Frey (The Frey Saga, #1)(22)
My breath caught and I forced myself to look at him, still uncomfortable from the closeness that had perverted my thoughts. He has no idea what you’re thinking. It’s the farthest thing from his mind. I must have been imagining the way he was studying me as he sat, casually leaning against the downed tree. “No?” My voice was shaking slightly.
“Magic first.”
That wasn’t exactly a relief. He saw my anxiety and I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t enjoying it. He just remained sitting there. “What should I do?”
A sly grin crossed his face and he rolled his hand out in front of him. “You are only limited by your imagination, Freya.”
Oh great, so if I screw it up it’s just a problem with my mind. I thought about what Steed had said, feeling it, thinking about what you wanted to happen. What did I want to happen? I caught myself as my thoughts spiraled out of control and concentrated on finding something small. A tiny pebble lay on the ground at my feet. I focused on it hard, willing it to rise off the ground. Nothing happened and I looked at Chevelle, mostly to see his reaction. He sat watching me, his serene mask back in place. “Do you need motivation?”
I was afraid of the kind of motivation he’d provide, remembering the fireballs flying at me in the meadow. “No,” I answered too quickly, and he laughed. I squatted to get closer to the gray rock. I thought I saw it move a little, as if trembling in fright, and the notion made me laugh.
Chevelle stood. “You’re trying too hard, Freya. Let us play a game.” He held out his hand and a stone flew up from the ground and landed in the center of his open palm. He closed his hand around it and when he opened it a moment later, the stone was floating a half inch above his palm, slick black and shaped to form a tiny hawk sculpture.
“It’s beautiful,” I said as I reached out to touch it, taking a step forward.
He held up his other hand up to stop me. “Take it.”
I wanted to hold the trinket; I reached my hand forward and concentrated on moving it from his palm to mine. It floated shakily across the space between us and landed in my hand, which seemed so odd at first I thought Chevelle must have moved it. I squeezed it as if to verify that it were real and then opened my hand up to examine it closer, only to find it was the dull gray rock again. Disappointment filled my face as I looked back at him. He tilted his head toward my hand and I understood; I would have to make the sculpture myself. I closed my hand around the stone, mostly because I had seen him do the same, and instantly I knew what I wanted to see. I opened my palm up, grinning triumphantly, and exposed my creation for Chevelle to see. Balancing on my palm was a slightly misshapen but undeniable sculpture of a small black horse. Chevelle rolled his eyes.
Still smiling, I looked back to the stone but it had returned to its boring round shape. Chevelle answered my unspoken question. “Yes, it’s… tricky.” He smiled a little at using Steed’s word. “You can’t change something’s makeup but you can change the way it appears. You can move it. You can stop someone’s heart but you can’t make them feel happy about it.”
He hesitated after that last part, contemplating, and then continued, “You can manipulate the elements, move water, draw it from the ground but you cannot easily make it appear from nothing… though you can usually collect enough moisture from the air.”
He was almost thinking out loud now. “Fire is easier. It spreads so fast, burning. You can pull a small spark from anywhere and create a large, forceful flame, fueled by the air and…” He trailed off as I leaned closer to him, listening intently. He was looking into my eyes.
He blinked and shook his head. “Let’s keep working.”
He stepped a few paces away as he spoke. “You’ll need to think clearly and stay calm. The best fighters are the best thinkers.”
“Fighters?” I asked, confused.
He shook his head again, as if clearing it. There was a long pause as I waited for his answer. “I’d like you to practice… just for protection.”
“I have fire.”
He was picking up a large stick as he spoke. “Yes, but you should learn to think more openly, it is an important resource and should be familiar to you. You should have years of experience by now.”
“Why don’t I?” He stopped. I could tell by his expression he hadn’t meant to say so. I didn’t know if he would answer. “Why can’t I use magic?” I clarified. “Why couldn’t I use it before?”
Another long pause. And then he spoke carefully. “You were bound.”
Bound? I was speechless as I thought of the young children playing in the village, binding themselves to play the games of fairy children, unmagical until coming of age. I recalled seeing it in the documents in the briar patch, Francine Glaforia, bound against using all but practical magic. They must have known not to trust me. They must have known. My knees gave out and I crumpled to the ground. How many times could the earth pulled from beneath my feet? Chevelle took a step toward me and I held up a hand to stop him. Bound against using magic. Assigned a watcher. My anger toward him returned. A volunteer watcher. “Let’s just go,” I said coldly, looking up the mountain as I stood and walked to my horse.
We rode wordlessly up the mountain as I considered all I had learned. He was my watcher, he would have been involved in the binding. Yes, maybe Fannie should have been punished for whatever she had done, but why assume I would follow? So I killed a bird, stole a few papers from the council library. My arguments were thin so I went back to anger. How could he lie to me? The entire village must have known I was bound, known I couldn’t perform magic, just as they sat and watched me try. Sending me to Junnie for lessons. Evelyn’s sour melodic voice rang in my ears. Poor Frey.