It was unusual for Arista to be completely alone outdoors. Hilfred had always been her ever-present shadow. She missed him and yet it felt good to be on her own facing the night. It had been only a few days since she had ridden out of Medford, but she knew she was not the same person who had left. She had always feared her life would be no more than that of a woman of privilege, helpless and confined. She had escaped that fate and entered into the more prestigious, but equally restricted, role of ambassador, which was nothing more than a glorified messenger. Now, however, she felt for the first time she was finding her true calling.

She began to hum softly to herself. The spell she had cast on the Seret Knights had worked, yet no one had taught her how to do it. She had invented the spell, drawing from a similar idea and her general knowledge of the Art and altering the incantation to focus on the blood of their bodies.

That’s what makes it an art.

There was indeed a gap in her education, but it was because what was missing could not be taught. Esrahaddon had not held back anything. The gap was the reality of magic. Instructors could teach the basic techniques and methods, but a mastery of mechanical knowledge could never make a person an artist. No one could teach creativity or invention. A spark needed to come from within. It must be something unique, something discovered by the individual, a leap of understanding, a burst of insight, the combining of common elements in an unexpected way.

Arista knew it to be true. She had known it since killing the knights. The knowledge both excited and terrified her. The horrible deaths of the seret had only compounded that terrible realization. Now, however, standing alone in the yard under the blanket of stars and in the stillness of the warm summer night, she embraced her understanding and it was thrilling. There was danger, of course, both intoxicating and alluring, and she struggled to contain her emotions. Recalling the death cries of the knights and the ghastly looks on their faces helped ground her. She did not want to get lost in that power. In her mind’s eye, the Art was a great beast, a dragon of limitless potential that yearned to be set free, but a mindless beast let loose upon the world would be a terrible thing. She understood the wisdom of Arcadius and the need to restrain the passion she now touched.

Arista set the candle down before her and cleared her mind to focus.