Still, the trip was not particularly pleasant for me. Where Dirva had always been a reactive mentor, a man who waited until I stumbled before he went to catch me, Vathorem was an interventionist. He wanted to see what I could do, he said, and when I wasn’t sleeping, he had me across the table from Dor trying to learn red magic, trying to learn to build walls or knock them down, trying to do things I’d avoided even thinking about for my entire life. He gave me no time to prepare, no time to adjust. He gave me no time to breathe.

I sat across a small table from Dor, the would-be king of Vilahna. The Qin coffee in our cups sloshed in rhythm with the sway of the train. Vathorem leaned against the wall, peering out the window at the desert sands. “You’re not even trying, Ariah.”

“I am.” I dropped my face into my hands. “I am not Athenorkos. I’m Semadran.”

“Tell that to your grandmother.”

We had been at it for hours. It was the second day on the train, and the night before I’d dreamt of magic. I had dreamt I drowned in great foreign wells of it, thick and rushing like a terrible river. “With all due respect, sir, I thought you were going to train me in shaping. I don’t see what this has to do with that. I don’t see how this will help me.”

Vathorem looked at me. “Dirva had a copy of The Art of Shaping. Did you ever read it?”

“No.”

“And you’re surprised you have no control?” I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but he waved at me. “Look, never mind that. All right. I know us folks and you folks talk like magic is this distinct thing, that you’re either this or that. I know that’s how you were taught—that there’s red magic and silver magic and blue magic. But I don’t think that’s true. There’s just magic. How can you master just one piece of what you have? You can’t. If you want to understand how to rein yourself in, and clearly you do, you got to understand how it fits with the rest of you. You got to understand the limits of your gift, Ariah. You might be a charmer, or you might pull a mirror. You are so quick with spoken language, and they say that’s a red thing. Things are rarely ever so clear-cut as theory suggests.” The train lurched. Vathorem lost his footing and half-fell into a chair. Dor stood up, but Vathorem waved him down again. “I’m fine. Sit down. Dor, charm him again. Ariah, try to pay attention this time.”

“How can I pay attention if I’ve been charmed?”