"You didn't tell me—the books didn't tell me—" She felt somehow shocked and betrayed.
"They hinted at it—though I will admit that I did not," he told her. "As I said, your Master is not permitted to give you an obvious warning; it is a test, and one you had to face without a real warning. You wouldn't understand it until you felt it for yourself. Now you do. And you will never fall prey to it, because you did not in your moment of greatest vulnerability." He shrugged. "From this moment on, your Mastery is largely a matter of increasing skill and practice. You have learned the trick of juggling; now you will simply learn to add more balls until you can juggle as many as I can."
He offered her his hand again; this time, she took it, but she was still shaken. "If you hadn't cleared your throat—"
"That is why I am the Master. It was my duty to remind you of yours." Now he smiled. "My own Master made a particularly cutting remark about fools who let their emotions get the better of them to one of his Salamanders when I was in danger of forgetting my priorities. You required a much subtler reminder, and that in itself is impressive. I cannot speak for every Apprentice, but I suspect most of them require prodding by their Masters at the moment of truth."
"Oh." She said nothing more, but felt immensely relieved that she had not done as badly as she had thought.
Now that she was on her feet, and the initial shock had worn off, she was able to think again. There would always be one Sylph about her now, waiting and watching. Whether or not it came when she called and did as she asked would be largely a matter of concentration and willpower—and her ability to persuade it. Jason no longer had to persuade his Salamanders, in no small part because they were in the habit of obeying him. She had to remember that although the Sylph had looked human, most of them were not particularly intelligent. Once they got into the habit of obeying her, they wouldn't think of doing otherwise.
It might also do things just because it thought she would like them done; and a rare, very intelligent Sylph would perform actions even because it thought she needed them done. Jason's "pet Salamander" was certainly inclined that way. It held intelligent conversations with him, and even contradicted him if he was wrong. Perhaps one of her Sylphs would develop that kind of intelligence.
She had not realized that Jason had led her out of the Work Room until she found herself standing beside the sofa in the study.
She started to turn to go back to clean up the mess she had left behind. "The Work Room—" she said, vaguely. "The mess—" She couldn't have the Sylph erase the diagrams and clean up the remains of the invocation—that was impossible, by the Pact that bound her to the Sylphs and vice versa.
He put both hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently down onto the sofa. "The Salamanders can take care of the mess," he said. 'That is another aspect that is useful about having two Disciplines operating in the same household. My Salamanders are perfectly free to clean up after Air Work, and your Sylphs are permitted to clean up after Works of Fire. They will even enjoy doing so. Here—"
He handed her a cup of restorative tea, and she drank it down, thankfully. Her exhaustion was largely a matter of nerve and emotion—the effects of reaction after having successfully completed what really had been a dangerous task. In a moment or two, she would feel better.
But for right now, I believe I would really prefer to sit here on the couch!
Finally, after fifteen or twenty minutes, her nerves felt steady again, and her hands had stopped shaking. In all that time, Jason had not said a word. He simply sat in his chair and watched her carefully, as if he was studying her. Perhaps he was; after all, he was a Master, and it was part of his obligation to be aware of the mental, physical, and emotional state of his Apprentice.
"Did this happen to you?" she demanded.
He evidently understood precisely what she meant. "The reaction? Of course. But I am curious about something." He leaned forward, and focused on her intently. "When you became comfortable with your role—when you were thinking about nothing except the work, how did it feel to you?"
"How did it feel?" she repeated. It felt wonderful, but how do I describe that? "It felt—I'm not certain. I think I must have felt the way an opera singer feels, when everything comes together in a perfect performance. As if I was born to do this, as if nothing in the world was more natural or right for me. There was a joy, a feeling of completion, a feeling of coming home—" She shook her head. "All that, and more. I can't describe it properly."
He sat back, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his eyes. "You don't have to. This was something du Mond never felt, and I should have known then that there was something wrong with him. The true Magician, the one who is born to it, comes to his work with pleasure, and not as if it is work. I suspect this must be the case with anyone who is doing what he is truly suited to, whether he be a Magician or a singer, a poet or a priest, or even a plumber. You had that joy about you; this is what you were born to do."
So he has felt the same way! She had thought perhaps that the feeling had been chimerical—or even simply the effect of her own imagination.
"You won't always have so pure an experience," he warned. "No singer has a perfect performance every night, after all. But some of that joy will always be there for you, reminding you of the moments when it does all come together into a perfect whole." He sighed wistfully. "The only other time I have ever felt that perfection was when I was riding Sunset. Now, I dare not go near him, for fear that I'll frighten him."
She put down her cup and got to her feet, extending her hand to him. "That reminds me—I have something I would like to show you," she told him. "That is, if you think we have time for a brief stroll outside."
"Outside?" He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged, and stood up. "Well, why not? After all, there's no one here to see me, is there?"
"Precisely." She said nothing more, but simply led him down the stairs to the side door—the one leading to the stables. He followed her as far as the walk, then stopped when he realized that she was heading towards Sunset's paddock.
"We can't go there—" he protested.
She stopped, and turned around to face him. She had not put her hair up after the encounter with the Sylph, and the wind flirted with it. "I have been doing other reading," she said, "but as a horseman, you can probably confirm what I read. Just how good is a horse's eyesight?"
"Not very," he admitted. "They tend to rely as much on scent and sound as on sight. That is one reason why they are so prone to shying at things they don't expect. They can sense movement very well, but they have to stare fixedly at something they don't recognize in order to identify it."
"And are you afraid that you would frighten Sunset because of the way you look—or because your scent has changed?"