11. Epiphany
.o0o.
"Well, doesn't this look cozy." Niall leaned against the corner bunk and regarded the little group.
Sabhya and Jowan bent over a text at the nearby study carrel. In the upper bunk Petra was engrossed in a small book of her own, while below Kinnon, ostensibly writing out lines, was doodling sketches of the Suranae who sprawled in their smallclothes on the lower bunk opposite. Nereinye was draped bonelessly sidewise with her shoulders on the floor in an inky pool of her hair, idly rolling a foxfire wisp along her fingers. Jaleem lay prone with arms crossed and chin resting on his sister's belly as he browsed a tome he had propped against the headboard, the periodic flex of his dangling foot reminiscent of a cat's languid tail twitch.
"Listen to this." Petra laid the back of her hand across her brow and declaimed, "'Threnodisia felt her very bones turn to water as she gazed, mesmerized, into his flashing, deep, amethyst orbs. His silken, aubergine locks rippled in the breeze—'"
"What in the world?" Niall tipped up her book to see the cover. "Oh. That. It's making the rounds, I see. Don't let Wynne find you with it."
"Why? Something else she disapproves of?"
"No, actually, it belongs to her."
Nereinye dangled the wisp from her little finger. "In our experience you find—"
"—'flashing, deep amethyst orbs' on—"
"—the more repressed templars."
"It looks quite painful," Jaleem concluded, turning a page.
"I don't even want to ask." Niall rolled his eyes. "But on that topic, shouldn't you two be wearing, you know, clothes?"
Simultaneous hand flips conveyed the twins' indifference to the vagaries of templaric physiology as Kinnon commented, "At least it's easier to tell them apart this way."
"True, that. How can you look so relaxed when you're halfway off the bed?"
"Call it a gift, darling." Nereinye rotated her arm to let the wisp dribble around her wrist. "I heard Torrin say that if I'd specialized in anything other than School of Entropy the fabric of all creation would rip under the stress. I imagine then the Maker would wish he'd married a seamstress instead of a singer."
"School of Lethargy, more like." Jaleem stretched and nudged her into a more convenient position.
"Says Ser School of Rec-Creation."
"Bitch," he said amiably.
"Twit."
"Ugh, finally!" Jowan flung himself back in his chair. "I hate this guy. Tito tac Wtwyi – who made him the boss of how to do everything?" He gave Meanes and Methodologie, Ye Propyr Approache an irritable shove. "Why do you keep insisting I read this? All that blahblahblah, and he's so smug it just makes me want to do it differently out of spite. I mean, chapter six, even I can think of two other ways to get the same results, and one is a whole lot more efficient than his 'Propyr Appr-' oh."
He stared into space in sudden enlightenment, and then looked sheepishly at Sabhya, who raised his brows and nodded encouragingly. "I get it. That's the whole reason, isn't it? To get me thinking about why and the whole picture?" Sabhya broke into a smile, and Jowan flushed at the look of pride in the older boy's eyes.
"Exactly." Sabhya's voice cracked on the word and he cleared his throat discreetly as he put aside the despised text. "Although remember, tac Wtwyi's methodology is perfectly sound, for all that his delivery is so, well, opinionated. We should still try to understand it. Even if only to use that understanding as a signpost for going an entirely different direction."
Over the course of his commentary, Sabhya's voice jumped an octave, skidded down a minor fifth, and ended on a squawk that sounded like an hautbois in heat. Even the Suranae glanced over at that, and Jowan was clearly torn between commiserating with his hero and dissolving into a fit of giggles. Sabhya closed his eyes & shook his head resignedly.
"Well, that answers that question," Niall said in amusement. "Good grief, your voice still hasn't settled. Spell casting must be a mess. Doesn't your Primal group have practicals tomorrow?"
"Fireballs." Kinnon stood up, grinning, and made a dramatic throwing gesture. "Awk-meep!"
"I heard there's a betting pool over how badly he's going to do," Petra added. "I mean, it's not his strong point anyway, and if he can't even reliably pronounce the command? Not likely to be getting a gold star. What?" She rolled her eyes at Jowan's glare. "I didn't start the book; I'm just passing on the information."
"Of course he'll pass!" Jowan said stoutly.
"Oh? How?"
Sabhya began to speak, thought better of it and spread his hands with a shrug.
