Petrus was reluctantly impressed. Once Prince Harkeld learned to use his magic to defend himself, they’d all be safer.
When the prince’s range reached fifteen yards, Cora stopped him. “How does it feel?”
“It’s not taking any more effort than lighting the campfire, just a bit more concentration.”
“And your control?”
“It feels like the magic’s only going to do what I tell it to. It doesn’t feel like it could get away from me.” His voice became doubtful. “But maybe it could?”
“Unlikely. Your magic is part of your body. It obeys you. You’d never tell your hand to scratch your nose and have it clout you on the head instead, would you?”
The prince’s expression relaxed almost into a smile. “No.”
“Your magic will obey you, just as the rest of your body obeys you.” Cora let this statement sink in, and then went on, “Accidents can happen if you’re exceedingly unclear about what you’re asking it to do. Or if you’re drunk, or panicked. But if you give your magic clear commands, if you know what you want it to do, you’ll have no problems.”
The prince nodded.
“Accidents can also happen if you exceed... not your ability, because you have exceptionally strong ability, but your training. Your experience. Right now, if I asked you to burn Justen’s cloak, you’d probably burn him . Not because your magic got away from you, but because you don’t know how to use it with sufficient precision. You don’t have the experience.”
The prince glanced at Petrus, his expression sober.
“So we’ll expand your experience.” Cora nodded at the burning stump. “Can you make that fire burn higher?”
Prince Harkeld raised his hand. The flames flared up into the sky.
A screech came from overhead. An owl tumbled down, the feathers on one wingtip alight.
The prince made an inarticulate sound. He clenched his upraised hand. The flames towering into the sky, the flames on the owl’s wing, quenched instantly.
The owl landed hard beside the campfire, became Gerit. He staggered to his feet, his face red with fury. “You cursed fool!” he bellowed. “You burned me.”
Cora muttered something under her breath—a swearword, Petrus thought—and hurried across to the campfire.
Petrus glanced at Prince Harkeld. The prince’s face was starkly pale. His mouth was half open, but no sound came from it.
Petrus touched the prince’s arm. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was me that burned him.” The prince shook him off and headed for the campfire.
Petrus followed more slowly. An arrogant mage is a dangerous mage . He’d said that to Innis once, when they’d discussed the prince, and there was no doubt the prince could be an arrogant bastard when he chose to be. But he didn’t appear to be an arrogant mage. Prince Harkeld’s attitude to his magic was cautious. And frightened. He was frightened of it.
The healers clustered around Gerit, examining his arm. At a gesture from Cora, Hew stripped off his clothes, shifted shape, and flapped into the sky to keep watch.
Prince Harkeld observed the healers from a distance. His face was still unnaturally pale, his expression stiff.
He’s upset . Not pretend upset, not polite upset, but truly upset.
Once the burns were healed and Gerit dressed, Prince Harkeld walked across to Gerit. Petrus followed.
“I apologize for harming you,” the prince said.
“Magic’s not to be played with,” Gerit snapped.
“He wasn’t playing,” Petrus said, his sense of fairness bringing him to the prince’s defense. “He was learning.”
“Well, he shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be using his magic at all, not if he can’t do better ’n that.”
Petrus snorted. Hypocrite. You wanted him to use his magic back in Lundegaard without any instruction . He couldn’t say that aloud, though. Not as Justen.
“You’re an incompetent fool.”
Prince Harkeld inhaled sharply through his nose. “And you are a foul-tempered whoreson.”
Gerit bared
When the prince’s range reached fifteen yards, Cora stopped him. “How does it feel?”
“It’s not taking any more effort than lighting the campfire, just a bit more concentration.”
“And your control?”
“It feels like the magic’s only going to do what I tell it to. It doesn’t feel like it could get away from me.” His voice became doubtful. “But maybe it could?”
“Unlikely. Your magic is part of your body. It obeys you. You’d never tell your hand to scratch your nose and have it clout you on the head instead, would you?”
The prince’s expression relaxed almost into a smile. “No.”
“Your magic will obey you, just as the rest of your body obeys you.” Cora let this statement sink in, and then went on, “Accidents can happen if you’re exceedingly unclear about what you’re asking it to do. Or if you’re drunk, or panicked. But if you give your magic clear commands, if you know what you want it to do, you’ll have no problems.”
The prince nodded.
“Accidents can also happen if you exceed... not your ability, because you have exceptionally strong ability, but your training. Your experience. Right now, if I asked you to burn Justen’s cloak, you’d probably burn him . Not because your magic got away from you, but because you don’t know how to use it with sufficient precision. You don’t have the experience.”
The prince glanced at Petrus, his expression sober.
“So we’ll expand your experience.” Cora nodded at the burning stump. “Can you make that fire burn higher?”
Prince Harkeld raised his hand. The flames flared up into the sky.
A screech came from overhead. An owl tumbled down, the feathers on one wingtip alight.
The prince made an inarticulate sound. He clenched his upraised hand. The flames towering into the sky, the flames on the owl’s wing, quenched instantly.
The owl landed hard beside the campfire, became Gerit. He staggered to his feet, his face red with fury. “You cursed fool!” he bellowed. “You burned me.”
Cora muttered something under her breath—a swearword, Petrus thought—and hurried across to the campfire.
Petrus glanced at Prince Harkeld. The prince’s face was starkly pale. His mouth was half open, but no sound came from it.
Petrus touched the prince’s arm. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was me that burned him.” The prince shook him off and headed for the campfire.
Petrus followed more slowly. An arrogant mage is a dangerous mage . He’d said that to Innis once, when they’d discussed the prince, and there was no doubt the prince could be an arrogant bastard when he chose to be. But he didn’t appear to be an arrogant mage. Prince Harkeld’s attitude to his magic was cautious. And frightened. He was frightened of it.
The healers clustered around Gerit, examining his arm. At a gesture from Cora, Hew stripped off his clothes, shifted shape, and flapped into the sky to keep watch.
Prince Harkeld observed the healers from a distance. His face was still unnaturally pale, his expression stiff.
He’s upset . Not pretend upset, not polite upset, but truly upset.
Once the burns were healed and Gerit dressed, Prince Harkeld walked across to Gerit. Petrus followed.
“I apologize for harming you,” the prince said.
“Magic’s not to be played with,” Gerit snapped.
“He wasn’t playing,” Petrus said, his sense of fairness bringing him to the prince’s defense. “He was learning.”
“Well, he shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be using his magic at all, not if he can’t do better ’n that.”
Petrus snorted. Hypocrite. You wanted him to use his magic back in Lundegaard without any instruction . He couldn’t say that aloud, though. Not as Justen.
“You’re an incompetent fool.”
Prince Harkeld inhaled sharply through his nose. “And you are a foul-tempered whoreson.”
Gerit bared
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