Storm Born Page 0,115

We can work on this another time. I don't mind."

"Nonsense. I'm almost done."

The first happy expression I'd seen since arriving showed on Rurik's face. It vanished when Dorian turned the canvas around to display his work.

We stared.

"Sire, am I...wearing a bow?"

I cocked my head. "It does kind of look that way. But the rest...man, that's actually pretty good. I didn't know you could do faces so well."

Dorian glowed. "Why, thank you. I can paint you too someday if you'd like."

"It's a bow," protested Rurik.

Dorian glanced at the canvas, then back to the warrior. "It matches the chaise. I had to add it; otherwise you would have clashed."

Back in his bedroom, Dorian went through his usual motions, flinging off his silver-gray cloak and pouring a glass of wine. He drank some type of blush tonight.

"Ready to start?"

I nodded, sitting down in the chair in the middle of the room. As I'd said, I didn't really think the meteorology books would give me that much of an edge yet, but I felt more empowered after reading them. Like I was starting to take my training into my own hands.

He took another drink of his wine, procured more cords, and approached me. Putting one hand on his hip, he surveyed me carefully, not unlike how he'd scrutinized his canvas.

"That's a very pretty shirt." I glanced down. It was a black tank top with a chain of red daisies embroidered near the top. "Hmm. Let's try this."

He abandoned the pastel-colored ties he held and replaced them with red and black ones. Placing my arms flat against the chair's arms, he wrapped each of mine down with black first, making X patterns. The style reminded me of the way a ballerina's slippers laced up. When that was finished, he went back over each arm with red.

"These are more like ribbons than your usual ones," I observed. "Or maybe sashes. Do you own, like, every possible form of constraint known to man?"

"Nearly," he said. "All right. Let's get started. The water's over there."

He indicated a table near the window where my old friend the pitcher sat, but I'd already known it was there. Settling as comfortably as I could in the chair, I stared at the pitcher and immediately let my mind reach out to the water. It flared like a beacon to me. Beyond it, I could sense all the other water in the room too. Me and Dorian, the wine, water vapor. I directed my attention to the pitcher's water.

I can feel you, now come to me.

But, as many practices had already demonstrated, wanting didn't make things happen. God, that pissed me off. I honestly didn't know how Dorian could stand waiting around through all of these sessions. It had to be boring as hell. I was bored, and I actually got to do something. Sort of.

No, no. That was a bad attitude. Forget the boredom. Focus on the task at hand.

Hours passed again. If Dorian was still awake - which I doubted - I knew he'd close off the session soon. The knowledge irritated me, but I understood. I was already feeling tired, my eyes bleary. I kept blinking a lot to regain focus and keep them from drying. I think that made me notice what happened next.

"Dorian, look at the pitcher."

He sat up right away and followed my gaze. A moment later, he walked over and touched the pitcher, brushing his fingers along its side. Water quietly ran down the ceramic surface, pooling on the table's glass surface. A slow, delighted smile spread over his face.

"You've seized it. It's listening to you. Now make it come farther - all the way out of the jug."

With tangible progress before me, my excitement grew. I thought hard about what I'd been doing, trying to repeat it. About a minute later, I could see water spilling down the sides of the jug, much faster and in greater amounts. The puddle on the table grew too full, dripping onto the floor.

"I'm ruining your carpet."

"Never mind the carpet. Bring it farther." I could hear the anticipation in his voice.

Some logical part of me saw carpet as tough terrain to navigate, and the water's progress slowed. Soon, I decided, that was only in my head. The carpet had nothing to do with anything. Only my control of the water mattered.

As soon as I made that leap, the water shot over the carpet in a curving rivulet, almost like a snake. It reached my feet, and I could feel