Morning, Loshis 2nd, 2719
Room 36, Marvelous Mermaid Inn, Castle Hill
Room 36, Marvelous Mermaid Inn, Castle Hill
Elias yelled in frustration, snatched up a box and hurled it across the room. Niccolette, who knew something of temper tantrums, watched, unimpressed, and was scarcely surprised that the mona did not listen. As if the mere fact of Elias’s existence was enough for the mona to come to him again! He told her she did not understand how silent, and Niccolette could have rolled her eyes, although she did not; it would have been too much effort.
Niccolette had gone to the door, then, and Xavier – rather than getting out of the way to let her pass – poured their too-tall body even more solidly in her way. Niccolette’s lips pressed lightly together, and she swept her gaze over them, up and down. It would not be difficult. She supposed they thought that – so close together – it would be easy to get a hand over her mouth when she tried to cast, or that they were quick enough to keep her from using the gun.
Or, she thought – perhaps Xavier understood just how easily she could drag them from the doorway – push them aside with a syllable of monite – and refused all the same. Niccolette made a little face at them, almost sulking. She might have done it anyway, just to prove a point, although she was not sure. Practical instruction! As if it were so simple.
Niccolette took a deep breath, and then Elias spoke again from behind her. Niccolette’s jaw clenched, and she turned back towards the galdor, prepared to call him an idiot, but he – for the first time, she had the sense he was attempting to meet her. The Bastian groaned, faintly, and rubbed her face with her hand. No, she thought; perhaps he really was such an idiot as not to have done the most basic of research, the bare minimum.
Fine.
Niccolette glanced back at the table, eyes lingering on the rolls on the floor and those left behind. She turned back to Xavier, and lifted her chin. “I have eaten,” the Bastian announced. Then she shrugged. “But I should take some kofi or tea,” she glanced back at the conspicuous lack of both on the table, then turned back to Xavier, and raised her eyebrows.
“Better,” Niccolette said, glancing back over her shoulder at Elias this time, looking directly at him, “not to drink anything else. If you wish to make any progress.”
Niccolette glanced around. She utterly refused to sit on the bed, but she claimed a chair for her own and sat, crossing her legs at the ankle, and studying the other Bastian. She settled the necklace on her lap, and reached up to her neck, carefully undoing the little buttons, revealing a glint of pale white skin. She clasped the necklace behind herself, and tucked the sapphire into the front of her dress, then did up the buttons again, so it was an all-but-invisible lump beneath the fabric.
Niccolette was silent for a little while, and then she began, steadily, inexorably, inevitably.
“I do know something of silence,” Niccolette began, hands resting one on top of the other on her knees. She tilted her head, studying Elias, and then flexed her field out, abruptly, letting it wash over him, bright and sharp. It settled back down, and Niccolette shrugged. “Three years ago, I backlashed so badly that for some days I had no field. Other galdori could not even cast living magic in my presence,” Niccolette grinned, well aware of her current strength, and by no means remotely humble about it, nor ashamed of how hard she had worked to make it so.
“So,” Niccolette said, quieter again, more solemn. “It can be done. As with casting, it is about the will and the words, or perhaps the way,” she sighed.
“There are books,” Niccolette broke the silence again, when she was ready. “You would be wise to read some of them, but they are, I think, on the whole, chroveshit,” she shrugged. “Many of them wish to write as if it is like casting a spell. You just say these words, and you are forgiven! It is not like this, not when one truly must make amends to the mona. But – one can learn something from them, all the same.”
“One needs a ritual,” Niccolette explained, looking intently at the other dark-haired Bastian. Her breath had fallen into a rhythm all its own, steady, in and out; there was an even repetition of counts between them, and the words flowed through it all in perfect harmony. “Something personal. You cannot use another’s, or if you do – it must be made your own. It should have elements of you, of yourself as a caster, and elements also of your backlash. What this means is up to you. I cannot tell you. In the most effective rituals, one layers these over the plot – incorporates them into the shapes and the words.”
“It will still take time,” Niccolette warned, and not necessarily kindly. “It goes at its own pace, and cannot be hurried. You must be willing to repeat it, again and again, as many times as it takes.” Her eyes fluttered, faintly, and she kept on. “You must mean the words, whichever ones you choose. Mean them, again and again, as if you are casting,"The air was growing warmer, around her, heat spilling out from her into the room, and Niccolette stopped when she felt it.
