Dear Phantom,
Your praise warms me in an odd way, despite your bleak outlook on the world. I think it should be a sorcerer’s obligation to share magic with Commons, as you seem to call non-magical people, in a way that is easy to understand—like you have done with me.
I am not special. I have never been someone who is special. But perhaps you are right that my tone has changed these past weeks under your tutelage.
Here is my question for you today: Why is it that Affinities seem to prefer geographical regions?
Sincerely, Vhalla
While they continued to exchange notes through the introduction book, Vhalla’s reading now extended far beyond that primer. There were times that she wanted to share her notes with Roan or anyone. But then Vhalla remembered what the writing signified. No one other than her phantom would share her enthusiasm for magic. Well, no one other than her phantom—and other sorcerers in the Tower.
As result, in an odd way, her phantom was becoming easier to confide in and speak openly to than her closest friends. The anonymity fit Vhalla’s inquisitive mind and she found it easy to reveal things about herself.
Vhalla,
Call me bleak; I call you naïve and optimistic. Shall we deem it even?
I do not praise you to warm you; I praise you so that you may continue to learn. But you may take what you will from it.
No sorcerer seems to know why Affinities favor geographical regions. It is known that the majority of Firebearers are from the West, Waterrunners from the South, and Groundbreakers from the North.
You think you are under my tutelage. Do you consider me your teacher?
Sincerely, The Phantom
Vhalla wasn’t sure how to respond, so she spent that night tossing and turning. If she confessed she had begun to see the phantom as a teacher, did that make her a sorcerer? The girl within her ran in terror at the thought. But after their correspondence began, there was also a budding woman inside her who faced the idea of being a sorcerer with a level head.
Dear Phantom,
Perhaps I do consider you my teacher. The last sorcerer I spoke to drugged me and kidnapped me to the Tower. At least your worse offense is your sharp tongue and that you have not told me your name. Who exactly are you?
You covered South, North, and West. But, what of the East?
Sincerely, Vhalla Yarl
“Vhalla!” Roan gave her a shove as they wandered toward the library from breakfast.
“Roan, sorry, what?” Vhalla mumbled, rubbing her shoulder.
“What is it with you lately?” Roan studied her up and down.
“I’m tired.” The truth of her words seeped into them.
“Yes, you are, but I have seen you tired before. This is different. You keep weird hours, and only pick at your food during meals, if you take them at all,” Roan argued.
Vhalla shrugged.
“Even Sareem has noticed something is wrong. He asked about you; he’s noticed your habits,” her friend muttered, her voice flat.
Vhalla continued to stare forward. Roan’s words were distant, like she was speaking under water. Who cared about Sareem? There were more important things on her mind. One such thing was the fact that sorcerers no longer seemed to be stalking her waking hours.
“Don’t tell me,” Roan whispered. “You and Sareem, are you an item?”
“What?” Vhalla blinked, summoned back to life. “Sareem and I? No.”
“Really?” Roan hummed. “He clearly cares about you, and he comes from a good family. You know his father was Norin’s ship builder.”
Vhalla nodded.
“And he’s handsome in that Western way. I always thought Southern blue eyes were striking on Western skin...”
“Excellent,” Vhalla murmured, half-heartedly. “Really, not Sareem then?” Roan asked again.
Why did she care so much? “No, not Sareem,” Vhalla confirmed.
“But it is a boy?” her friend teased with a laugh at the idea of Vhalla romantically involved with someone.
Vhalla almost tripped over her own feet, earning a slow, penetrating stare.
“Is it? By the Sun, is it a boy?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Vhalla looked away.
The blonde’s hands clasped on Vhalla’s shoulders, and soon Vhalla stood in a small side hall.
“Roan, we’re going to be late.”
“Then tell me faster so we’re not.” Roan grinned.
Vhalla focused on the freckles dotting Roan’s nose rather than the uncomfortably eager look her friend was giving her.
“I thought you weren’t interested in boys after...”
“Narcio?” Vhalla sighed. He had owned her heart for a few months, and Vhalla had been young enough to think it was love. She didn’t regret her time with him, but things just hadn’t worked out. Vhalla wasn’t exactly good at relationships as she preferred to spend more time with books than people. Still, Vhalla wished she knew what became of the man whom she had lain with for the first time as a woman. “I’m not a Crone. Of course I’m still interested.”
“So who, what, where, when, how?” Roan persisted.
“There isn’t much to tell,” Vhalla sighed, finally relenting. “I don’t know his name, I don’t even know if he is a he...” she revealed softly, looking into the neighboring hallway to see if anyone walked too close.
“You’re making no sense.” Roan loosened her grip.
“It’s complicated, but it’s special. I’ve learned a lot; he’s really smart, and witty too...in a mean sort of way sometimes. But he is someone who seems to understand just how to push me, and yet I can’t seem to figure out anything about him.” She stopped herself before rambling on and giving away too much.
“But, how do you not know...?” Roan scrunched her eyebrows.
“I’ve never actually met him.” Before her friend could ask Vhalla continued, “We communicate through notes in books. That’s all.” She turned and quickly continued down the hallway to the welcome escape of work.
“Wait, so that’s why you’re always running off lately? And carrying your satchel?” Roan pointed to the leather bag on Vhalla’s shoulder that she subconsciously gripped tighter. “To write notes to your secret lover?”
“Not my lover,” she remarked sharply.
“Fine. But, Vhalla, this is weird,” Roan whispered. Before Vhalla could offer up some kind of retort, her friend continued, “But it is kind of exciting.”
They parted ways upon arriving at the library. Vhalla quickly learned her task for the day, completed it, and headed toward her window seat. Her hands were eager to find a book with a note tucked within.
Dear Vhalla,
The East’s Affinity was air. They were called Windwalkers, but there has not been one for one hundred forty-three years.
I have already told you who I am. I am the phantom in the darkness.
Sincerely, The Phantom
Later that night Vhalla fought sleep. In one hand she clutched the cryptic note, the other ran through her long hair, snagging on tangles.
She was tired of these games. Despite the trenchant and dry nature of her phantom, she did not want their correspondence to end. Her eyes drifted closed, no closer to a resolution of the battle raging inside her.