She recalled at least two ways. One involved an elaborate brewing of compounds and burning the mixture out of doors. This method should result in precipitation within a day but was not entirely reliable and failed more often than it succeeded. The other approach was more advanced and instantaneous, requiring great skill and knowledge. It could be accomplished with only hand movements, a focused mind, and words. The first technique she had learned as part of her studies at Sheridan University, where the entire class had attempted it without producing a single drop. The latter Esrahaddon had tried to teach her, but because the church had amputated his hands, he could not demonstrate the complex finger movements. This had always been the major obstacle in studying with him. Arista had nearly given up trying when one day, almost by accident, she made a guard sneeze.

Feeling the power of the Art for the first time had been an odd sensation, like flipping a tiny lever and sliding a gear into place. She had succeeded, not due to Esrahaddon’s instructions, but rather because she had been fed up with him. To alleviate her boredom during a state dinner, Arista had been running Esrahaddon’s instructions through her head. She purposely ignored his directions and instead tried something on her own. Doing so had felt easier, simpler. Discovering the right combination of movements and sounds had been like plucking the perfect note of music at exactly the right time.

That sneeze, and a short-lived curse placed on Countess Amril, had been her only magical successes during her apprenticeship with Esrahaddon. Arista had failed the rain spell hundreds of times. After her father had been murdered, she stopped attempting magic altogether. She had become too busy helping Alric with their kingdom to waste time on such childish games.

Arista glanced skyward and thought, What else do I have to do?

She recalled the instructions, and letting the reins hang limp on her horse’s neck, she practiced the delicate weaving patterns in the air. The incantation she recalled easily enough, but the motions were all wrong. She could feel the awkwardness in the movements. There needed to be a pattern to the motion—a rhythm, a pace. She tried different variations and discovered she could tell which motions felt right and which felt wrong. The process was like fitting puzzle pieces together while blindfolded, or working out the notes of a melody by ear. She would simply guess at each note until, by sheer chance, she hit upon the right one. Then after adding it to the whole, she moved on to the next. Doing it this way was tedious, but it kept her mind occupied. She caught a curious glance from Hadrian, but she did not explain, nor did he ask.