Chapter Fourteen
Isla followed Juliette along the cobbled path behind the main university buildings, the words from the textbook she had read in the staff room during her lunch break running through her mind.
Terra Wielder: Can manipulate what they see including soil, stone, earth, and plants.
Terra Summoner: Can wield what they see as well as summon and enhance what exists in the world including plants, roots, trees, terrain, minerals, and crystals. Can influence growth and decay.
Philosophical abilities include bestowing healing or inflicting sickness. Balancing energy—life cycles and vitality. Embodies the cycle of life, nature and health.
Fated. All of the above, though able to manage greater feats.
She had approached studying the textbook like cramming for an exam, as though she could memorize her way to mastery.
Yet the weight of her upcoming hands-on lessons still pressed on her: the text was theory, but the clay—the living, pliant earth—she was sure would not be fooled.
She hadn’t had any more incidents since she turned her bedroom into a jungle, and she had been too afraid to try to wield or summon anything in case she lost control; instead, she was attempting to memorize the pages word for word.
Juliette hummed an off-key tune, walking just ahead of her, then turned and interrupted Isla’s text-chanting memorization mantra.
“Honestly, Isla, I can’t get enough of Jane Austen at the moment. I mean, I’ve read all her works before, but there’s something terribly amusing about the way Mr. Darcy refuses to say what he means. Reminds me a bit of Edmund, don’t you think?”
Isla gave a small laugh at her friend’s earnest look.
Clearly she had given comparing Mr. Darcy to Edmund a lot of thought.
“I can kind of see your point; he does seem the quiet, hold-your-cards-close-to-your-chest type. Though when he does speak, it’s to the point, and he seems to say exactly what he means. ”
“But he holds things back; I just know it. He’s a puzzle I intend to figure out.
” Juliette stopped outside an old door. The studio was tucked away in a converted carriage house.
Following Juliette inside, Isla breathed in the smell of wet clay filling the air.
Shelves lined the walls, stacked with bisque pottery ready for glazing, jars of pigments, and assorted tools.
Long worktables bore the scars of students—small gouges and streaks of dried clay that gave the room character.
A kiln hissed softly in the corner, the promise of transformation hidden in its heat.
Andrew, Edmund, and another man looked up as the two women entered, their conversation pausing.
“Good evening, ladies,” Andrew said, a warm smile spreading across his face.
Juliette practically bounced into the room, her excitement palpable. Isla followed.
Edmund moved away to examine a finished piece of pottery with the critical eye of a soldier inspecting his gear, though Isla wondered if he was avoiding engaging Juliette in a conversation.
“Isla, Juliette, this here is George,” Andrew said. “He’s a friend of mine. I met him last year when the garden fountain was playing up.”
George limped forward, favoring his right leg. His smile was boyish and open. There was something easy about him, a quiet warmth. He lifted his hand to shake both Juliette’s and Isla’s hands in greeting.
“It’s nice to meet you, Juliette, Professor Cole.”
“Just Isla, please. You aren’t in any of my classes—besides, today it seems I’m the student, not you.”
He grinned. “Okay, Isla, let’s get started and see if you can start wielding some clay.”
“I’m worried I’m going to make a dog’s dinner out of all of this,” Isla mumbled.
“Nonsense,” George laughed. “From what Andrew tells me, you’re the brightest woman he knows; you’ll soon be among the best of us. Since you’re a botanist, you already have an affinity to the earth. Now you just need to connect to it on a deeper level.”
George clapped his hands lightly. “First things first,” he said to the four of them. “Roll up your sleeves, and aprons on. Clay is rather messy.”
He handed each of them a neatly folded canvas apron. “There. Now, each of you will have your own wheel. I’ll be at mine too, keeping an eye on you and offering tips as we go.”
He stepped back to let them settle, gesturing to the wheels. Isla’s stomach was full of nerves as she watched and listened to his demonstration on how to get started. Pottery was hard enough to do by the look of it, without the addition of wielding.
Isla rolled her shoulders and lowered her hands to the cool, damp clay before her. She attempted to guide it, willing it to rise beneath her fingers—and promptly ended with a lopsided mound that collapsed almost immediately.
“Find your rhythm, get comfortable with the feel of the clay in your hands. Warm it a bit—let it respond to your touch. Remember, don’t force it; coax it gently. Patience and steadiness will win the day.”
