Tempests and Slaughter. Tamora Pierce

watched the others work the same spell, except that it wasn’t the same. So far they had all made mistakes or failed completely. Finally he gazed at a nearby window. Its sturdy wooden shutters were closed, the spells on it shimmering in his gaze. They were there to keep any accidental magics from escaping the room. Still, Arram didn’t need to see outside to let his imagination go free.

      He wished he’d had more time to fiddle with this spell. It wasn’t hard, no matter how much his classmates struggled with it. They only had to lift out a touch of their magical Gifts, a fingertip’s worth, set it on the water’s centre, then lift it up. Imagining it, his eyes half closed, Arram saw how he could raise the water into the air, higher even than Girisunika had done. With three finger-touches, he could create a pretty three-armed fountain. He had an image in his head of a dish ringed by spouts of water when Girisunika tapped his shoulder with her long pointer.

      ‘Do we bore you’ – she consulted her list of students – ‘Arram Draper? I know that you did the problem already, but it is possible to learn from others.’

      Arram stared up at her, begging her silently to leave him alone. He was getting that panicky knot in his throat. He had tried not to get her attention this term. She didn’t know his unhappy way of getting into trouble, particularly when he was rattled.

      ‘Answer me, boy.’

      Mithros help him, he had forgotten her question in his distress. ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘I was told you need special handling, but I had no idea it meant you were deficient in mind,’ she snapped. ‘Who helped you to do this spell before? Speak up!’

      ‘N-nobody, Master. Lady. Instructor,’ he stammered.

      None of the titles he’d tried made her happy. ‘I am a master,’ she snapped. ‘Not a master of water, but sufficiently educated in it to teach this class.’

      They were surrounded by giggles now. Master Girisunika jerked from side to side, trying to spot the offenders, but the students wouldn’t let her catch them. They’d had plenty of practice since Arram entered their lives.

      Thwarted, she turned back to him. ‘We’ll see,’ she said, and tapped the worktable with her pointer. ‘Do it again.’ As the students murmured, Girisunika swung around to glare at them. ‘If you helped him before, you will not help him now,’ she told them. Once Arram stood behind the table, she took a place at his shoulder. ‘All of you, hands on desks. Should anyone move a finger, they will get punishment work for the rest of the term.’

      He was as nervous as he’d ever been in a class, but he had to defend himself. ‘No one aided me.’

      She slapped his head with her palm. ‘I did not ask for a debate, boy. I gave you an order. Now do the spell.’

      He raised his hands. They shook. ‘I can’t concentrate,’ he said hopelessly.

      ‘A mage in the field must concentrate at all times,’ she snapped. ‘Report to me after your other lessons for three weeks. Do the spell!’

      The giggles that filled the air stopped when she glared at his classmates.

      With her attention locked on the others, Arram closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and held it. Sometimes that helped. His magical Gift boiled in his chest, like the River Zekoi in flood season. He called the sparkling black magical fire up and let some of it stream through one shaking finger. Over the wide dish on the table, he wrote the spell-signs, using his power for ink.

      It worked just as it did the first time. A vine of liquid rose into the air. This time he let it stretch as high as the master’s nose instead of the five inches she had required. His fellow students hissed; they always did when he succeeded where they failed.

      Arram glared at the water as it dropped into the bowl. It wasn’t fair. Just because they couldn’t work a bit of magic, they expected him to drag his feet.

      He faced the master. ‘I did it all alone,’ he insisted. ‘I could do more.’

      She folded her arms over her chest, looking as if she’d gulped sour milk. ‘Oh, truly? What more could you do, pray?’

      He turned back to the dish. Placing drops of his Gift on his forefingers, he touched each to a different spot on his slender column of water. It split. Now three ropes of water flowed up and over, then back into the dish, like his favourite garden fountain. Feeling bolder, he turned his hand and called the spouts. They went two feet higher. At that height, the water splashed onto the dish, the table, Arram, Girisunika, and the students in the first two rows.

      ‘Too messy,’ he said, frowning in concentration. All of his focus and power were locked on his creation. It was a bad habit of his, paying attention only to his spell.

      Carefully he reached into the dish and spun the water sunwise once. It twirled, winding the three spouts like thread on a spindle until they shaped a twist in the centre. The twist became a miniature cyclone, swaying to and fro.

      Arram frowned. There wasn’t enough water for people to see the glass-like swirls in his miniature cyclone. The bowl was nearly dry. He sent his Gift into the jar by the table, only to find less than a palmful of water inside.

      He yanked it up and threw it into the bowl. Some of the students in the front began to snicker. Girisunika took a deep breath and announced with heavy meaning, ‘If you are finished, Draper …’

      He was not finished. He could make it even more interesting. He scowled at the bowl and the cyclone, clenching his unsteady hand. Strength ran through him, coming from the floor – no, from beneath the floor. It soared up through his Gift almost as it had at the harbour six weeks ago. The feel of it was different, heavier.

      It lanced through his hand and into the thin water cyclone. Without warning, the liquid shot into the air and sprayed throughout the room. Arram yelped and his fellow students howled as everyone was drenched.

      ‘Calm yourselves!’ Girisunika shouted. Raising a hand that shone with orange-red fire, she drew the water away from the students and back to the front of the room. It climbed until it formed a foot-deep pool-like block that enclosed Arram, the master, and the worktable. On the table, in the dish and above it, water continued to spout.

      ‘Draper,’ the master said, ‘where is the water coming from?’

      Arram glanced at her face. She was sweating. ‘Where?’ he asked blankly.

      ‘Yes, dolt,’ she snapped. ‘Where did you get the water? There is far more here than before. Stop it at once!’

      He had no more idea of the water’s source than he did of the wind that thrust his relatives’ ship out of the harbour. He scratched his head. He’d used no water signs other than those he’d placed at the spell’s start. The strength of it must have come from that strange shove of power that had gripped him.

      His imagination built a picture of his cyclone’s thin tail passing through the dish, the table, and down through the marble floor. He bent and squinted at the table. The deepening pond of water had sprouted a rope of itself. Somehow it passed through the wood to feed his creation above.

      Arram ducked underwater to find the source. A moment later a rough hand grabbed his collar and dragged him into the air. He struggled and spat. One of the bigger students had a strong grip on him.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Master Girisunika roared. ‘Do you want to drown? No one else can undo your mess!’ She motioned for his captor to release Arram. The youth obeyed.

      ‘Draper, what have you created?’ she demanded.

      Arram held his head in his hands, but it was useless. Another surge ran through him, through his Gift. He lost control.

      The spout exploded against the ceiling. The entire workroom was waist-high in water. The students were pounding on the doors. As was the rule when magic was being worked in class, the doors were closed and sealed to prevent outsiders from entering and causing just the kind of mess they