“It is not your decision,” Aldrik barked harshly.

Vhalla was pleased by the amount Elecia was being interrupted. The sentiment was not shared, and the other woman adjusted her red bandana before riding off in a huff.

“What’s Channeling?” Vhalla forced herself to ask. She hated herself for not knowing, but not asking would only exacerbate the problem. Aldrik had mentioned it months ago, but he’d never bothered to explain.

“It’s how a sorcerer uses magic,” Fritz began.

“I can use magic,” she retorted in a defensive and tired tone.

“Yes, you can but,” Fritz twirled his reins around his fingers, “but not well.”

His words were like a dagger to her gut. Even he saw her as useless. Vhalla swallowed the pain of that realization, forcing it away from her eyes where it may show.

“Think of it like this,” Larel started gently. “You have a pitcher and a cup. You have to get the water from the pitcher into the cup. One way you can do it is by dipping the cup into the pitcher. But this is messy and maybe it doesn’t fit right and so on.”

“So you pour from the pitcher instead,” Vhalla finished the logic. Larel nodded and smiled. It was a welcome sight that gave Vhalla some ease.

“Exactly, we can dip into our magic to accomplish things on a whim—like you’ve been doing. But it’s tiring, difficult, and normally inconsistent. That’s why we open up a Channel for it to flow—to pour—easily into us,” Larel finished.

“And, for that reason, you will be working with me tonight,” Aldrik announced, loud enough that it drew Major Reale’s attention.

“Thank you, my prince,” Vhalla mumbled.

“I trust you will not disappoint me.”

After that declaration, it was a cold silence from the normally warm man for the rest of the day. They had never had an opportunity to be talkative, not really, so Vhalla was surprised to find how much his silence bothered her. It was a weight on her shoulders until Aldrik appeared by her and Larel’s tent that evening.

“Are you ready?” the prince asked.

Vhalla nodded mutely.

“Should I fetch her dinner?” Larel asked with a thoughtful glance between her awkward companions.

“Not necessary; I will make sure she eats,” Aldrik replied in a particularly sharp tone. Vhalla focused on the dust covering the toes of her boots. “Come.”

Vhalla’s and Larel’s tent wasn’t far from Aldrik’s. The other sorcerers had the decency to smother their looks, but a few stared in curiosity at the new woman following the prince. Behind her she heard whispering and picked out the word “Windwalker” more than once. It seemed to be the explanation that was automatically assigned when anything different or special occurred near her. It was a nice excuse to prevent rumors of anything untoward, Vhalla reasoned. But the attention still made her uncomfortable.