Orvis led Satchel through the main hall and into a wide ballroom with white walls and a dark brown wooden floor. The young thief took inside two steps and stopped. In the middle of the room stood one the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on. Long blonde hair flowed down to her waist. The lavender dress she wore showed off a nice figure. Her face, though she couldn’t have been much older than twenty, had a soft, motherly quality about it. Her thin crimson lips sprang into a smile upon seeing him, and she giggled. Satchel found that he had been holding his breath, and his face felt warm.

  “So, this is Mr. Albirac’s young guest?” she said. Her voice was soft, sweet, and comforting.

  Satchel nodded.

  “Orvis, darling, you didn’t tell me my young partner would be so adorable.”

  “Forgive me, miss,” Orvis replied flatly. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

  “My morning was a boring one anyway. Albirac was such a dear to suggest this.” Lady Montague approached Satchel and extended her hand. Unsure of what to do, Satchel hesitated and then took her hand and shook it feebly.

  “Oh goodness, you poor thing,” she said. “You haven’t been taught any sort of etiquette at all, have you? Albirac told me you came from a lower standing. Here, when a lady holds out her hand like this, you’re supposed to take it and kiss the back of it.”

  Satchel gave her an awkward look then proceeded to kiss the back of her hand. The Lady giggled again.

  “That’s better. The next thing you’re supposed to do is ask me if I want to dance, but you must do so politely. Say, ‘My lady, may I please have this dance?’ Now you try.”

  Satchel repeated it, though he did stammer a bit.

  “Have some confidence,” she said. “No lady wants to dance with a man with a limp spine.”

  Satchel stiffened his shoulders making the Lady giggle once again. The Lady showed him the proper way to greet and talk to a lady. He tried to imitate it, and then the Lady giggled yet again.

  When it came time for the actual dancing, Lady Montague asked Orvis to turn on the music. The butler walked to a strange device near the back of the room. Satchel had been so enraptured by the lady that he had not noticed before. It was a box that sat on a high narrow table. On top of the box rested a cone with the wide end facing into the room.

  Orvis pulled out another smaller box from under the table and asked, “What shall I put on, my lady?”

  “Something fun but easy. How about ‘Gauphin’s No. 14’?”

  “Excellent choice.”

  From the smaller box, Orvis produced a square blue plate barely the size of Satchel’s hand and slid it into the box on the table. Within seconds, the sound of a light, bouncy tune filled the room.

  The Lady gave Satchel an amused look. “Have you never seen a musical phone?”

  He shook his head, and she giggled yet again.

  “It’s not as good as live instruments like the ones Lord Albirac will have this evening, but it will work for us. Come now. Take my left hand in your right. That’s it.”

  The dance lesson lasted for some time. At first, Satchel fell over himself and stepped on the Lady’s foot more than once. But, by the time the servants came to set tables in the ballroom, the young thief was able to make it through an entire waltz without stumbling.

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  A gong sounded, announcing lunch. After declining the invitation to join them, the Lady Montague bid them adieu. She giggled one last time and blew a kiss to Satchel as her carriage left the front of the house. He watched as the carriage continued down the road, oblivious to the tune still playing in his head.

  ~*~

  Every limb in Hastiand’s body ached. As he pushed himself up off the floor for the third time in the last hour his muscles screamed and his legs wobbled, their strength sapped.

  “You’re getting better,” said Amon.

  Hastiand managed to get into a standing position, but not completely upright. His breathing was hard. Sweat soaked his entire clothes, and his hair clung to his face. He felt as if the gentlest wind or breath would topple him over. Despite this, determination poured through every fiber of his being.

  “You keep this pace up, and you’ll be ready before I anticipated,” said Amon. The elf grinned. “Either that or you’ll wind up dead from exhaustion.”

  Elemental magic, such as what Amon taught Hastiand, was available to anyone and everyone. Other varieties of magic required submission to a deity and worthy tribute. Amon was proficient in both elemental magic and the magic bestowed by Ta’Kish. No matter the type of magic, the body paid a price. The user’s magical ability was tied directly to their body’s resilience to the abuse.

  Hastiand had been working on what Amon had called a good starting point: Air manipulation. The lesson involved drawing the surrounding air into a sphere in one’s hand. Amon demonstrated by making various shapes with the air. Shimmering cubes, pyramids, cones, and even a wine glass appeared and disappeared in Amon’s hands. The ability revolved around the compression of the air using nothing but your mind and willpower, warping the air into whatever shape or form you wished.

  “Your mind must be calm,” Amon said. “Air manipulation is one of the most difficult to master. The concept is easy, but doing it is something else entirely. Mastering this element will make learning the others easier.”

  Generating a sphere of air was Hastiand’s first task. Thus far, he had barely managed any shape at all. At best, his attempts looked like deflated balloons. Hastiand stared at his hand and tried to focus once more. The air swirled around his palm, and an oblong shape glimmered into being. It convulsed as Hastiand focused all the more and began to take on a spherical shape.

  “I’ve almost got it,” he said, voice straining against the effort.

  Just as he finished the sentence, the shape flattened and the air exploded, knocking him to the floor once again. He lay there and looked up at the ceiling, panting.

  “Are you all right?” came Amon’s amused voice.

  “You’re enjoying this,” said Hastiand.

  “They say you should take joy in every endeavor.”

  “Oh yeah? They also say what goes around comes around.”

  Amon laughed. “Indeed, it does.” He paused for a moment. “I think you’ve had enough for now.”

  The bard let out a long breath. “Agreed.”

  “I’ll prepare the liniment and wraps. We’ll see how you’re doing later this evening.”

  Hastiand’s breathing slowed, and his mind began to settle. He ached, but this was the path he had chosen.

  Catherine, he thought, I will make things right.

  “Forgive yourself.”

  Those were the words she had said.

  How can I?

  The memory of that terrible day disturbed the surface of his mind. He pushed it aside, but it broke through and poured out. Tears filled his eyes and ran down the side of his face.

  I’m so sorry Catherine. I will make this right. I will.

  With that, Hastiand slipped into unconsciousness.

  Amon watched Hastiand from the doorway and sighed.

  We’re two of kind aren’t we Hastiand? he thought.

  He climbed the stairs to the main floor. As he passed the door to Hastiand’s room, he paused, stared at it a moment, and then opened it. He walked past the end of the bed and glared at the mandolin as if daring it to break the bind he had placed on it. Memories came to him. Red flowed into his eyes.

  If I could just take you right now, I would, he thought.

  The memories continued to swirl in his mind. He raised his hand, palm up. Instantly, a ball of flame burst into being, floating centimeters above Amon’s palm. Then the ball went out. Amon breathed deeply and let the glow dissipate from his hands.

  “A Vai’Aneen does not break a promise,” he said aloud as though reciting an old proverb.

  He then left the room and fetched the bandages and liniment from a cupboard in the kitchen. He had calmed his body, but the rage still smoldered in his mind.

  The world will be rid of it soon enough. I’ll push Hastiand even harder, and he will be ready. I swear on the life of my people.