Keth had to overcome his fear, and not just of the little bolts she had conjured in front of him. He would never master his power until he mastered that. She would need big proof, final proof, that his magic now shielded him from the dangers of lightning.
There was a storm out there, one that would teach him a lesson he desperately needed to learn. Ignoring the snippets of conversation the city's winds brought to her—bits of gossip, legal proceedings, speeches in the Assembly and the temples of the All-Seeing—Tris made herself comfortable on the platform and spread her spirit on the winds.
She was forced to go further afield than she'd expected. It made her cross as well as exhausted as she plodded down those many steps, past the first sightseers of the day. It shouldn't have happened, she thought as she rested on a bench near the door. Quietly she gathered the magic that had kept her cyclone from ripping up floor tiles. It was monsoon season in Tharios and the lands far south of the Pebbled Sea. Storms should have rolled steadily across that open stretch of water between here and Aliput, to die over the waves or to build up their strength for an assault on this coast. If she remembered the maps correctly, she'd just gone over three thousand kilometers to find those storms, locked in place around Aliput, piled up like so many logs behind one storm that would not move.
It was even more maddening to realize she would never know who had done it. She wanted to give a piece of her mind and a few other tokens of her esteem to the mage who had pulled this costly stunt. Tris knew this was mage-made. No one else could halt a storm in its track. But it was a stupid mage who had cursed all of Aliput with floods while here in the west the fields withered for lack of rain. She'd given herself an earache, straining to hear a name or any information on the tired winds that reached her. If his name was known, no one had spoken it. If he had spoken, it had got lost on the way east.
Well, at least the storms were moving once more. Just to ensure he couldn't do this again for awhile, Tris had traveled along the line of weather, tying each storm to the one ahead of it with a mage-knot she had learned from Sandry. He'd never break the string. She hoped he drained himself trying.
She barely made it back to Phakomathen. She must have looked terrible; when she opened her eyes, Chime sat on her chest, giving voice to small tinkling sounds that seemed to mean dismay. She'd had to reassure the dragon while forcing her weary arms to undo one of her tidal braids. It had taken a third of the strength from that braid before Tris could get to her feet, and another third from the opposite tidal braid to get her and Chime down the steps. In the end she drew off all the power of both braids to feel like her old self. Normally she wouldn't have used so much, not when she would pay the price later, but she and Keth had work to do before he could try another lightning globe. The sooner they got to it, the fewer yaskedasi would meet their end at the Ghost's hands.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stormandwind) wrote2019-09-29 12:57 am
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
lastvoyages
If she remembered correctly, she'd just gone over three thousand kilometers to find those storms.
There was a storm out there, one that would teach him a lesson he desperately needed to learn. Ignoring the snippets of conversation the city's winds brought to her—bits of gossip, legal proceedings, speeches in the Assembly and the temples of the All-Seeing—Tris made herself comfortable on the platform and spread her spirit on the winds.
She was forced to go further afield than she'd expected. It made her cross as well as exhausted as she plodded down those many steps, past the first sightseers of the day. It shouldn't have happened, she thought as she rested on a bench near the door. Quietly she gathered the magic that had kept her cyclone from ripping up floor tiles. It was monsoon season in Tharios and the lands far south of the Pebbled Sea. Storms should have rolled steadily across that open stretch of water between here and Aliput, to die over the waves or to build up their strength for an assault on this coast. If she remembered the maps correctly, she'd just gone over three thousand kilometers to find those storms, locked in place around Aliput, piled up like so many logs behind one storm that would not move.
It was even more maddening to realize she would never know who had done it. She wanted to give a piece of her mind and a few other tokens of her esteem to the mage who had pulled this costly stunt. Tris knew this was mage-made. No one else could halt a storm in its track. But it was a stupid mage who had cursed all of Aliput with floods while here in the west the fields withered for lack of rain. She'd given herself an earache, straining to hear a name or any information on the tired winds that reached her. If his name was known, no one had spoken it. If he had spoken, it had got lost on the way east.
Well, at least the storms were moving once more. Just to ensure he couldn't do this again for awhile, Tris had traveled along the line of weather, tying each storm to the one ahead of it with a mage-knot she had learned from Sandry. He'd never break the string. She hoped he drained himself trying.
She barely made it back to Phakomathen. She must have looked terrible; when she opened her eyes, Chime sat on her chest, giving voice to small tinkling sounds that seemed to mean dismay. She'd had to reassure the dragon while forcing her weary arms to undo one of her tidal braids. It had taken a third of the strength from that braid before Tris could get to her feet, and another third from the opposite tidal braid to get her and Chime down the steps. In the end she drew off all the power of both braids to feel like her old self. Normally she wouldn't have used so much, not when she would pay the price later, but she and Keth had work to do before he could try another lightning globe. The sooner they got to it, the fewer yaskedasi would meet their end at the Ghost's hands.