Arc 2 – Chapter 1- Lessons in Control / Lessons in Patience

Chapter 1

Lessons in Control / Lessons in Patience

            Thwack!

            The arrow buries itself in the target, a little less than an inch from the center and I lower my bow with a satisfied smile.

            “Your shoulder, Lady Baemar.”

            My smile disappears because I don't even have to turn around to know who said it.

            “What about my shoulder?” I ask.

            “You raised it again,” the voice says.

            “The arrow hit the target,” I point out.

            “The target is quite large, Lady Braemar.”

            I sigh and turn to find Instructor Rosalind Veyne standing behind me, arms crossed as she looks from me to the target.  Her expression is entirely too pleased with itself.

            “It nearly hit the center,” I insist.

            “Nearly,” she confirms with a nod.

            I narrow my eyes at her and she simply smiles in return.

            “Again,” she commands.

            I sigh but reach for another arrow.

            Despite Instructor Veyne's seemingly endless supply of corrections, archery has become one of my favorite classes over the past year.  There is something almost meditative about it, a quiet simplicity I have come to appreciate more than I ever expected.

            Set my feet, mind my posture, nock the arrow, raise the bow, draw, breathe, and everything else simply disappears.  For those few precious seconds, there are no gods, no memories of another world, no whispers about the Girl with Two Souls, and no people wondering whether the gold in my hair means Damian himself has marked me for some grand purpose.  There is only me, the bow, and the target.

            I exhale and release.

            Thwack!

            “Better,” Instructor Veyne says.

            I lower the bow and look at the second arrow, which has buried itself almost directly beside the first, but further off center.

            “Better?” I ask incredulously, then point out, “that one is farther from the center.”

            “Yes, but your shoulder stayed down.”

            “And my shot got worse.”

            “Which means you now have something else to work on, now doesn’t it.”

            I turn my head slowly toward Instructor Veyne who is smiling.  I am beginning to suspect she enjoys this part of her job far too much.

            Around me, the rest of the class continues practicing.  Bowstrings snap forward in an uneven rhythm, followed by the dull thwack of arrows striking the straw targets lined across the far end of the range.  Occasionally one misses entirely, usually followed by a groan from whichever girl loosed it.

            I turn back to my target and nock another arrow.

            “Again?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

            “Again.”

            “You know, most instructors offer encouragement occasionally,” I quip.

            “I said better.”

            “That barely counts, you know,” I say with a slight laugh.

            “It was accurate.”

            I can't really argue with that… well, I could.  Izzy has repeatedly informed me over the last year that my ability to argue with things I shouldn't is one of my more endearing qualities, though I suspect Angus would dispute her use of the word endearing.

            The thought of him causes me to hesitate for a moment, then I draw, take a deep breath, and release.

            Thwack!

            This time the arrow lands between the other two.

            “Good,” Instructor Veyne says.

            I glance at her suspiciously, narrowing my eyes.

            “Actually good?” I ask.

            “Do not let it go to your head.”

            I smile despite myself and nock another arrow.  I raise the bow again.

            My second year back at St. Astra's has barely begun, and already the familiar rhythm of the range settles around me.  Stance, draw, breathe, release, loose.

            “Lady Braemar?” calls from behind me and my shot goes wide, missing the target all together.

            I freeze having just released the arrow.

            I know that tone.  I have come to hate that tone.

            Slowly, I lower the bow and take another deep breath, this time to temper my irritation, and turn around.  A girl stands several paces behind the shooting line, hands clasped tightly in front of her.  I recognize her vaguely as one of this year's new students, though I can't remember her name.  She looks barely fourteen, and from the way she keeps shifting her weight, she has clearly spent some time working up the courage to approach me, but more concerning is the small golden sun pinned to the front of her uniform.

            Oh, no.

            “Lady Braemar,” she repeats, bowing her head.  “May I ask for your blessing?”

            Somewhere beside me, a bowstring thrums.

            Thwack!

            I close my eyes.

            “I'm really not-” I start to say before being cut off.

            “Lady Byrne,” Instructor Veyne says, not even raising her voice.

            She never needs to because the girl stiffens immediately.

            “Is Lady Braemar currently holding a bow?” she asks the girl, who is now turning a bright shade.

            “Y-yes, Instructor,” the girl stammers

            “Is she standing upon my shooting line?” Instructor Veyne continues.

            “Yes, Instructor,” the girl mutters looking down with embarrassment.

