Page 99 of The Art of Exiley

“Um. I can do this.”

“This is what I mean about consistency. Try again.”

I do, and again, nothing happens.

Rafe is watching me critically, with a dash of loathing. “Are you even trying?”

“Of course I’m trying!”

“It doesn’t look like it. It’s like you don’t even want to conduct.” He steps closer, crowding me. “You aremadeto do this; it should be as natural as breathing. Stop holding back!”

“I’m not holding back! What reason could I possibly have for not wanting to conduct?”

“Desire is nuanced. Being a Sire comes with responsibility, and you wouldn’t be the first person in history to be overwhelmed by that. You need to face your fears, figure out what you truly want, and let down the necessary walls to get it.”

Who does he think he is? He has no idea about what I really want. I drop my hand. “What if I’m just not meant for this?” It comes out as a whisper. My eyes burn with frustrated tears. Maybe years of repressing my Ha’i has broken it.

I expect that he’ll back down, but this is Rafe, not someone who would actually be sensitive to my feelings. His voice and tone stay just as demanding. “You can’t give up. Being an unfulfilled Sire is painful. It’s why Sires have a higher rate of melancholy and self-harm. You were born to create, and if you don’t, your mind will suffer for it. A piece of you will die.”

I know what he means because I’ve felt the blackness at the edges of my worst days. That encroaching endless dark pit of mediocrity. Coming to Genesis has begun to mend that hole.

I can’t help but think about the provincial stereotype of the tortured artist, the disproportionate number of creative souls who fall to substance abuse, mental illness, and suicide. How many of them have been untrained and unfulfilled Sires? Would I have veered down that path if I hadn’t come to Genesis?

“Try again,” Rafe commands.

I take a deep breath and confront all the conflicting instructions jumbled up in my head—Master Liu’s well, Hilde’s source—the contrasting guidance yelling over each other, completely paralyzing my flow of Ha’i.

“You’re the master of your Ha’i.Demandthat it do your will,” Rafe says.

Great, another contradictory method. But I’ll try it.

In my mind I adjust my thoughts to match Rafe’s demanding tone, and I try to bully the Ha’i up from my core through to my fingers. It’s completely ineffective. I feel nothing.

So much nothing that it gives me an idea.

What is the opposite of a demand? A request? That’s more my style.

And so I ask.

I close my eyes and envision a glowing source of Ha’i at the base of my belly, and instead of pulling from it by force, I ask politely,Will you help me?

And it does.

My hand warms. I ask again, this time for a glow. A controlled ball oflights shines from my fingers. In my mind, I silently thank… myself. Then I cast my attention to the wall sconce, make another internal request, and I am elated to see the light flicker.

I try again to make glowing light flicker to life on and off in my hands. It happens seamlessly and instantly.

“You’ve had a breakthrough,” Rafe states.

“I think I have.”

Spending years holding back my Ha’i didn’t ruin it; it made it shy. I’ve been hitting a rock that needed talking to.

Giddiness rushes through me. I want to jump up. I want to hug Rafe. But I stay where I am and content myself with only a wide grin.

“Good,” Rafe says. “Let’s harmonize so I can feel it.” He steps closer, makes shiin with his left hand, and lines it up next to mine. A harmony is the practice of two Sires connecting their shiin at the pointer and thumb into a triangle to combine the power of their Ha’i. The energy between mine and Rafe’s hands is charged with… something.

“I can feel you conducting. Now see if you can control the direction of the energy.” His hand—so much larger than my own—emits sparks. They curl around my wrist and form a bracelet—or a shackle. The sparks fizzle out as they hit my skin.

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