Page 129 of The Tribes of Magic
Beside me, one easel over to my left, Bronte had a notepad out. She was jotting down every word Nala spoke and somehow had time to color code it too. Bronte took the concept of note-taking to a whole new level.
“This morning, I want you to focus on the concept oflife,” Nala instructed us. “Life is the safest, simplest branch of sorcery. Dive deep into your artistic soul and see what it inspires you to paint. The runes are all there, inside of you. When you think oflife, what is the first image that comes to mind? Concentrate on the concept oflifeand let your creativity flow.”
Bronte nodded along like she knew exactly what Nala was talking about. I glanced to the right—at Dutch—and he shrugged, looking every bit as confused as I was. I closed my eyes and tried to picture a life rune, but all I saw was darkness. I finally opened them again when I heard the clinking of paintbrushes against glasses. All of the other Apprentices in the room were already busy at work on their paintings. Had they found their inspiration? Or were they just doingsomething?
I didn’t want to just do something. I wanted to do something right. I looked around the room, searching for inspiration. There wasn’t much to see. The most interesting thing I saw was a pot of dead flowers on the windowsill, but that wasn’t very helpful. I needed something that represented life, not death.
Nala was watching me with her piercing gold eyes. “Is there a problem, Savannah Winters?”
“No. No problem. I just need some more paint colors.”
As though different paint colors would solve my problem.
“Try the bottom shelf in the supply closet. There are more colors there.”
Nala didn’t look convinced that another color of paint would fix what was ailing me.
I moved quickly toward the supply closet. Too quickly. I tripped and bumped into one of the Apprentices. It was Elliot Sharp.
“Watch it, clumsy girl.” He glared at me.
I didn’t blame him. When I’d bumped into him, I’d made his hand slip on the canvas. His rune was smeared.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’ll get you a new canvas.”
“I don’t want your help,” he shot back. “You’ll only make things worse. You only ever make a mess of everything, Savannah Winters.”
Elliot looked pretty angry, so I decided to give him some space. I backed away—and tripped again.
A few of the Apprentices laughed at me. Bronte merely sighed.
Well, at least I hadn’t bumped into anyone that time. I continued on my way, concentrating on not tripping over anything else.
I coughed when I stepped into the supply closet. It smelled like paint, harsh cleaning chemicals, and soap overly scented with fake lemon. Holding my breath, I checked the bottom shelf and found many exotic colors there. Too many. And they were all so beautiful. How could I possibly choose?
But I had to. So I picked a tube of paint made from some long, magical-sounding name that I couldn’t even begin to pronounce. Then I grabbed some ‘intense indigo’ and something called ‘sanguine red’. That sounded good.
I carried the paint tubes back to my easel, careful not to trip or drop paint on anyone. These exotic colors looked like they’d leave a bad stain. And unlike me, no one else was wearing a smock. I guess smocks were only for clumsy people.
On the way back to my canvas, I noticed how much progress everyone had made on their paintings. One Apprentice wasalmost done painting an exotic flower. Another was putting the finishing touches on an ultra-realistic rabbit.
Whereas all I’d done so far was trip and ruin an Apprentice’s painting.
I grabbed my paint brush and my new colors and started painting. Stroke by stroke, my art began to take shape. Honestly, I had no idea what I was doing. I was painting on instinct. Time had no meaning. My whole world was just the canvas, just the painting. It reminded me of the day Kato had given me a special magic suit to wear, and the two of us went on a tour of nature. I felt in touch with my magic on a deep and personal level.
“Nala! Savannah’s painting is glowing!”
The Apprentice’s shout brought me out of the magical trance.
Nala had been looking at Bronte’s canvas, but she glided over to me now. “Where did you learn this rune?” she said in a quiet, shocked whisper.
“I don’t know actually,” I replied. “It just kind of came to me.”
“This is dark magic,” she hissed. “Very dark magic.”
A cold whisper of movement cut across the room. A ghostly figure—cloaked, wrinkled, and floating—appeared behind the desk. It gave me a big wink from its shriveled eyelid, then lifted its hands. Papers swirled into the air. All the paintings fell over. Paint tubes exploded.
The Apprentices, now completely covered in many colors of paint, screamed and ran for the door.