            “Then unless Lord Damian himself has descended from the heavens to request her immediate presence, whatever you require from Lady Braemar can wait until my class has concluded,” she concludes.

            The girl's eyes widen.

            “Of course, Instructor! I'm sorry!” she says, dipping into a hurried curtsey before retreating so quickly that I almost feel sorry for her.  Almost.

            “Thank you,” I mutter.

            “Do not thank me yet,” she replies dryly.

            I glance at Instructor Veyne and she points toward my target.

            “You allowed yourself to be distracted,” she said, her expression and voice almost as expressionless as Mari.

            “Someone was asking me for a divine blessing,” I point out.

            “And?”

            I stare at her, then reply, “I feel that should count for something.”

            “It does,” she says with a nod.

            “Really?”

            “You have three additional shots to make, and every shot had better improve upon the last,” she says adding three arrows to my quiver.

            I gape at her.

            “How is that counting in my favor?” I complain.

            “I didn't make it five.”

            There is a suspicious snort from somewhere farther down the shooting line and I turn toward it, eyes narrowing.

            Every girl nearby suddenly becomes very interested in her target.

            Hmph, traitors.

            By the time Instructor Veyne finally releases us, I have put all my arrows, plus an additional three, into the target, received four more corrections, and thankfully managed to avoid having to blessing anyone.  All things considered, I consider the morning a success.

            Unfortunately, my next class is Literature.  More unfortunately, Catalina Breegar is in it.

***

            There are many things I have learned about Catalina over the past year.  She likes tea without milk.  She prefers blue ink when writing essays.  She is surprisingly good at mathematics.  She is absolutely terrible at admitting when she is wrong, and apparently, she possesses the supernatural ability to know when I have received a higher mark than her without ever seeing my paper.  Most importantly, she can turn anything into a competition.

            Anything.

            “An interesting interpretation, Lady Braemar,” Instructor Carrow says from the front of the classroom.  “Though I wonder whether the author intended the river to represent mortality rather than merely the passage of time.”

            I glance back down at the poem spread across my desk.

            “I thought about that,” I admit.  “But the river doesn't end at the sea. It returns to the mountains in the final stanza, so I thought it was more about-”

            I see a hand rise from the desk to my left in my peripheral and I don't even need to look.

            “Lady Breegar?” the instructor calls.

            “Rebirth,” Catalina says.

            I slowly turn to look at her and she smiles at me.

            “I believe Lady Braemar was about to say the cyclical imagery represents rebirth,” she adds.

            “I was,” I confirm.

            “Then we agree.”

            “You interrupted me to agree with me?” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes in a most undignified manner.

            “I merely wished to demonstrate that I had reached the same conclusion,” she chirps.

            Of course you did...

            Instructor Carrow looks between us for a moment before rubbing the bridge of her nose.

            “Thank you, Lady Breegar. Perhaps next time you might demonstrate your understanding after Lady Braemar has finished demonstrating hers.”

            A few girls in the back giggle and Catalina's cheeks turn faintly pink.

            I smile in response.

            Her eyes narrow, venom flashing in them.

            Victory.

            A small and utterly meaningless victory, perhaps, but I have learned something from Catalina over the past year.  As I mentioned before, she can turn anything into a competition and, more importantly regarding her… everything is a competition.

            Instructor Carrow continues discussing the poem, and I make a few notes in the margin of my paper.  For nearly five whole minutes, Catalina leaves me alone, a new record, then a folded piece of paper lands beside my hand.

            I stare at it then look toward Catalina.

            She is diligently taking notes.

            I unfold it beneath my desk.

           What did you receive on the last essay?

            I look at her again and she continues pretending I don't exist, so I dip my quill into my ink and write a response.

           Why?

            I refold the paper and toss it back.

            The paper returns less than a minute later.

           Curiosity.

            I write one word.

           Liar.

            This time, Catalina's mouth twitches as she reads it, then she writes again.

           Instructor Carrow said yours demonstrated “exceptional insight.”

            The paper quickly returns.

           Were you listening when she discussed your essay?

            I send it back over to her.

           Of course.

            This exchange is making my head hurt.

           Then you already know she said yours was excellent.

            There is a longer delay before the paper comes back.

           Exceptional is better than excellent.

            I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from laughing then I respond.

           Are we competing?

            Catalina reads it, then as her quill almost touches the paper, she stops and looks at me.  For a moment, I see the old Catalina, chin slightly raised, turquoise eyes filled with the absolute confidence of someone preparing to explain why the answer should be obvious.  Then her gaze shifts, not to my face, but rather, the golden hair falling over my shoulder and her expression changes.

