Her fingers slipped from the door handle with a deflating sigh. No, there would be no princes today. Vhalla turned back into the room and began stripping off her sleeping gown and readying herself for what did await her—Sareem.
Vhalla decided to see how much she could do with magic—by herself. Raising her hand she flicked her wrist a few times and a pair of tan leather leggings and her best dress flew across the room onto the bed.
She uncertainly studied the unassuming garments in her hands. Her father had sent it to her when she had her coming of age birthday. It was a date, after all. Vhalla discovered using magic to dress herself would take practice, and succeeded only in working up a small sweat and pulling on her leggings by hand.
A challenge for another day.
Next was washing. Vhalla attempted to raise the water out of its bowl, but it resisted her. She even tried closing her eyes and reaching out to it like she had to do when she was first being taught. But it kept slipping through her fingers and sloshed around in the bowl. Vhalla frowned. Water was another challenge for later. Maybe Fritz would have some advice, she mused. He was a Waterrunner, after all.
Vhalla looked at her hair in the tarnished scrap of metal that served as her mirror. As usual, her hair was a frizzy, knotted mess. If she could use magic on her hair, her life would be complete. Vhalla took a breath and prepared herself for a fight. She stared at the mirror and thought of a simple style she’d seen some of the Southerners wear before. It was a bun with a braid around its base.
Letting the breath out slowly she focused on her hair and thought of what she wanted it to do. She squinted at it, tilted her head, closed her eyes, blinked seven times, and waved her hands like a fool.
Nothing.
Vhalla took a breath and sat back. Sareem would likely be here soon, and she needed to have something. Resolved, she insisted her hair would move. Vhalla was rewarded with a small piece lifting near her face before falling back limply. Apparently, her hair was so stubborn it even refused magic. Resigned, Vhalla held out her hand and watched a leather hair-tie float into it from her desk. She did her hair by hand with some mild success—and a handful or two of pins—before deciding it was good enough.
She passed the rest of the time levitating random objects in her room. Aldrik had been an adept teacher, and Vhalla found herself inventing things that she could accomplish with ease. She was working on levitating two things in the air at the same time, her quill and journal, when there was a knock.
“Come in, Sareem.” She didn’t even look to ensure it was him, wrapped up in the bobbing items.
He slammed the door shut behind him. “Vhalla,” he hissed, “What are you doing?”
She looked at him dumbly. “Trying something out. Look, look! I just got it, two at once!” She grinned, oblivious to his displeasure, pointing at the quill and journal.
“Stop that.” He plucked them from the air as though they were anti-Empire propaganda.
Vhalla’s expression quickly fell to a frown. “No one taught me how to do that. I was making it up all on—” She didn’t even try to hide her annoyance.
“And what if it hadn’t been me at the door?” he snapped. “What if someone who doesn’t know saw?” Her features relaxed a little thinking of that.
“Vhalla,” he cooed, walking over to her, “you look absolutely stunning. Let’s go have a perfectly normal day, just you and I?”
She almost refused, her stomach felt suddenly unsettled. But his hand was at the small of her back leading her out into the hall beyond. Taking advantage of Aldrik being nowhere nearby, Vhalla wrung her hands with purpose.
They walked out of the staff gate nearest Vhalla’s room. It was called a gate but it was little more than a back door with a guard stationed outside. It led into the middle class area of the city. The houses were clean and well kept, but the roofs were simply thatched, rather than possessing clay or wooden tiles that could be found higher up the mountain. Some had peeling paint, if painted at all, and only about half possessed any glass in their windows. It was the home of the common folk.
Everyone seemed to be in a spirited mood for the Festival of the Sun. Women walked around in frocks and simple dresses. Children begged to attend this or that event. Men laughed and played music in the streets. Every fountain was flowing with water from the city’s aqueducts, no matter the time of day. Judging from the swagger of some, not only water was flowing.
Vhalla smiled at the white and gold pennons proudly displayed, the golden sun, symbol of the Mother and the Empire.
She saw one group of men hunched around some form of dice game. Shirts hung loosely about their shoulders with open ties in the front. No one wore no coats or jackets, and none seemed to be bothered that a portion of their chest was easily visible. Vhalla’s cheeks felt hot, and she could hardly stifle a nervous laugh as she tried to imagine Aldrik dressed so plainly, his chest on display.
“What is it?” Sareem had taken her hand while she was lost in thoughts.
“Oh nothing,” she murmured, still smiling at the image in her mind. “It’s just a lovely day.”
“It is. But you, my dear, are far lovelier than even the Mother Sun.”
Vhalla smiled nicely at Sareem; he was trying. “So, what will we be doing?” she inquired, trying to avoid the silence from stretching on for too long.
“Well, there is a wonderful bakery not far from here; I’ve frequented it often since I was a boy,” Sareem began. “Then I was thinking we could go watch the jugglers in the square.”
“There are jugglers?” Vhalla hadn’t been keeping track of the events very closely.
Sareem nodded. “A troupe of refugees from the North, I hear. They came South under the declarations of peace to find a better life and escape the war. I’ve heard the entertainment is their thanks for their liberation.”
Vhalla pondered this a moment, wondering if she too would willingly perform for people who took her home from her.
Sareem continued, “Then I was thinking that we could watch the procession of the senators. It’s a bit out of the way, but they’re dressed up like roosters and it is always good fun to laugh at them.”
“Haven’t we done that before?” Vhalla wondered aloud. She was struggling to remember if they had terrorized the Senators, or if it had been the Court escaping from its grand meeting hall in the palace.
“We have,” Sareem affirmed. “If I recall correctly I was able to make you laugh so hard you snorted like a pig.” Vhalla blushed, and pursed her lips in embarrassment. Sareem chuckled. “You’ve a lovely laugh, Vhalla, and I’d enjoy hearing it.”
She watched as he moved her hand up to his mouth, kissing its back. His fingers were intertwined with hers. Vhalla wanted to find a way that she thought they looked good together, but every time she did she kept remembering his prior reaction to her magic. But, if he was to be believed, his actions were purely shock.
“Well, if I enjoyed it so much last time,” she agreed weakly.
“I will make sure you enjoy yourself again, my dear,” he promised.
Vhalla forced a smile. She wasn’t about to let the unsettling feeling at the very pit of her core ruin everything. It was a nice day, and Sareem was a good friend. Seeing as how she had several hours with him ahead of her, Vhalla was inclined to give Sareem the benefit of the doubt.
They settled at a bakery called The Golden Bun. It was not far from the main square, and Sareem sat her down at an outside table at her request. He pulled out her chair, placed a small kiss on her temple, and then went to fetch the food. She wished he wouldn’t be so forward in public.