contents for a long moment before promptly closing it. Her clothes were folded and hung on pegs, exactly the same as Larel had left it.
Closing her eyes, Vhalla pressed her forehead against the shut doors, as if she was locking a specter of the other woman in the wardrobe. As if she could protect herself from it entering her heart once more and consuming her soul. Then again, Larel had given her Serien, and