Thornspell by Helen Lowe Page B

whispered. “Your mind, looking into mine.”
    “Yes,” said Balisan. He knelt on one knee so they were eye to eye. “That is the beginning of seeing. Now you can begin to learn.”

Lines of Power
    T hey went up onto the tower roof every night after that, and Balisan made Sigismund practice sinking into the power flow until it became second nature. They would sit opposite each other, their breath clouding the air, but no matter how far Sigismund extended his perception, he was always aware of Balisan’s eyes, watching, following. Their gleam became like an opponent’s blade, something to be eluded. Sigismund tried to let his awareness dissipate, the same way he let his emotions drain away when he picked up a sword. He curled into ground mist, became one grain of gravel amongst the many lying on the riverbank, and crept through roots and leaves in the castle garden.
    He came back into himself in a white, clear dawn and looked out over a world in which every line and angle was etched in frost. Balisan sat opposite him, unmoving as the stone, his eyes dark, aged bronze. Sigismund felt a little like stone himself, filled with the long night’s silence. He stretched, cautiously, and Balisan smiled.
    “That was well done,” he said. “You swam away from me like a fish disappearing into a dark river.”
    The hand Sigismund lifted felt heavy as stone; his hair crackled with frost as he pushed it back. He shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was a pebble, cast into the chasm of the new day. “Is that what my power is?”
    A bird called from somewhere in the garden below, a single sweet trill. Soon there would be another and then another after that, and the castle would begin to wake up.
    Balisan’s reply was considered, grave. “Your family’s power is rooted in the land and has developed out of love for it, becoming an affinity for the energy that runs through earth, air, and water. But you can also draw on that power, using it to make a shield or barrier, as your great-grandfather did with the interdict. And you have the ability to walk in your dreams, which lets you visit places beyond the limitations of your physical body. It is a skill that served your ancestors well, especially in the early years of the kingdom, when roads were few and travel difficult.”
    Sigismund stretched, enjoying the feeling of muscle and sinew within the layers of his jacket. “Evasion and shielding,” he mumbled, yawning. “But what about attacking?”
    Balisan shook his head. “It is not the way that your family’s power has developed. It might be possible for you to learn such skills, but it would require many years studying the darker aspects of sorcery.” He paused, his eyes tawny in the first light of the sun. “But I do not think that is your path, Sigismund.”
    “Oh,” Sigismund said, trying not to feel disappointed. “But what about weapons of power? Like Excalibur or the belt that Sir Gawain won from the Green Knight? In all the stories they enhance the wearer’s power.”
    Balisan’s mouth twitched. “They do. But such artifacts are rare and very hard to find, not least because they may not wish to be discovered. And depending on who made them, or why, they are often unreliable.” His smile became sly. “I can lend you a book on the subject, if you wish.”
    Sigismund shook his head, and the smile deepened. “You are quite right,” Balisan said. “There are more important things for you to learn.”
    He gave Sigismund the book anyway, but began to teach him the names of the stars and how they shifted to match the seasons and the turning of the earth. They continued to go up to the roof every night, even when autumn became winter with its snow and ice. And on the night of midwinter, the nadir of the year, Balisan explained how the conjunction of certain stars and planets could open gateways and reveal paths into different realms of existence.
    “You must memorize them all,” said Balisan. “But the plane