            It lasts less than a heartbeat, but I see it.

            I have seen the same look several times during the last school year.  Catalina had been there that night.  She had seen Damian.  Not a statue or painting.  Not some carefully embellished story told from a pulpit.

            Damian, standing in the ballroom, talking to me.

            Her eyes return to mine.

           Of course not, she writes, then holds the paper up for me to see.

            I raise an eyebrow.

            Then she adds another line.

           It would hardly be a competition if only one of us were trying.

            I stare at the paper for a moment then at look at her.  She smiles that smile I know all too well.  There she is.

            I dip my quill into the ink and write on in the margin of my notes.

           I got 50 points.

            Her smile disappears, seeing I received the top score.

            Literature class isn't so bad after all, I think to myself.

***

            By the time Literature ends, Catalina has learned my essay score and I have learned hers.  Neither of us has acknowledged that this means I won... but I did… by one point… not that we're competing, apparently.

            I find Izzy, Mari, and Lena already sitting at our usual table when I enter the dining hall.

            “You're late,” Izzy announces.

            “Catalina,” I reply.

            All three of them nod, no further explanation is necessary.

            I drop into the empty chair beside Mari and reach for the bread sitting at the center of the table.

            “How bad?” Lena asks.

            “She interrupted me to finish my answer,” I say.

            Izzy winces.

            “Was she right?” she asks.

            “Yes.”

            “Ugh, that makes it worse,” she says, slapping a hand to her forehead as if she is going to faint dramatically.

            “Much,” I reply with a nod.

            Mari quietly slides the butter toward me before I can ask.

            “Thank you, Mari.”

            “You look like you need it,” she says with a slight inclination of her head.

            “I've had a difficult morning,” I complain dramatically.

            Izzy leans forward eagerly. “Oh!  What happened?”

            “A first-year asked me to bless her,” I reply with a heavy sigh as I butter my bread.

            Izzy's eyes light up in amusement.  A slight grin appears on Mari’s face, and Lena covers her mouth dramatically.

            “No,” Lena says.

            “Yes,” I reply with a nod.

            “During archery?” Izzy asks, her eyes sparkling.

            “During archery,” I confirm.  “She made me miss the target completely.  Everyone is lucky nobody got shot with how wide it went.”

            That broke the damn that had been building in Izzy and she bursts out laughing.

            “It isn't funny,” I say, staring at her blankly.

            “It is extremely funny,” she replies once she can breathe again.

            “She interrupted Instructor Veyne's class,” I point out

            Izzy immediately stops laughing.

            “Oh,” she says, realization sinking in.

            “Exactly.”

            Even Mari looks mildly horrified.

            “What happened to her?” Lena asks.

            “Nothing.  Instructor Veyne sent her away,” I say with a shrug.  “She got off lucky if you ask me.”

            Izzy blinks. “That's it?”

            “She gave me three extra arrows and told me each shot better improve over the one before,” I say.

            There is a moment of silence.

            Mari nods thoughtfully. “That sounds more like her.”

            I tear a piece from the bread with perhaps more violence than necessary and stuff it in my mouth.

            “This is getting worse again,” I tell them after I swallow.  “It’s like the day I returned to the academy.”

            “The new students?” Mari asks.

            “Mostly,” I say, tearing another piece.  “There have been a few repeat offenders from last year, but those girls have mostly gotten the hint by now.”

            That isn't entirely fair.  Most of the new girls have been perfectly normal around me.  Curious, certainly, and there has been more than a little staring, but I can live with staring.  I've had plenty of practice this past year.  It's the ones wearing the little golden suns that concern me.

            “They'll get used to you,” Lena says.

            “That isn't as comforting as you think,” I say, giving her a look.

            “Why not?” she asks.

            Izzy answers before I can, “Because that implies Beira is disappointing in person.”

            I throw my napkin at her.

            “Bitch,” I say with a giggle.

            Izzy dodges unnecessarily because it sails to her left and lands beside Lena's plate, who looks at it, then at me.

            “Sorry,” I apologize.

            She hands it to Mari, her finger gently brushing the back of Mari’s hand, and Mari hands it back to me.

            I stare at both of them, my eyes narrowing for a moment before I decide the exchange isn’t worth mentioning, they’ll confirm my suspicions when they are ready.

            “Besides,” Izzy says, reaching for her cup, “you could have blessed her.”