Niccolette let out all her breath in a careful, long exhale, and arched her back in a stretch, shivering. “I suppose even you can do it,” she told Elias, “if you want it badly enough.”
Niccolette had gone to the door, then, and Xavier – rather than getting out of the way to let her pass – poured their too-tall body even more solidly in her way. Niccolette’s lips pressed lightly together, and she swept her gaze over them, up and down. It would not be difficult. She supposed they thought that – so close together – it would be easy to get a hand over her mouth when she tried to cast, or that they were quick enough to keep her from using the gun.
Or, she thought – perhaps Xavier understood just how easily she could drag them from the doorway – push them aside with a syllable of monite – and refused all the same. Niccolette made a little face at them, almost sulking. She might have done it anyway, just to prove a point, although she was not sure. Practical instruction! As if it were so simple.
Niccolette took a deep breath, and then Elias spoke again from behind her. Niccolette’s jaw clenched, and she turned back towards the galdor, prepared to call him an idiot, but he – for the first time, she had the sense he was attempting to meet her. The Bastian groaned, faintly, and rubbed her face with her hand. No, she thought; perhaps he really was such an idiot as not to have done the most basic of research, the bare minimum.
Fine.
Niccolette glanced back at the table, eyes lingering on the rolls on the floor and those left behind. She turned back to Xavier, and lifted her chin. “I have eaten,” the Bastian announced. Then she shrugged. “But I should take some kofi or tea,” she glanced back at the conspicuous lack of both on the table, then turned back to Xavier, and raised her eyebrows.
“Better,” Niccolette said, glancing back over her shoulder at Elias this time, looking directly at him, “not to drink anything else. If you wish to make any progress.”
Niccolette glanced around. She utterly refused to sit on the bed, but she claimed a chair for her own and sat, crossing her legs at the ankle, and studying the other Bastian. She settled the necklace on her lap, and reached up to her neck, carefully undoing the little buttons, revealing a glint of pale white skin. She clasped the necklace behind herself, and tucked the sapphire into the front of her dress, then did up the buttons again, so it was an all-but-invisible lump beneath the fabric.
Niccolette was silent for a little while, and then she began, steadily, inexorably, inevitably.
“I do know something of silence,” Niccolette began, hands resting one on top of the other on her knees. She tilted her head, studying Elias, and then flexed her field out, abruptly, letting it wash over him, bright and sharp. It settled back down, and Niccolette shrugged. “Three years ago, I backlashed so badly that for some days I had no field. Other galdori could not even cast living magic in my presence,” Niccolette grinned, well aware of her current strength, and by no means remotely humble about it, nor ashamed of how hard she had worked to make it so.
“So,” Niccolette said, quieter again, more solemn. “It can be done. As with casting, it is about the will and the words, or perhaps the way,” she sighed.
“There are books,” Niccolette broke the silence again, when she was ready. “You would be wise to read some of them, but they are, I think, on the whole, chroveshit,” she shrugged. “Many of them wish to write as if it is like casting a spell. You just say these words, and you are forgiven! It is not like this, not when one truly must make amends to the mona. But – one can learn something from them, all the same.”
“One needs a ritual,” Niccolette explained, looking intently at the other dark-haired Bastian. Her breath had fallen into a rhythm all its own, steady, in and out; there was an even repetition of counts between them, and the words flowed through it all in perfect harmony. “Something personal. You cannot use another’s, or if you do – it must be made your own. It should have elements of you, of yourself as a caster, and elements also of your backlash. What this means is up to you. I cannot tell you. In the most effective rituals, one layers these over the plot – incorporates them into the shapes and the words.”
“It will still take time,” Niccolette warned, and not necessarily kindly. “It goes at its own pace, and cannot be hurried. You must be willing to repeat it, again and again, as many times as it takes.” Her eyes fluttered, faintly, and she kept on. “You must mean the words, whichever ones you choose. Mean them, again and again, as if you are casting,"The air was growing warmer, around her, heat spilling out from her into the room, and Niccolette stopped when she felt it.
Niccolette let out all her breath in a careful, long exhale, and arched her back in a stretch, shivering. “I suppose even you can do it,” she told Elias, “if you want it badly enough.”
