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"...can think of magic as the dye that paints each thread. Like one's position within the weave, the maker decides which threads are conferred with magic, and of which sort of magic. We must each accept what has been bestowed upon us and learn to use it to the best of our ability, but never should we look to another with envy. The yellow thread does not harbor bitterness toward the gold, as it recognizes its color is necessary to complete the tapestry. To resent the magic of another is to resent the will of the gods."
Fearful that she might continue to expound on cultural philosophies, Cera tried to steer her back onto a more interesting path.
"Fascinating. So, each elf is born into a caste and into a certain capacity for magic. How do they begin learning to wield it?"
She could tell that Maewyn wasn't fooled by her artless attempt at redirection, but Cera was unabashed. Now that she'd eaten and spent a bit of time at rest, her awareness of magic had begun to re-emerge. The longer she focused on the tapestry, the more the threads seemed to vibrate, as if slowly coming to life. She thought it was only a matter of time before the figures started to move about the tapestry, just as the embroidered dragon on Isael's shirt had seemed to come to life the previous morning.
Had it been just one morning ago that this all began?
"Before you can learn to wield magic, you must understand its fundamentals," Maewyn said. "Humans, like small children, believe that magic is something we simply manifest, but that is not the case. If two men fight and one is blind while the other can see, would you call the seeing man a sorcerer?"
"Of course not."
Maewyn nodded. "Elven magic is nothing more than the ability to perceive and act upon nature. We can see the threads that make up the weave of the world around us, and those of us with magic can influence them, to an extent. It is little different than the seeing man making note of a dagger on the ground that he might use to defend himself against the blind man.
"Hence, learning magic begins with opening one's perception to the nature of its surroundings. It may be uniquely challenging for you, as you were not born into magic. A child born into magic will begin her life seeing the threads that weave everything together.
“Indeed, one of the earliest signs of a magically inclined infant is that she will seldom open her eyes, and when she does, she will seem unfocused. It takes many years for such children to learn to see those threads for what they are: people, objects, and spaces. Conversely, you have learned only to perceive things as a whole, now you must learn to see with the eyes of a child. Without understanding the threads and how they weave, you cannot hope to control magic."
Cera wanted to protest. She didn't understand in the slightest, but she had done magic. Perhaps the flowers she'd made blossom were rather anemic, but the egg. She'd made a chick grow within a dinner egg.
At least, Isael had seemed to think she had. What if it had been an egg already on the verge of hatching, mistakenly sent to the table? That seemed unlikely, but the more she considered it, the more likely it seemed than her being able to make a living creature grow with magic.
Rising, Maewyn went to the table and collected a candlestick in its holder. She returned to the tapestry, setting it down between them. The flame cast a warm glow over the tapestry, illuminating the silvers and golds of the pattern. All Cera could think about was how careless it was, to set a lit candle down on such a tapestry. Moreover, Maewyn was now kneeling on the tapestry, her slippered feet digging into the threads as she leaned over the flame.
"Fire and earth are the affinities of Telavir, the house I was born into," she told Cera. "It's rare that an elf has an affinity for more than one element, and I am no exception."
Cera watched, her pulse quickening as the flame rose up from the candle wick. For a few, delightful seconds, it appeared to grow legs and dance in the air, but then it abruptly winked out.
Maewyn said, "Fire is my affinity. I can manipulate it, but I cannot make it run contrary to its nature. Fire's nature is to feed and burn. If it does not feed, it cannot burn. Watch again, and pay close attention to the weaves."
Cera watched intently as Maewyn relit the candle with a tinder stick, and then repeated the trick. The flame lifted from the candle wick, danced, and then blinked out.
"Notice how the weaves change from fire to earth? When the fire consumes itself, it leaves behind a trace of earth in the form of smoke. Some assume that smoke is a property of air, but—"
"I didn't see any weaves," Cera said, still squinting at the place where the flame had been.
"Oh. Once more, then."
Again, she repeated the trick—or spell, or whatever it was, but still Cera saw nothing except the dancing flame, and then a faint trail of smoke.
Cera said, "Perhaps if you explain what it is I'm supposed to be seeing, I'll be able to better look for it."
Impatiently, Maewyn asked, "Explain to me what the colors are so that I may be better able to look for them."
Cera frowned, not sure what the other woman was getting at.
With a sigh, Maewyn said, "The high lord informed me that you are manifesting magic, yes? You must be able to see the weaves. The threads that bind everything together. You cannot manifest anything without being able to see the weaves. It would be like a deaf man trying to compose a symphony."
"Actually, there is a rather talented Matian harpsichord player that cannot hear. He says he can feel the music in his bones. His symphonies are said to be uniquely evocative."
Maewyn leaned back on her hands, as if needing to put some distance between herself and Cera.
"Fascinating. Now shall we return to the subject of magic? It is nearly evening and the high lord is already angry with me for not instructing you this morning."
"The high lord didn't seem angry," Cera said.
The look Maewyn gave her sapped the humidity from the air. "Of course he did not seem angry to you. He's moonstruck and has only soft words and smiles for you. You are not attuned to his sharpness or his acrimony. Pray you never are."