Isla felt the pressure of everyone in the room watching her, waiting for her to get it. They all knew she was the one who had to perform, to get this right if she were to have any hope of succeeding as a Wielder.
Andrew’s voice rang out, laced with humor. “Steady on, Edmund, old chap. If you handle that lump like it’s a captured enemy saboteur, it’s liable to revolt.”
Edmund shot him a half smile, not loosening his grip.
“And mind you,” Andrew continued, “if you think this wheel will obey orders like a platoon, you’re in for a surprise.”
Edmund actually laughed at that, a deep sound that filled the room. Isla was grateful that the attention had been taken off her.
As the group focused more on their own projects, George left his wheel to walk around, offering guidance. He stopped last beside her wheel. “Wielding is the same as molding clay. It’s all about connection, not perfection. Think of it as guiding a living thing.”
Isla tried to listen, though she had never been much good at artistic things—that was Juliette’s area of expertise.
“Okay, I’m going to talk you through the steps of wielding as you work. When you feel ready, lift your hands away from the clay, but keep them close—only a few centimeters—and try to wield the clay without physical touch.
“Aetheric Arts aren’t ‘cast’ like spells; they’re a discipline of resonance. Every Aetherian must learn to align three systems within themselves before the Aether responds.
“First, the body—it is a physical conductor. It needs grounding, steady breath, and stamina. As you work, feel the clay beneath your fingers, and steady your breathing. Aetherians need practice and must build up strength to cope with the demands placed on the body.”
Isla tried to focus on the feel of the clay as it turned against her hands. She concentrated as it stubbornly resisted her touch, and she imagined it was secretly laughing at her ineptitude.
“Secondly, the mind,” George continued, unaware of her inner turmoil. “You need focus and intent; precision of thought shapes the energy’s direction.”
Maybe this I can manage, she reflected. Her mind had always been her strength.
“And finally, the heart, your emotional resonance. Feelings are the frequency that opens the channel for Aetherians to use their gifts.” Ah, this is the tricky bit, she thought. She would have to work on it, somehow, without letting her nerves get the better of her.
“As you shape it with your hands, feel it. Listen. Once you’re familiar, let your mind guide the energy. Imagine what you want the clay to do first. When you’re ready, let go and see if you can guide it without hands.”
She focused for a few moments, his words and instructions running through her logical mind.
“Try a gentle lift now,” George instructed. “Just guide it; don’t command it. I’ll be right here.”
She looked up and briefly caught Andrew’s eye across the studio.
His nod was small but reassuring. Well, if this goes wrong, he gets a front-row view, she thought, her stomach twisting in anticipation, though his soft smile had admittedly given her the courage to let go. Body, mind, heart. She could do this.
She could not do this.
The clay leapt from the wheel like it had a vendetta.
The lopsided cylinder wobbled violently before collapsing into a shapeless, squelchy mound.
Clumps of clay flung themselves across the table, smearing against her apron and splattering onto her cheek as well as covering George.
Somewhere behind her, a faint squelch indicated that it had even tried to escape the confines of the building entirely.
George raised his hands and the clay soon stopped its frantic bid for freedom.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Isla muttered under her breath, wiping her cheek with a clay-streaked sleeve. She winced inwardly. Definitely not controlled. Definitely not Terra Summoner abilities.
George moved closer, his raised hand still controlling the wayward clay without even touching it, his voice calm and gentle. “It’s all right. This was only your first attempt.”
He placed his palms above the runaway mound. Slowly, obediently, the clay responded, flattening itself and returning to the center of the wheel as if nothing had happened, George’s steady presence coaxing it into cooperation.
“Let’s try again. I’m sure you’ll get it soon.”
She didn’t. Isla tried again—and again—to coax the clay into some semblance of cooperation, but it remained obstinately unmoved by her pleas.
At times she felt something, and her palm glowed a faint green .
.. but then fatigue washed over her mind and body.
By the time she stopped, her hair, blouse, and half her dignity were liberally caked in the stuff.
George smiled. Bless the man, he had been so encouraging and patient. “Well,” he said diplomatically, handing her a rag, “the clay certainly responded to you. I’m sure you will get there soon.”
Juliette was less restrained, laughter bubbling out of her. “Responded? It looks like it declared war.”