so little. It was becoming increasingly clear that there were huge gaps in her gnostic education, and not enough time to fill them.
Why is he helping me?
Perhaps he felt sorry for her? Or guilty, for killing her mother? She decided she didn’t care, as long as he taught her enough to get away. With any luck she’d be leaving his corpse as a warning not to follow. But damn his black heart, he was a fine sight with the sun on his golden shoulders and the wind in his blond hair. And his mental touch was as masterful as his body – she felt like she already knew him far too well, thanks to this forced companionship. He might be older than her – decades older, she sensed – yet he was obviously in his prime.
‘You are half-blood, Cymbellea: you can do this,’ he told her. ‘Animagery might not be your strength, but you have enough gnostic power. You just have to
believe
.’
Although as a teacher he wasn’t as haphazard as Alaron and Ramon, whose well-meaning but erratic instruction was all she’d ever had, she couldn’t grasp what was needed – the letting go, the abandonment of shape, trusting in the gnosis to let her mutate her very body while believing she could find the way back. She
didn’t
believe, in other words.
The fact that Zaqri was grieving made it harder for Cym to hate him – but not much. He was her only protector against the still hostile pack: to survive – and not just survive, but find a way to strike back – her vengeance would have to wait. The way of her people had always been an eye for an eye, but she had to be patient.
She looked around the viewing platform, listened to the sea thundering and licked salty spray from her lips. The gulls had fled, sensing that the birds that now lived here were not natural.
Bide your time
, she told herself.
Get off this rock and opportunities to escape will come
.
‘Try again,’ Zaqri urged. ‘Let me guide you through it.’ He put his fingers to her temple and entered her head like a conqueror, completely sure of himself and his right to go where he willed. She had no choice but to endure the mental intrusion. Her senses were flooded with a tactile sensation of feathers, how bird-shape
felt
, how it was achieved – how her arms might become wings, how her chest and shoulder muscles must alter … She accepted the mental imagery of the gull he gave her and tried to flow into it as he directed. For a moment it looked like she could do it, then she yowled as her arms bowed and bent, the bones cracking and reforming, racking her with instant agony. Her shoulders twisted and remade themselves and she screamed, crying out as much in panic as pain as she saw her arms hanging twisted and useless. She almost blacked out, but Zaqri stepped inside her head again and, soothing and healing, showed her the way back to herself.
She was still recoverng from the agony when she heard a sly female voice from the top of the steps that led to this upper platform. ‘Well, Zaqri, will she fly for us?’ Huriya enquired, striking a pose with the wind ruffling her long black hair. ‘She’s running out of time.’
‘Then give us more,’ Zaqri replied, going to her. ‘She’s had next to no instruction in the gnosis. Self-taught magi can do the basics, sometimes well, but she needs detailed, intense teaching to do this.’
‘We can’t wait, packleader!’ Huriya answered waspishly. ‘You know the prize at stake! We cannot delay, and I cannot leave you behind. This is your pack, these are your people, and they are angry enough at the time you waste on this gypsy.’
Zaqri clenched his fists in frustration. ‘She can be an asset to our search, Seeress. She knows the quarry.’
‘As do I,’ Huriya replied. ‘Ramita Ankesharan has been my bloodsister since birth.’
‘But you have failed to scry this Ramita, Seeress. And what if this Alaron Mercer is no longer with her? We must have the option of finding him, and for that we need her.’
‘She will not
Why is he helping me?
Perhaps he felt sorry for her? Or guilty, for killing her mother? She decided she didn’t care, as long as he taught her enough to get away. With any luck she’d be leaving his corpse as a warning not to follow. But damn his black heart, he was a fine sight with the sun on his golden shoulders and the wind in his blond hair. And his mental touch was as masterful as his body – she felt like she already knew him far too well, thanks to this forced companionship. He might be older than her – decades older, she sensed – yet he was obviously in his prime.
‘You are half-blood, Cymbellea: you can do this,’ he told her. ‘Animagery might not be your strength, but you have enough gnostic power. You just have to
believe
.’
Although as a teacher he wasn’t as haphazard as Alaron and Ramon, whose well-meaning but erratic instruction was all she’d ever had, she couldn’t grasp what was needed – the letting go, the abandonment of shape, trusting in the gnosis to let her mutate her very body while believing she could find the way back. She
didn’t
believe, in other words.
The fact that Zaqri was grieving made it harder for Cym to hate him – but not much. He was her only protector against the still hostile pack: to survive – and not just survive, but find a way to strike back – her vengeance would have to wait. The way of her people had always been an eye for an eye, but she had to be patient.
She looked around the viewing platform, listened to the sea thundering and licked salty spray from her lips. The gulls had fled, sensing that the birds that now lived here were not natural.
Bide your time
, she told herself.
Get off this rock and opportunities to escape will come
.
‘Try again,’ Zaqri urged. ‘Let me guide you through it.’ He put his fingers to her temple and entered her head like a conqueror, completely sure of himself and his right to go where he willed. She had no choice but to endure the mental intrusion. Her senses were flooded with a tactile sensation of feathers, how bird-shape
felt
, how it was achieved – how her arms might become wings, how her chest and shoulder muscles must alter … She accepted the mental imagery of the gull he gave her and tried to flow into it as he directed. For a moment it looked like she could do it, then she yowled as her arms bowed and bent, the bones cracking and reforming, racking her with instant agony. Her shoulders twisted and remade themselves and she screamed, crying out as much in panic as pain as she saw her arms hanging twisted and useless. She almost blacked out, but Zaqri stepped inside her head again and, soothing and healing, showed her the way back to herself.
She was still recoverng from the agony when she heard a sly female voice from the top of the steps that led to this upper platform. ‘Well, Zaqri, will she fly for us?’ Huriya enquired, striking a pose with the wind ruffling her long black hair. ‘She’s running out of time.’
‘Then give us more,’ Zaqri replied, going to her. ‘She’s had next to no instruction in the gnosis. Self-taught magi can do the basics, sometimes well, but she needs detailed, intense teaching to do this.’
‘We can’t wait, packleader!’ Huriya answered waspishly. ‘You know the prize at stake! We cannot delay, and I cannot leave you behind. This is your pack, these are your people, and they are angry enough at the time you waste on this gypsy.’
Zaqri clenched his fists in frustration. ‘She can be an asset to our search, Seeress. She knows the quarry.’
‘As do I,’ Huriya replied. ‘Ramita Ankesharan has been my bloodsister since birth.’
‘But you have failed to scry this Ramita, Seeress. And what if this Alaron Mercer is no longer with her? We must have the option of finding him, and for that we need her.’
‘She will not
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