[From 105]
[115]
I gather myself, try to focus my thoughts as I’ve done before. Of course I’ve done little experiments. I thought that most people must, in spite of the fact that it’s forbidden. Well, how can you learn the principle and not want to see if you can really do it? But this time, it’s not to find little glimmers inside of myself and gather them into a spark that pops from my fingertips to the kindling in the wood stove. This time I need to give instructions, to cause his tissue to behave in a specific way and then give it the energy it needs to accomplish that, not just to gather enough energy so that it catches on fire. This could go horribly wrong.
My fingertips tingle. My eyes are closed, but I’m acutely aware of Barry watching me. I try to concentrate on the task. The little bits of magic that collect like dew drops and trickle down into my hands are gathering, but what do I do with them? My hands grow warmer, almost hot. I need to release the magic soon. I could dribble it down into him and hope that it does more good than harm, but I doubt that it will work. The simplest manifestations of magic are light and heat. Without direction, the magic will illuminate the wound and make it hotter. That’s not what I want at all.
I let go a long breath and open my eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I tell Barry.
“Your hands are glowing,” he says in a hushed voice. “I can’t do that. None of us can. Kestrel, you can do this. I know you can find a way.”
He isn’t helping.
If only my grandmother were here. She might know. She knows more than she has taught me, but how much more? And then, as always when I think of her, I begin to run through the words that she has taught me, the words that she whispered over my cradle and still tells me nearly each time she visits.
The words aren’t Galliun, like my mother taught me to speak. They’re different, ancient. Running through them helps to calm me, to focus my mind.
And I realize that they are exactly what I need.
Suddenly, it snaps into place. I flex my fingers and then lightly rest them on the wound, ignoring the blood that smears itself on my fingertips. “Effro,” I whisper.
A part of me, of what I can see--or at least be aware of--is there. Deep, close. There are tiny strings of muscle, all layered on each other, ending in nothing. They mingle with blood vessels, some burned shut, others dripping, all damaged. They know how to grow, to repair, but they are all in shock, hurt and tired. “Symud,” I tell them, all the little listening presences. And then I let the energy free. I drip it slowly, just enough. I don’t want to overwhelm them.
It’s like tiny mouths drinking. They relax. The pain eases. “Symud,” I say again. And I try to combine it with the idea of growing. For a moment, nothing happens, and then all they expand, just a little. They reach toward me. I let more energy free. Now that they understand what I want them to do, they stretch faster. They multiply. They lap up magic as fast as I can pump it down my arms and through my fingertips. The yellow-orange glow intensifies, turns blue, and then white as less energy is lost as heat. It is no longer warm.
It feels like I am inside a waterfall or a dance.
When it ends, it feels like I have been jerked to a stop. My whole body, inside and out has been slapped, or maybe slammed into something.
My nose tickles. I lift a shaking hand to touch and find that my nose, my cheeks, are wet with tears.
I can hear someone talking, but it doesn’t make any sense. Who would be talking? I try to find all those little voices, to go back to the dance, but it’s like a door has been shut. I am alone. I can’t see. My eyes don’t know how to make sense of what light there is, and even the light is fading.
[200]
Continue on to Chapter 2
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