Counterspell

“Again, apprentice.”

Ashenivir shook his hands out, scowling. Every joint of every finger ached. His palms felt bruised, pooled as they were with failed magic. “It’s no use, Master, I can’t do it.”

Across the classroom, Rizeth arched an eyebrow.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“I’d do it if I could, it’s not like I’m not try—”

Rizeth flung the cantrip at him again without warning. Ashenivir swore and forced his aching hands through the counterspell somatic once more. As with every time before, he wasn’t fast enough—Rizeth’s bolt of frost caught him in the chest and he staggered back, stumbled against a desk, and went crashing to the floor.

Messing this up—in front of Rizeth—over and over again was something out of a nightmare. Ashenivir shoved his hair back as he sat up, his face hot with frustration and embarrassment.

“You are still thinking too much.” Rizeth stood over him, and even though Ashenivir knew he was allowed nothing here in his classroom, being below him like this, with those hard eyes fixed upon him…He swallowed, and tried to think cold thoughts.

Rizeth helped him to his feet.

“Counterspell is about instinct,” he began. Ashenivir knew that tone. He leaned against the nearest desk and accepted his lecture. “It is not something you can plan in advance. When you cast it outside these walls, it will be in moments of need—moments when you must react within seconds of identifying that a spell is being cast.”

“But I can’t make my hands move fast enough,” Ashenivir protested. Rizeth caught his wrist and held it up.

“Your somatics,” he said, pressing his thumb to the centre of Ashenivir’s palm, “are perfectly fine. You are spending too long thinking about how to counter my spell instead of actually countering it.”

At that moment, Ashenivir could hardly think at all. All he could focus on was the pressure point of Rizeth’s thumb against his hand. Every idle fantasy he’d ever had about his Master touching him in his classroom was suddenly trying to convince him it was about to become reality.

“How…” his voice croaked. He coughed. Tried again. “How am I supposed to counter something if I don’t know how to counter it? Every spell is different; its structure, how it moves through the Weave—the same approach doesn’t work for everything.”

Rizeth released his wrist and tapped him on the forehead. Ashenivir blinked.

“You are countering a spell, apprentice, not trying to unmake it. If you were going to undo a seam, would you push the needle back through every hole?”

“No, Master.”

“Then what would you do?”

“I…” Ashenivir wracked his exhausted mind. “I might…use a knife to cut the threads.”

“And what would you alter in that approach if the threads were steel instead of silk?”

“I would make the knife stronger and sharper.”

“Yet it would still be a knife.”

Rizeth returned to the front of the classroom and raised his hands. Ashenivir sighed, and took up his position across from him. He squared his shoulders—no more needles, his mind was a knife. The moment he saw the cantrip in Rizeth’s hands he would slice, not think. He knew the Weave, and it knew him, all he had to do was—

The cantrip sent him to the floor again, and he swore so loudly it echoed off the walls.

“Language, apprentice.”

“I can’t do this!” Ashenivir hauled himself up and flopped, furious, into the nearest chair. “I can’t just not think when I cast.”

Rizeth brought something over from his desk, and Ashenivir sat there, fuming in subdued silence, as his Master wound strips of bandage around his hands. They were tacky with some balm or other, some shiver of magic that soaked into the ache and began at once to soothe it.

“That is enough for today,” Rizeth said.

“Enough for forever,” Ashenivir mumbled. “I’ll never manage this. I’ll just make do with shielding spells and ducking.”

Rizeth examined the finshed bandages with as much careful intent as he examined Ashenivir after a scene. It made Ashenivir’s spine prickle. Without looking up, he said, “You will try again tomorrow.”

Ashenivir knew an order when he heard one. He sighed.

“Yes, Master.”

Rizeth released his hands. “You will master this spell. I would not be teaching it to you if it were beyond you.”

“I don’t know how you still have faith in me after today.”

“Faith has nothing to do with it.” Rizeth did look at him now, held his eyes with the kind of iron that allowed no argument. “I know what you are capable of.”

The nausea of failure started to fade. If his Master said he could do this…

“I’ll try again tomorrow,” Ashenivir said.

“No, apprentice,” Rizeth said, and a small, sharp smile crooked the corner of his mouth. “You will succeed.”

Ashenivir returned the smile.

“Yes, Master.”