Sword by Amy Bai

exasperated look at her and Kyali felt her shoulders draw up and her face heat. Saraid could tell a lie from a hundred paces.
    "Not always," the old woman said placidly. "It's harder than you imagine, and I'm certainly not listening all the time. Do you not think I have better things to occupy myself with?"
    Her face only got hotter. Kyali ducked her head to the porridge and ended up with far too large a mouthful. "I hope... you do," she managed to choke out. "I'd hate to think this was your only source of amusement."
    Saraid's lined face twitched into a smile. "No, I've several sources, never fear. But you're a challenge, child, with your sober face and all your thoughts hidden behind it. I never could resist a challenge. Finish your porridge, now. It's new lessons all around today. I've something to show you about breath…"
    * * *
    If she breathed any harder, she was going to faint. Wouldn't that be mortifying?
    Kyali shifted, wishing she could have sat on a blanket, or one of the folding canvas chairs the Fraonir favored—or her own cloak, for that matter. The crackle of a small campfire teased her ears, but no warmth found her skin. There was snow on the air this morning, a cold bite that clouded her breath and stung her cheeks, and the cloak was a comfort. But there were small rocks on the ground here, and the harder she tried to concentrate, the more they made themselves known. The cloak would have served better under her, rather than on her.
    Maybe this was Saraid's new tactic: discomfort. They had already managed confusion, frustration, and exhaustion.
    Magic, she was perpetually discovering, was both easier and much harder than it was made to sound by the inept court wizards of her childhood, who had only their books of philosophy and history to offer. Easier, because among the Fraonir it was actually possible; harder because it was work . And harder because every tiny success was accompanied by a blinding headache. Though Saraid promised that would fade, with time and practice.
    The wizards’ lessons seemed even more pointless up here, where calling birds, or summoning gusts of wind, or hearing thoughts, or telling an arrow where to fly, or any of the other myriad little Gifts that cropped up among the Clans, seemed commonplace.
    Memory dragged her mind from the task: sitting despondent at a table in Faestan castle, a book of theory open in front of her and Master Emayn droning on about the structure of the world. Taireasa making hideous, hilarious faces every time the old man turned his back—and finally flinging a handful of stolen goosefeathers into the hearth so that the flames flared high and the smell drove them all out of the room.
    Gods. She was never going to get anywhere with this if she couldn't manage to concentrate.
    "Kyali. Open your eyes."
    She did, prepared to see that slight crinkle between Saraid's brows that meant she was doing poorly. Instead she saw fire, red and gold and blurrily close, as though without moving she had somehow come nearer to the shallow pit. She squinted. Her eyes watered. A line of flame snaked toward her hand where it rested on her knee, and she watched it uncomprehending; held her breath, foolishly, as though a bird had come to land on her. It touched her skin. There was no pain.
    She hadn't come closer to the fire. It had come closer to her .
    "Saraid…" Her voice was wobbly and rough. She bit it off.
    " Shhhh ." Her magic tutor knelt close, her face soft in the glow of the fire. Her eyes were wide and wondering. "Oh, child," Saraid murmured. "No wonder this makes your head hurt so. What a thing."
    "So this isn't—" She couldn't hold it. The pain in her head was making her queasy. The fire in her hand became smoke and blew away with the cold wind, and Kyali slumped forward to press at her temples. Saraid's cold hand landed on her neck, began to rub at the knotted muscles there.
    "No, Kyali" she said. "It's not common. It's not even been heard of, what you just