Kyra directed him to step onto the paper and from her kneeling position; she carefully positioned his foot on the thin material, first one foot, and then the next. She let him stand there for a while and then had him carefully step back off the paper.
Grit gazed down and there before him were two perfect footprints on the textile, surrounded by small scores. He sighed heavily. If he couldn’t even stand, he had no expectation of ever walking.
“Ah!” Kyra said, tracing the outline of his footprint with her finger. “See what I mean regarding you placing your weight on the outside of your foot?”
Grit stared blankly, he wasn’t sure that he saw exactly what she wanted him to see.
“Your posture is bad,” she frowned and sighed, eyeing him up and down.
Girt heard a big harrumph off to the side and turned to see the old woman sneering at him.
“Here, come lay down flat on the stone,”
Grit got down on his knees and then laid flat. Kyra stepped over to him, set a foot in the center of his back, and stepped up. She rolled her foot around and there was a very loud snap, followed by a series of pops.
“Ouch!” he moaned.
“Don’t be such a nænýa, baby! Your posture is bad because your bones are not right. This will fix that,” she said, digging her heel into his shoulder and twisted.
“Ahhh, ooooh,” he moaned, baring his teeth and grimacing.
“Now, give me your leg,” she demanded.
Grit lifted his leg up and she grabbed it and pulled with what must have been all her might until his back crackled. “Now the other leg, please.”
She finished off by setting her knees on either side of his spine and walking her elbows across his back.
“Now, sit up,” she said. “We’re through here.”
Grit sat up. He was sore, but then again, he felt different. He stood up, shook out his legs, and followed Kyra back to the rice cloth.
“This time, you need to try to pull your knees together and stand straight. I think this is all because you spend most of your time sitting in the Keep studying with your knees splayed apart hunched over.”
Kyra reached down, moved his knees and his butt, and pushed his stomach and she kept adjusting until she was satisfied.
“Now try!’ She ordered.
Grit stepped back on the paper again. This time when he stepped off, the paper was less torn and less wrinkled. He was marginally encouraged, that maybe with a life’s practice, he could manage to stand without making too big a mess. He scoffed at himself for being so happy about being able to stand. Stand!
“You shouldn’t be so critical of yourself,” Kyra said, with a smile. “Considering that you have never walked the forest, or had anyone teach you the Way of the land, you shouldn’t expect that you can perfect what we grew up learning. The elf Way is not easy; we struggle with it for our whole life. Learning to move like a cat, change directions like a deer or even stand like a stag takes study and time, just as you have studied magic all those years.”
Grit supposed she was right, but he was still depressed. They went back to their practicing.
They kept up the instruction all morning with Kyra correcting his equilibrium and balance issues one by one. Each time, he shifted a foot over to a new clean patch of paper. It was far harder than it appeared and although it wasn’t strenuous, he still broke into a sweat on his forehead from the concentration.
“Straighten your back ...,” she yelled.
“Suck in your stomach ...” she demanded.
“Squeeze your butt cheeks ...,” she scolded.
“Stop rolling your toes ...”
“Keep your center over your feet ...”
“Place don’t scuff ...”
“Stop leaning ...”
The requests and corrections went on and on.
By the time they broke for lunch, Grit was able to stand on the paper without tearing it, barely. Moreover, although he still crinkled and deformed the fine surface, he felt that he was making progress. He could look down the row of footprints back to where he had started, and he could see that he was improving.
“After lunch we will work on your magic,” Kyra said, with a wink. “You should feel free to come here and practice all you want. The children will help you lay new paper if you need. They may pretend to not understand you, but believe me; they speak your language just fine!”
Grit slipped his robe back on and cinched it at the waist. They walked down the path back to the village with giggling children in tow and joined the rest of the group for lunch. By the time they had arrived, the table was filled with smoked fish, breads, fruit and roasted vegetables that looked like long yellow gourds of some type. Grit looked at the gourds, trying to decide whether to try one or not.
“You should try one,” Kyra said. “It will give you stamina.”
Grit looked at her and she was grinning one of those elf grins that meant she was trying to say something that she wasn’t going to come out and say, but that he should clearly understand. He rolled his eyes. Why did he get the feeling he was being fattened up or maybe prepared for battle, or mating?
“You should have two,” she added, with a flutter of her eyes.
After lunch, Shar’ran rejoined the group as they walked down the narrow trail.
“So, how did your morning go?” he asked, grinning broadly.
“Well, let’s just say that I never thought walking, uh ... standing could be so difficult,” Grit said, cracking a thin-lipped grin.
Shar’ran laughed out loud, as he gesticulated, “Indeed. Patience and persistence will reward you if you keep with it. When you have your balance, you can change directions in an instant; you are silent and can sneak up on an enemy, or a deer.”
“I think the old woman teaching the children thinks I am beyond hope,” Grit mentioned in passing.
“Elliæ? She still thinks I will never learn to walk either,” Shar’ran guffawed. “She taught me how to walk when I was a child, and let me tell you, I tasted the business end of that stick of hers more than once.”
