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Arwen’s idea of training differed radically from Ezra’s.
Bryar sat across from her in the plain, stone-walled workroom, battling his way through the exercises. Today that meant counting backwards from one hundred, in threes.
Who cared?
Yesterday, it had been reading. As a student, he had learned to read and write, but the skill was seldom called for among Weavers. He was rusty. This particular folio, with fading, blotched ink made from berries on yellowish paper imported from the Southlands, had been one of their texts back then, when he was about fifteen. At least the story held his interest.
In between the school lessons and tests, Arwen badgered him, forcing him to talk about the trip through the hills, his birthmark, the techniques he used to create his poetry and songs. Her choice of topics at first had felt random, but after a day or two, he sorted out that she was assessing his psychological fitness for the task they’d given him. Poking at his mind.
He’d rather be sparring with Joss, as happened every afternoon in the practice field out beyond the amphitheater.
Arwen interrupted his counting at thirty-one. “Excellent. That’s far enough.”
“I’m not likely to count backwards when I’m looking for the cell.” He didn’t hide the impatience in his voice.
“No, but you will need to concentrate. Focus on the mission. Now,” she said in an abrupt turnaround, “tell me about Tai.”
His heart lurched. “No.”
She raised her slate gray brows, filling him with the same trepidation he’d experienced when hauled before her desk for some infraction or other, twenty-five years ago.
“Explain.”
“No again. I won’t go there.”
“Because you’re afraid. You believe she’s dead.”
Arwen’s flat words landed in his heart like a jagged stone. He sprang to his feet. “She’s gone. And that’s the end of it.”
Arwen also stood, glaring.
“Sit down, Bryar.”
“I think we’re done for today.” Bryar turned and strode toward the door of her workroom.
Arwen’s voice stopped him as she hurled a challenge. “Can you keep Tai out of your head? Can you prevent her memory from interfering with your work?” Her sandaled feet padded across the flagstone floor, then she seized his arm and raised it straight out to the side. “Keep your arm strong,” she commanded. “Don’t let me move it.”
He just had time to tighten his muscles before she pushed down. To his horror, he couldn’t resist the pressure; his arm collapsed.
She removed her hands. “Sit down,” she said again, quietly but with an undercurrent of iron.
As he grudgingly returned to his chair, she added, “Memories that bring upset or sadness weaken you, as you well know. If I could block your memories, I would. But I can insist that you learn to compartmentalize them. Weakness is a luxury you can’t afford. Not given what may lie ahead.”
“Yeah.” He sat and hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his antagonism forgotten. “But damn it, Arwen. How much do I have to pay? I’m like half a man as it is, with Ezra’s mask. To strip away the things I care about-”
“Nobody can measure the cost to you. But according to Ezra, you are the one chosen for this.”
The anger he’d lived with in the nine-days after Tai’s disappearance resurfaced. “It’s time I go and get it over with.”
Arwen shook her head. “Soon, but not yet. Controlling your impatience is another part of it. You must be master of many types of strength, in addition to the physical tasks Ezra set for you.”
“I’m fine to leave now.”
“You are not. Talk about Tai. Describe her, explain how her mind works, what she likes to eat and how she sleeps. Paint me a picture with your words. Everything you know.”
“Why?” Given Arwen’s lecture on not letting Tai into his mind, what was the point?
“Memory work.”
“I’m a Weaver and a Bard. My memory’s excellent.”
“Prove it.”
Arwen was indomitable. Tempted beyond resistance by the opportunity to relive all he’d found in Tai, Bryar reluctantly began speaking. “She’s so slight, but she doesn’t get cold like the rest of us. She’s healthy, never even a sniffle. She loves Ezra and Rebecca, and wildflowers, anything orange, and pastries – the same as Willow. Her mind, it’s... luminous, I guess. More than curious. Rich and shiny. Does that make sense?”
“Knowing Tai, yes. Go on.”
Bryar settled into his memories, weaving the words much as if he were composing an ode. Only later, when he ran out of things to say – because he wasn’t about to tell Arwen about Tai’s softness under his hands, the taste of her – did he realize that the exercise did far more than prove his memory. Arwen had provided him with the opportunity to relieve some of the emptiness left behind in the wake of Tai’s loss. To rebuild a sense of wholeness for himself, knowing that Tai, whether or not she still lived, was woven inextricably into the fabric of his being. He’d bet Arwen would tuck his words into a template somewhere since he couldn’t do it himself. Waiting for him when he came home again.
He tackled Joss with renewed creativity that afternoon. It felt good.