"What could it possibly matter one way or the other?" Jaleem idly ran his fingers through his hair, letting the strands fall bit by bit. "Perform, don't perform, come back, do it all over again later. It's not as if we're going anywhere. You act as though he's auditioning for an appointment at the king's court."
With a flick of her fingers, Nereinye sent the wisp to circle the bucket-helmed templar on guard in the hallway, who snuffed the dancing light with the absent irritability of a stable hand waving off a fly.
.o0o.
Sabhya lay wakeful in the small hours before rising the next morning. Jaleem's words were true enough, but there was more to it than the mere pride of passing a test.
My voice will settle eventually, but other things happen. Illness, stress, interruptions. What if I need to defend myself or protect someone and I fail simply because I have a head cold?
The problem was that he just couldn't seem to get a handle on the splashier sorts of spells. All of his practice with his Gift had been geared toward fine control, toward subtlety and restraint. Ironically, judging by what he had observed here in the Tower, the little ice candle he'd crafted as a child would be considered a masterwork of discipline, something only a few of the Senior Enchanters might attempt with success. Yet when it came to overt destruction, the kinds of results that tended to be easiest for so many others, all he seemed to be able to do was to wad all of his mana into a clumsy bunch and throw as hard as he could with the shouted command. He felt like a toddler flinging a stack of paper in a fit of temper, and, more often than not, his results were about that effective.
And that's when I can trust my voice.
Thinking of the little ice tree, Sabhya breathed deeply and allowed himself to sink into the memory, to feel the comfort of Amah's arms around him as they watched the play of light. The smell of herbs and flatbread. The rustle of her skirt.
Arms . . .
He remembered Padre's arms wrapped around him, a haven of safety, an embrace smelling of leather, fresh air and horses. Even when Padre had been at sea for months, somehow there was always the faint hint of the animals he'd loved, consummate horseman that he was. Sabhya could remember standing with Amah to watch Padre and the gauchos training the stock, and the races they held every fiesta.
Races . . .
In his mind's eye, Sabhya could see Padre's magnificent Antivan barbs drawn up at the starting posts. They would be trembling with eagerness for the run, muscles bunching and ears flicking forward to the horizon and back to their steadying riders. There would be a pause of exquisite tension, the kerchief would drop, and with the slightest touch of heel and thrust of rein there would be an explosion of action, a surge of power and motion and flying chunks of sod as they drove as one toward their goal.
Sabhya's eyes widened in sudden understanding and he swung around to sit up.
"Control" doesn't have to mean "diminish." Guidance isn't about weakening.
He rose and headed for the bathing room, his mind working furiously.
.o0o.
Ffffsshhh-krrmp!
A spatter of applause and a pair of Tranquil moved in to set a fresh target and extinguish the smoldering bits of the previous one while the Seniors nodded and made their notes.
Sabhya stood waiting his turn at the back wall of the practice room with the other apprentices, smiling politely at the occasional witticisms at his expense.
Ffffsshh-KRACK!
"Ooo!" Applause.
Disregarding the murmurs around him, he turned his focus inward and tickled his Gift into wakefulness.
Come up, come up. He let the mana rise and swirl, higher and faster. And this time, rather than tamping the power down or breaking it up, he merely kept it bounded. Spin and speed and heat and force. Steadied it, coaxed it into readiness, a diminutive jockey secure on this whirling mass of sheer potential. Wait, wait, ready—
"In your own time, Amell." Senior Torrin's dry comment elicited a chorus of sniggers from the other apprentices.
With a nod of apology, Sabhya stepped forward to the mark and focused his attention on the wooden target.
Steady, steady.
Tossing, pawing, awaiting the signal . . . the kerchief drops.
He rapidly shaped the gestures and whispered the command.
A white-hot ball of plasma streaked across the room, punched a hole in the target and impacted the far wall like a molten hammer.
After a moment, the snap! of masonry splitting in the center of the resulting crater resounded in the dead silence.
"I'm sorry," Sabhya offered, his voice cracking and warbling on every other syllable. "I was supposed to destroy the entire target, wasn't I?"
.o0o.
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A/N: The passage from Petra's book is brought to you by a comment from Oleander's One. And infinite, belated thanks to Champion the Wonder Snail for preliminary reassurances on this whole idea. :)
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