Her brother told her, with scorn, that she was her mother's greatest failure. She had been young then, very young, but she knew the truth of it. Her mother had been so happy, when she was born; she had a girl-child to teach, to nurture. There was the mystery of cooking, the enchantment of needlework, the serenity of weaving, the joy of reading, and so many other things her mother could barely wait to show her.

To her mother's dismay, it was apparent from the first that she hadn't been burdened with an overabundance of intellegence or skill. She did well enough at carding wool, for one didn't need great ability to card. But the thread she spun was by turns lumpy and thin to the breaking point; her needlepoint and weaving were disasters after disasters. Everything she cooked came out half-burned at best. Reading was a tedious process she accomplished despite herself, and her writing was littered with misspelled words, if they weren't left out all together.

"You stupid girl" became her nickname. She rarely heard a kind word from her frustrated, bitter mother; her father acted as if she didn't exist. Her brother, when he talked to her, was cruel and contemptuous. The village in general looked down on her, and it was decided by general consensus that she should have never been born.

Of all the people she knew in her small seaside village, it was only the shrunken, hunched priestess who spared a kind word. The woman was the village's healer, midwife, and veteranarian. She took to following the woman around, watching and helping with basic tasks. It was the priestess who identified her talent, and taught her to call her power forth. When the woman suggested to her parents that she go to the Valley of Trials for further training, they agreed without thought. They sent her on her way with smiles on their faces, then went about trying to forget she existed.

The priestess gave her directions, and instructions: "Don't forget to drink or eat. Stop at midday for an hour or two, to avoid the hottest part of the day. Stay away from the animals; they're wild, and they'll hurt you if you get too close. Remember what I taught you, Ravi, and you'll be fine."

So she set out, a ratty bag over one shoulder holding food and water, a few trinkets, and a letter she was to give to the shaman trainer at the Valley of Trials, Shikrik. When she arrived there, things didn't change overmuch. Staff leasons were a study in aggravation—mainly, how much she could aggravate the weapons master without trying. Others snickered and catcalled and teased. The trainers gave her jobs because they had to, but the only one who truly enjoyed her company was Shikrik.

When Shikrik first met her, she had been astounded. "Ravi," she had said, "you are the most gifted potential shaman I have seen in years."

Staffs baffled her, but the earth—the earth she knew. Elements she understood. And, in time, her power grew.