“How old is she ...” Grit stuttered, looking back over his shoulder at the old woman.
Shar’ran shrugged his shoulders, “I’m not sure ... but old!”
Grit raised his brows and grunted, “Huh.” He tried to calculate her age in his head but gave up.
They continued down the winding path until it entered a field that held a single cottage. The field was mostly empty and far off from the rest of the village. It had taken them almost ten minutes to reach this place.
“What have we here?” Grit asked, looking around.
Shar’ran looked at his daughter then answered quietly, “It is a retreat for meditation. Many use this place when they need to realign spiritually or think out a great problem.”
“It seems so peaceful ...” Grit said softly, staring at the simple, fine stone building surrounded with flowers nestled up against and built into a towering cliff. The simple thatched roof was gracefully draped and the wooden door was slightly ajar.
They walked over to the door and gave it a gentle push. It squeaked open on ancient hinges. The inside was simple, a polished stone floor, and tall beams arching to the roof. In the center of the room was a small circular wood table with a few pillows to sit on. Windows on one side allowed the air to circulate. There were a few pegs located randomly around the room at different heights and a few rings too. They looked out of place to Grit, but he said nothing. Maybe they were for robes or towels.
“I think that this will be a good place for you to relearn your craft,” Shar’ran said, reaching into his pocket. “I brought you a present.”
He pulled out a hand-sized wooden box, intricately carved and polished, made of bright yellow pau-amerello wood. He handed it to Grit.
“Go ahead, open it!”
Grit carefully removed the lid and pulled out a bundle wrapped in a silk cloth. He unfettered the cloth and found an impossibly-delicate glass sculpture of
an elf holding a skull.
“Set it on the table,” Shar’ran said.
“What is it?” Grit asked, looking at Shar’ran while he carefully placed the delicate glass object down in the center of the small table.
“This is a Whisper Trap, although some call it a Dream Chaser. We use it to block off the minds of our children when they’re young from the whispers of imps and fairies. I believe it will prevent you from talking to your magic beast, and allow you to learn the ancient way,” Shar’ran explained. “If it works, then you will be able to relearn the ways of the mage and will become the first true mage in over a thousand years.”
“You should try a simple spell to see if it works,” Kyra suggested, grabbing Grit’s hand.
Grit swallowed hard.
“I suppose I could try to make the wind blow through the room or close the door,” Grit suggested, because they were the first things to pop into his mind. He was more than a little ill at ease at the thought that he could end up being the only true mage since Ror. It made his hands sweat and his voice quiver.
Grit briefly closed his eyes and tried to summon the wind. He wove his fingers and chanted, but to his surprise, nothing happened, nothing at all. He tried again. But this time he wove a spell to close the door.
Shar’ran and Kyra both nodded approvingly. Grit looked up with a surprised look on his face. “I-I-I couldn’t do it!”
“Good! Now we can get to work!” Shar’ran said excitedly. He handed Kyra another miniature box, which she opened and set on the table. “I think that your medallion should still work, but if you feel the least bit tired and or queasy, you will need to go outside quickly and spend a good fifteen minutes there before coming back inside to work.”
“Why?” Grit asked hesitantly, not liking the tone of Shar’ran’s voice.
“Because,” Shar’ran explained, “if the Whisper Trap interferes with the medallion, you could get very sick and begin to age.”
“Age ...” an aghast Grit echoed loudly.
“Neither of us wants that, now do we?” Shar’ran asked, grinning widely.
Grit shook his head vehemently from side to side.
Shar’ran motioned for Grit, to take up the spot near the door. “Sit.”
The group of three sat around the table cross-legged on the big pillows, adjusting themselves to get comfortable. Grit was curious about what was in the box. The box sides were just high enough that he couldn’t get a clear view of the contents.
Shar’ran started the instruction, “This exercise is very simple. You use your mind and the ancient magic to lift the pin-feather up and then lower it. Kyra will demonstrate.”
Kyra smiled at Grit then she looked at the box and motioned with her hand. A single feather drifted slowly up and then back down.
“I reach into my mind and picture the feather floating up. I find that tingling place behind my eyes and focus my thoughts through there,” she explained. “You will need to reach out and see and hear the magic calling in whispers.”
Girt nodded awkwardly, “I will try to find the place you mention.”
“Good, now you keep the feather up after I get it in the air,” she said. “Ready?”
Grit curtly agreed while Kyra concentrated on the task at hand.
The feather wobbled, and then it floated up above the table a couple of feet. Kyra let loose her control over the feather and watched it slowly float back down toward the box.
Grit tried as hard as he could to keep the feather up, but he just couldn’t seem to find the place to which Kyra referred. He became frustrated and his concentration became erratic.
After observing several attempts, Shar’ran got up and excused himself. “I need to attend to the business of the elves. I’ll see you two at dinner. Keep working. Once you figure this out, you will be able to make great progress as it is not as different as you might think from what you already do.”
Grit smiled weakly and waved goodbye to the elf, as he swept out of the door.
