the lesson to her at least once a day.”
“Jesalis?” Martis asked incredulously; for the jesalis was a fragile blossom of rare perfume, and nothing about the ugly little mare could remind anyone of a flower.
“Balance, Mage-lady,” Lyran replied, so earnestly that Martis had to hide a smile. “So foul a temper has she, that it is necessary to give her a sweet name to leaven her nature.”
They rode out of the Guild hold in single file with Martis riding in the lead, since protocol demanded that the “hireling” ride behind the “mistress” while they were inside the town wall. Once they’d passed the gates, they reversed position. Lyran would lead the way as well as providing a guard, for all of Martis’ attention must be taken up by her preparations to meet with her wayward former student. Tosspot would obey his training and follow wherever the rider of Jesalis led.
This was the reason that Tosspot’s gait and reliability were worth more than gold pieces. Most of Martis’ time in the saddle would be spent in a trance-like state as she gradually gathered power to her. It was this ability to garner and store power that made her a Masterclass sorceress—for after all, the most elaborate spell is useless without the power to set it in motion.
There were many ways to accumulate power. Martis’ was to gather the little aimless threads of it given off by living creatures in their daily lives. Normally this went unused, gradually dissipating, like dye poured into a river. Martis could take these little tag-ends of energy, spin them out and weave them into a fabric that was totally unlike what they had been before. This required total concentration, and there was no room in her calculations for mistake.
Martis was grateful that Lyran was neither sullen nor inclined to chatter. She was able to sink into her magic gathering-trance undistracted by babble and undisturbed by a muddy, surly aura riding in front of her. Perhaps Ben had been right after all. The boy was so unobtrusive that she might have been riding alone. She spared one scant moment to regret faintly that she would not be able to enjoy the beauties of the summer woods and meadows they were to ride through. It was so seldom that she came this way . . .
The atmosphere was so peaceful that it wasn’t until she sensed—more than felt—the touch of the bodyguard’s hand on her leg that she roused up again. The sun was westering, and before her was a small clearing, with Lyran’s