            “No,” I reply vehemently.

            “Just a little one,” she presses.

            “I don't know how to bless people,” I point out.

            “You know a god,” she says quickly.

            “That does not qualify me.”

            “You know more than one god.”

            “Still doesn’t mean I’m qualified,” I reply.  “Besides, I don't think that's how qualifications work, especially not in this case.”

            Izzy considers this.

            “You've met Damian, multiple times,” she insists.  “That has to count for something.”

            “And I literally have a blessing from Ygg, still doesn’t make me qualified to bless others,” I say flatly.

            Her expression changes.

            “Fair,” she concedes.

            I smile and take a bite of bread.

            For a little while, conversation drifts to safer things.  Assignments, instructors, who is already behind on their reading despite the school year having barely started, and which of the new girls will be the first to discover that some of the academy's rules are considerably less flexible than they appear.  Normal things.

            I like normal things.

            Eventually, the bell reminds us that normal things include afternoon classes.

            Izzy groans.

            “I hate that bell,” she says with bite in her voice.

            “You hate every bell that tells you to do something,” Mari says.

            “That is absolutely not true,” she says with a pout.

            “The breakfast bell,” I say.

            “I like that one,” Izzy says, grinning.

            “The dinner bell,” Lena adds.

            “That one too,” Izzy adds with a nod.

            “So, you like bells when they tell you to eat,” I conclude.

            Izzy thinks about this for longer than she should.

            “Yes,” she finally confirms.

            I push myself away from the table and stand

            “An inspiring commitment to education, Your Highness,” I say with a bow.

            “Thank you,” Izzy replies, beaming

            “That wasn't a compliment.”

            “I have decided to accept it as one.”

***

           My final class of the day is Alchemy, and, unlike Literature, I actually look forward to it.

           Instructor Amos is already at the front of the room when I enter, arranging several glass containers across her worktable with the sort of precision I have come to expect from her.  Her golden-blonde hair is pinned neatly back, and her spectacles sit low enough on her nose that I have often wondered why she doesn't simply push them up.

           I tried asking once… she stared at me until I stopped.

           I take my usual place.

           “Lady Braemar.”

            “Instructor.”

            Her eyes briefly flick toward me.

            “You look like you have had a rough day.”

            “I escaped having to give a blessing to a new student who thought my archery class was the perfect time to ask and then on top of that I had to escape from Literature,” I reply.

            “Lady Breegar?” she asks.

            “Lady Breegar,” I confirm.

            “Ah.”

            That is all she says.

            The rest of the class slowly filters in, and within several minutes every worktable is occupied.  Instructor Amos waits until the final girl has taken her seat before stepping to the center of the room.

           “Last week,” she begins, “we discussed reactive stabilizers and the dangers of introducing magical energy into an unstable compound.”

           She picks up one of the glass containers.

           The liquid inside is a perfectly innocent-looking shade of pale green.

           “Today, we will demonstrate what happens when you fail to listen to me.”

            Several students sit up straighter which brings a smile to my face.  Instructor Amos has a gift for education.

            She sets the container down.

            “Lady Penrose, what happens if powdered emberroot is introduced before the solution reaches equilibrium?”

            A girl near the front hesitates before answering.

            “It... explodes?” the girl asks.

            Instructor Amos looks over the rims of her spectacles.

            “That is an outcome, not an explanation,” she says.

            The lesson continues from there.

            Alchemy is one of the subjects where Michael's education gave me an advantage, though considerably less of one than I originally expected.  Chemistry and alchemy are cousins at best.  Knowing why mundane substances react with one another is useful right up until someone adds powdered griffin bone and channels magic into the mixture.  Then all bets are off.

            Still, I enjoy it.  There is logic underneath the magic. Rules. Reactions. Causes and effects... usually.

            “Lady Braemar.” I hear Instructor Amos’s voice calling to me and I look up.

            She is staring at my worktable and I follow her gaze.

            The mixture in my flask is bubbling… it should not be bubbling.

            “Oh!” I say, my eye widening.

            “Remove it from the flame,” she instructs.

            I do so immediately and the bubbling stops.

            Instructor Amos walks over and peers into the flask.

            “What did you add?” she asks.

            “Three drops of silverleaf extract,” I answer.

            “How many did the instructions call for?”

            I look at the board.

            Two.

            I look back at her, face flushing with embarrassment.

            “Two,” I answer, trying not to focus on anything other than what it in front of me.

            “An excellent observation, Lady Braemar,” she says as if praising a child.

