Brightly Woven

pot—was enough to convince her that I had no place in the kitchen.
    I ground the hard, thin piece of wood against the other, softer piece with as much strength as I could, but all I got for my effort was tired arms. I was working so hard, was so busy praying to Astraea for just a small spark, that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me.
    “Girl,” Pascal said. “If you were out in the wild, you’d pass out and freeze to death before you saw even a hint of fire.”
    I blew my unruly hair out of my face and glared up at him. He gave a dry laugh as he knelt beside me.
    “May I?” he asked. I passed the wood to him, watching in frustration as he used magic to light the fire. “Now, coffee?”
    He disappeared into Aphra’s room and returned with a kettle, two beautiful teacups, and a little burlap sack.
    “Where’s North?” I could already smell the coffee, and my empty stomach twisted in anticipation.
    “Out prowling for Dorwan, I assume,” he said gruffly.
    I looked down at the cup in my hand, studying the little blue flowers.
    “Why are you training him again?” I asked when the silence finally became unbearable.
    “Wizards have ways of detecting others of their kind,” Pascal said, pouring the coffee. “It’s a difficult technique, but one he needs to learn regardless of whether he wants to stay a step ahead or seek Dorwan out.”
    “It looked like he was in pain,” I said.
    “He was struggling with himself,” Pascal corrected me. “Over the years he’s become more and more convinced that magic is nothing more than pain and destruction. It’s hard to persuade him otherwise, especially after all that’s happened to him and his father.”
    “I don’t understand,” I said slowly. “Don’t you use Astraea’s teachings in your lessons?”
    “Those are the myths,” Pascal said. “The reality is that magic is little more than a curse.”
    “They are not myths!” I said.
    Pascal held up his hand. “You may believe whatever you choose to believe, but understand this, Miss Mirabil: magic is a responsibility, a burden, a duty. You are a slave to your faith and country. You don’t choose to have it. Very few of us would, given the choice.”
    “Some wizards seem to enjoy having power,” I said.
    “Dorwan?” Pascal said. “I’ve often wondered if it isn’t a weight for him as well. From what Wayland’s told me, he wasn’t allowed to participate in the ranking tournaments due to the circumstances of his upbringing. He didn’t fit inwith the hedges as a grown man, but he certainly couldn’t join wizard society. He was trapped between what he wanted and what he could actually have. Perhaps that’s why Wayland stayed with him as long as he did—they were both outcasts.
    “They must have been together for six, maybe seven months before Wayland decided to leave. Dorwan disappeared, only to show up again a few years later at Provincia, demanding a meeting with the Sorceress Imperial. She refused to see him, by all accounts.”
    “How long ago was this?” I asked.
    “Two years ago, I believe,” Pascal said. “Right after the Sorceress Imperial had taken her oath of office.”
    I shook my head. “I can’t believe North would ever choose to associate with Dorwan. They’re completely different wizards.”
    “Different upbringings, different choices,” Pascal said, rubbing his forehead. “You may not get to choose whether you’re born with magic, you may not get to choose the people you’re born to—but how you conduct yourself is entirely up to you.”
    I set my empty cup down beside me, unsure of how to ask my next question. “Do you think that magic can exist in someone without them knowing it?”
    “There are always possibilities. Take Oliver, for instance. He never would have recognized the ability within himself if Wayland hadn’t come across him in town and begged me to train him.”
    “But it is possible that a person, even without training, could use magic?” I pressed. “Has that ever happened before?”
    Pascal gave me a curious look. “I suppose it’s possible, though it would be extremely difficult to control it. Magic exists everywhere, all the time. It never abandons us, though it can punish and compel us if we don’t learn to master it. It is a tool, much like your loom.”
    Pascal glanced over at the unfinished cloak. “You are the wizard, and you can use that loom to shape the thread to create colors or shift patterns,” he finished.
    Something