[Unlikely Twins] 5 – The Makings of a Wizard
The Scythe
[Unlikely Twins] 5 – The Makings of a Wizard
[Unlikely Twins] 5-1 Flirting Atop The Tower
“Maybe when I’m an emperor,” Finast said, looking up at the sky.
“Will you kiss me when I’m an emperor, Melsa?” He looked over at the
girl next to him. She was a slender blonde with a round face and full
lips. She winked at him and set down the water bucket she was
holding. With her hands free, she quickly made the signs for wood and
iron, whispered, and yanked her hands back quickly. Finast’s bucket,
which he’d been resting on, jerked out from under him and flew into
her hands, dumping him to the ground.
“Ooomph!” he said as he landed. Melsa giggled. Finast rolled on side
side and leaned on one elbow. They grinned at each other.
“You know,” she threatened, “if Majordomo Sman finds you like this,
you’ll get the switch.”
“Let him try,” said Finast said, but he jumped up quickly. She tossed
his bucket back to him, picked up hers, and poured it into the wooden
tank.
The tank was big. Big enough for the two of them to reach their arms
around it and still not touch fingertips. Out of the apprentices, it
was their turn to fill it today, and it was the last chore of the
day. They stood next to it nearly at the top of the Mage De Veras’
tower. The only thing higher was the sheltered observatory telescope.
Melsa leaned over the metal railing and let go of the bucket. Before
it had fallen a handspan, she quickly made the signs and whispered
again, and the bucket hovered in mid-air. She let it down briskly,
but controlled, down the four stories of the tower to dip into the
aqueduct that ran along the wall at the back of the cobbled yard.
Finast looked down over the yard. The apprentice barracks, where they
slept except for Melsa, the gate and carriage shed across from it.
Down below them, the first floor of the tower was much wider and held
the kitchen, workshop, and hall.
Melsa brought her bucket back up, past the bedroom windows and the
master’s study.
“You know, if you make me fill the tank all by myself, I really will
call the majordomo on you,” she threatened. But the humor in her
voice said otherwise.
“Well, I’d better throw net.” Finast dropped his bucket on the
walkway and shook out his arms, limbering up. He made a big show of
it. Then, rather than wood and iron, he made the mystic sign for
water itself. He used much larger and more sweeping motions than hers
had been. As he’d been taught, he sealed the connection between
himself and the water below with its True name.
“Aqeua,” he whispered.
With the bond came the joy of feeling Power flow through him. It was
the same the first and every time he used the Art. Now he could feel
the water below as if touching it with his own hands. It was a
feeling beyond and deeper than mere physical wetness. He touched the
Truth of its nature. He sensed Water, and it was his to command.
Below in the aqueduct, at the point he focused on, the water swelled
up. Just past that, the water trailed off. While he held it in
place, the water continued to flow into his trap, swelling higher and
higher. When it reached the edges, rather than overflowing, the water
stood up in the air, bulging outwards. His hands started into
constant motion, tugging, teasing, guiding, urging. The swelling wall
of water rose several feet above the top of the aqueduct, until at
last the whole mass heaved itself up out of the waterway. Sweat
beaded Finast’s forehead, and his hands raced from bulge to bulge as
the mass rose bulkily upwards. It shed drops and small globules
continually from any place his hands weren’t fast enough to massage
into shape.
Melsa’s jaw dropped, and she nearly lost her bucket. It wobbled and
sank a bit but then she focused and regained control. When it reached
the railing, she snatched it with both hands and held it tight to her
chest. Wide-eyed, she watched as Finast directed the mass of water up
and over their heads. A few drops came free and hit them, making her
blink and wetting his hands. His face was a mask of concentration.
Under better control now being so close, he funneled the edge of the
mass into the mouth of the tank. It shrank and shrank until the last
dollop slipped into the tank with a splash.
She snapped her mouth shut. Then Melsa grinned and shook her head.
She dipped her fingers into he bucket and flicked the water at him.
“Showoff,” she said, but there was humor in her voice. Finast grinned
back at her, breathing ragged, arms hanging at his sides like dead
fish. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done with the Art. It
rivaled the hardest day ever out fishing. But he’d done it, and he
felt on top of the world.
Melsa poured her bucket into the tank and looked in.
“Well, another one just like that and we’ll be done for the day,” she
said, turning to look at him. Finast shook his head.
“Maybe,” he panted, “tomorrow.”
Catching his breath, he went on, “So, what’s the bucket count now,
would you say?” An impish grin was on his face.
“Well, at least we won’t get in trouble for being slow,” she said with
a twinkle in her eye. Velsa stepped back to the railing and lowered
her bucket over. Finast did as well, and the two of them finished the
rest of the work, joking and laughing together. What was more, they
brushed up against each other several times and she no longer shied
away. When she tipped up the last bucket, he reached up and said,
“Hang up your bucket for you?” She nodded and let him take it.
“Thanks, she said, smiling. They stood there for just a moment, close
enough to see the color of each other’s eyes, both hazel. He leaned
forward ever so slightly, but she bowed her head, blushing brightly,
and slipped around him. Then Finast’s shoulders slumped, ever so
slightly, and he lowered the bucket.
“Beat you down to the workshop!” she called from the top of the
stairs. As he turned, she flashed him a smile and a wink, smoothing
over the awkward moment. Grinning back, he flung the buckets to their
hooks and chased her down the stairs, two at a time.