            A couple of girls laugh.

            I sigh and close my eyes.

            Instructor Amos adjusts her spectacles.

            “Fortunately, Lady Braemar, you noticed before discovering why precision matters.”

            “You noticed,” I point out.

            “Yes.”

            “So technically-” I am cut off by Instructor Amos.

            “Do not finish that sentence,” she commands.

            I close my mouth.

            The corner of her lips twitches up into a slight smile.

            By the end of class, I have successfully produced the stabilizing solution, avoided an explosion, and acquired another page of notes.  All things considered, not a bad showing.

            The bell sounds.

            Chairs scrape against the floor as everyone begins packing their materials. I remain where I am.

            “Lady Braemar?”

            I glance toward the girl beside me.

            “Aren't you coming?”

            “Not yet,” I replied giving a friendly smile.

            Recognition crosses her face.

            “Oh. Right,” she says the gathered her books and joins the others.

            One by one, they disappear through the doorway until the last student leaves and the door swings slowly shut behind her.

            I don't move from my seat and neither does Instructor Amos.

            A moment later, the latch clicks.

            Alchemy is over, but my school day isn't.

            Instructor Amos walks back toward her desk, removes her spectacles, and carefully sets them beside a stack of papers.

            “All right,” she says.

            I push myself to my feet.

            “Same as last time?” I ask.

            “No.”

            I stop and look at her questioningly, that is never a comforting answer.

            Instructor Amos turns toward me.

            “We have spent the better part of a year teaching you control.”

            I nod.

            She has.  Painfully, slowly, sometimes infuriatingly, she has.  Using tiny lights, sustained lights, controlling their intensity, moving them without losing cohesion, forming light without accidentally freezing whatever happens to be nearby because my other affinity decides it feels neglected.  Very little to none of it has involved firing brilliant beams of divine wrath across the room.

            I have complained about this.  Repeatedly and Instructor Amos has repeatedly ignored me.

            “You have improved considerably,” she continues.  “More quickly than I expected, if I am being honest.”

            “Was that a compliment?” I asked, not believing my ears.

            “Do not interrupt,” she instructs.

            “Sorry, Instructor,” I say nodding my head in apology.

            She walks toward the open practice area at the rear of the classroom.

            “Control, however, is not the same thing as application. What happened at the masquerade demonstrated that rather dramatically.”

            My smile fades and for just a moment, I can see Brigid again.  Her smile.  The black lace torn across her back.  The crimson-black mark beneath it.

            I know what it follows.

            I push the memory away with a shiver.

            Instructor Amos is watching me.

            “What happened at the ball was instinct,” she says.  “You were frightened, injured, and attempting to protect yourself.  You produced an effect you had never consciously attempted before.”

            “A beam of light, accompanied by ice.”

            “Yes,” I say nodding.

            “Which you have been unable to reproduce.”

            “You didn't have to say that part,” I say with a frown.

            “It is the most important part.”

            She stops several paces away and folds her hands behind her back.

            “Instinct may save your life, Lady Beira, but relying upon it means trusting chance to decide what happens when you are threatened.”

            I know where this is going… at least, I hope I do.

            “So, you're finally going to teach me how to use Light offensively?” I ask.

            Instructor Amos regards me silently while I wait patiently.

            After a moment her mouth curves into the faintest smile.

            “Today,” she says, “we are going to see if you can hit a target.”

            I grin and, on the inside, I’m bouncing around like Izzy on too much sugar.

            “Finally,” I whisper

            “Without destroying my classroom,” she adds, her face serious.

            My grin fades slightly.

            “I did that once,” I say, a look of shame crossing my face.

            “You froze three desks,” she states.

            “They thawed,” I point out

            “One cracked from the extreme cold.”

            “That could have happened anyway, it was an old desk,” I quicky replied.

            “It was brand new.”

            “Oh.”

            Instructor Amos points toward the practice area.

            “Position.”

            I move where she directs me and raise my hand.

            A familiar warmth begins building beneath my skin.

            “Remember,” she says.  “Do not think about what happened at the masquerade. You are not trying to reproduce an accident.”

            The warmth gathers in my palm.

            “Then what am I trying to do?” I ask for clarification.

            Instructor Amos steps aside, revealing the small practice target behind her that was wearing a wig that looked suspiciously like Catalina’s hair.

            “Make it intentional,” she says nodding toward it.

            I look at the target with a genuine smile as the light began gathering around my fingers.

            That I can do.