“Concentrate, Kamiéra,” Magistra Gélina whispered, and so of course he did. “Do you feel the Wind?”
He nodded, because he felt the Wind quite well. And the wind. Because he was wearing “armor” out of a Boris Vallejo painting, balanced on the ball of one foot, the other in the air, both hands extended and touching above his head. The wind gently caressed his flesh as the Wind raced across his soul. “Yes, Magistra,” he replied.
The old woman, the eldest at the Academy, hobbled around him. She tapped at his balancing leg with her cane, keeping time with the lilt of her Westhian lilting accent. “You are the most talented Gifted we have seen in generations, but you have refused to master your Gift unless in full novice robes. Stupid! Do not be stupid! Think! Do you think you will always have your robes about you when you wish to gather your Will?”
In fact, he basically thought exactly that, because wizards wear robes, duh.
“Stop thinking that!”
Why would he think he needed his robes to use his Gift?
“You are in war-dress because you will have to use your Gift in battle! Against and alongside men! You are not and will never be as strong or as fast or as quick as a man, so you must use every other advantage the Mother gave you!”
These were all obvious and excellent points. Why hadn’t he put those well-known truths together before?
“Stand here until you can wrap the Wind around you as tightly as a skin of steel but as flexibly for you as if it is silk!”
Less than five seconds later, the older woman clapped him on the shoulder with a beaming smile; a gentle ringing sounded out from the Wind-cased leather, and they proceeded to the next lesson, both much happier.
