I want you to do me a favor, Gifford. I want you to move your hands like this.
He’d tried it many times since then, and it never worked. The attempts had always failed, but then he’d never needed it to succeed.
Have you ever wanted something to happen and then it did?
Gifford had never wanted anything more in his life than to light that fire.
Imagine my hands turning black as ash.
He stared at the pile and took a breath. Raising his hands, he made the plucking motions.
Concentrate. Close your eyes if you need to.
He did. He closed his eyes and imagined the pile bursting into flame: a loud woof followed by a burst of heat, the crackle of wood, and flame—lots and lots of flames.
He opened his eyes.
Nothing.
The few logs and the heap of dung remained unchanged. It didn’t even smoke.
She had lied. He didn’t know why but she had. Her and the mystic had—
The armor—it’s covered in runes!
Gifford threw off his helmet, and after finding the buckles, pulled off the rest of Roan’s gift. He concentrated once more, and as he focused, an idea pushed into his mind.
Clap your hands.
The thought came unbidden. Was it a memory? Something the mystic had said? Gifford wasn’t sure. Maybe she had, he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that the thought had popped into his head, oddly clear, strangely certain. Fear and excitement gripped him then as he knew it would work. The answer to the puzzle was provided, and as so often was the case, it was obvious.
Oftentimes we hear it as our own thoughts telling us to go left, or just a sense that going right is a bad idea. Some might call it intuition, or a gut feeling, but it is the world speaking in an ancient language that you can almost understand.
The warm wind blew hard across his face.
Roan would use the wind, he thought again.
Gifford scanned the horizon. He knelt in that desolation, on the small knoll in the center of an endless plain.
Rediscovering how to speak our native tongue, how to tap and use that power in meaningful ways, is what we call the Art.
He was alone. No one could see or hear him. He closed his eyes again and this time he hummed. The wind came once more, a soft fluttering kiss that moved his hair. He held up his hands and let the air move through his fingers.
Nothing happened, nothing magical, except…clay.
Like the idea of clapping, this new thought came to him. He didn’t know if it arrived from without or within. The effect, however, was powerful. Another puzzle piece fell into place and he was starting to see the bigger picture. The air—the air was clay. The way it felt passing between his fingers, the way it seeped and spewed. This was how he shaped his cups and pots and vases. This is how he created.
Gifford’s stomach fluttered in excitement. Something was there, something that hadn’t been before, something real; he was making a connection. This wasn’t make-believe. This was a genuine thing. The Fhrey and the mystic hadn’t lied. He’d found something, and it was inside him.
Clay. The wind, the air, the sun, the ground, it was all clay, and he could shape it.
He reached out and felt the wind as a malleable thing. His fingers felt something else, something strong, warm, and deep. He drew it back as he often did with the clay, squeezing, bending it to his will. Dirt and water spinning beneath his fingers became miracles of art. That’s all he had to do—make art.
He formed fists and felt the heat build. The air swirled faster and faster, gusting his hair, pushing side to side, throwing up pebbles in a tiny storm. But when he opened his eyes, the pile was no different. There was no fire, no heat, no smoke.
Failure. Another in a long, long line.
Gifford’s shoulders slumped.
Only this time, this failure…He thought of Roan dying or being made a slave again. He didn’t just cry, he sobbed hard and loud. What difference did the wailing anguish of a cripple matter to the world or to the gods?
Clap.
Gifford’s hands were still bent in two tight fists of rage and sorrow. He hated himself, the world, the gods, the vultures, the village, and most especially that awful pile of dung he knelt before.
“I love you, Woan.” He spoke the words as a prayer, with tears spilling down his cheeks. Then, with all his might, he spread his arms and slapped his palms together.
The pile didn’t catch fire.
Most of Perdif exploded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Inside the Kype
Some moments we see clearly. We know they are important; births and deaths are just such times. Others sneak up on us, invisible from the front, but always, always obvious from behind.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The sun was setting when Raithe knocked on the door to the Kype. He wasn’t alone this time. Moya and Malcolm stood with him as the little window in the door slid back. The same pair of eyes shifted, registering each face. The eyes didn’t look happy.
“Open up, Por,” Moya ordered.
The eyes focused on Raithe. “I, ah…”