“Maybe I’m not approaching this right,” Kyra said, playing idly with her long hair. “Maybe it would help if I showed you what the magic was doing.”
Grit felt like a dolt.
“Magic has a shape and color,” Kyra explained, as she sat cross-legged next to him, her finely shaped thighs exposed from the slit in the robe.
“The basic elements of water, air, fire and earth are blue, white, red and brown. When you cast a spell, you are weaving together the basic elements and then, adding some spice. For now we will concentrate on the basic spells, the basic colors.”
Grit’s attention was not where it should have been and Kyra sighed, poking him in the arm.
“Eyes up here,” she said, pointing to her face. He grinned sheepishly and tried to focus on her eyes. They seemed to sparkle, but he thought that maybe he was just enamored with her and was imagining the whole thing.
“Let’s start with air. Air has a direction and intensity. So, when I cast the spell to keep the feather up, I entwine a series of small thin lines that move up and past the feather.” She said, using her hands to illustrate.
“The spell would look a little like this,” she said, making a series of thin wavy lines under the feather appear as she added a spell to visibly demonstrate what she meant. “The rest are attributes that air can have, like temperature. We won’t worry about those for now.”
Grit stared at the shimmering lines in front of him and a wide smile broke onto his face. He knew what those were! They were very close to the thoughts he would have sent to the Zylliac, the pattern he echoed in his hand gestures. There were subtle differences, but not that many.
“I think I understand,” Grit said excitedly. “Can you see the weaves all the time?”
“No, only if I am concentrating on the magic,” Kyra said, in response. “But when I am casting or using magic a lot, they seem to be everywhere then. Most of the time, I don’t need to see them.”
Grit listened carefully before he turned his attention to the feather. He tried to imagine in his mind, the thin white waves flowing up past the feather. He tried to see the shimmer.
Suddenly, the feather shot straight up into the air. It startled Grit so much that he lost his concentration and the magic fell apart causing the feather to be blown off to the side. It gently floated back down to the floor.
“I did it,” Grit shouted in glee. “I actually used the old magic.”
“Yes you did,” Kyra exclaimed, with a broad grin.
“I cannot believe it! Shar’ran is right! It is so close to what I already know in so many respects ...”
“Yes, I believe it truly is, but now we have to keep working so that you can learn control,” Kyra said excitedly.
“Let me try again,” Grit requested, after he retrieved the tiny white feather and set it back into the box.
Kyra sighed in relief. She felt better now that Grit was making progress. He was like a wârcat with his mood swings, up then down, then up again. The finicky beasts were not known for their patience, that was for sure. Pet me! Don’t pet me, hold me! Don’t hold me, feed me. The constant demands could drive one mad! However, they were so loving when they wanted to be. She sighed. Maybe his temperament would level out now that they seemed to be making some progress. She shifted a little closer toward Grit and let her robe fall open slightly.
Grit smiled at her and noticed that she had slid closer. He could smell her hair and he was getting a good view down her robe. He tried hard not to be obvious.
Kyra smiled, she noticed that Grit was looking at her. She laughed to herself. He was trying so hard not to be obvious. As if a man could resist the temptations of an elf, or hide his interest. She snickered at the very idea. Men were so ridiculous, especially humans.
Grit gathered himself and focused on the feather again, this time imagining much thinner air streams. After a few seconds, the feather wobbled and started to ascend. It kept ascending higher and higher until it pressed against the ceiling.
Grit heard her in the back of his mind and followed her instruction. After removing a couple of threads, the feather fell, so he added a thread and the feather finally hung in place, wobbling erratically.
“Now lower it,” Kyra requested, keeping her eyes on the feather.
Grit slowly let the feather go down until it almost reached the table, then he held it in place.
They practiced moving the feather up and down for almost an hour. Grit was becoming quicker with each attempt as Kyra shouted out her requests in quick succession.
“Now let’s try to move the feather around,” Kyra said, raising her expectations. “You can do that two ways, by either removing or adding threads opposite the direction you wish to go, or by changing the orientation of the streams themselves. We should practice both.”
Grit was very excited, and quickly added, “Let’s try the adding and removing threads first.”
Grit slowly got the feather up about face high and then concentrated hard on adding a stream to one side, while removing a stream from the opposite. The feather slowly wobbled to his left a few inches. He then tried to do the opposite and watched as the feather returned to his right.
Grit smiled to himself because he was beginning to be able to actually see the threads a little. Mostly they were in his head, but every now and then, he saw a blurry shimmer of white under the feather.
Kyra was very encouraging and was constantly giving him positive reinforcement. She was relieved that he was making good progress; he was actually doing better than she had expected.
She adjusted her teaching to reflect these changes, feeling that the more she could get him to sense and see the magic, the more quickly he would be able to learn. She feared that their time would be limited. Something was going on with her father, and she firmly believed that Grit was at the center of it all.
The next thing they did for the day was to change the angle of the streams so that they were pushing to the side one way or another. Grit noticed that controlling the angle was much more difficult, but the feather reacted far more quickly.
The Third Sign Page 6
