Lessons set in stone

Lithos looked at the discolored spot on the stone and smiled. "Bear witness!" he cried in Elvish. "I do practice!"

Master Flyleaf sat cross-legged on the empty air, floating effortlessly. He was just high enough up that Lithos could have walked under him. He was tall, lean, and elvish, with golden hair and milky skin; his pet owl, Nightwing, perched effortlessly on the leather pad that covered his left shoulder, while his actual familiar -- a bat named Doombringer -- was nestled into a pouch on his front. A pair of stones circled through the air around his head: Ioun stones, he'd called them, and so far he'd stubbornly refused to let his pupil borrow them. "So I see," he said, answering in the same language. "Your technique still needs work, but you're coming along nicely and you don't have any difficulty tapping into the world-blood."

"I will never be a paragon of strength," Lithos said, "so I'd better learn to do something well." He focused on the spot on the wall, stepped sideways to change the angle he regarded it from, and cast the cantrip again. A ball of acid hurtled towards it and splashed across the mark. 

"The ability to learn," said Master Flyleaf, "is a strength, and not just with magic. Very well, you can reliably conjure a bit of acid and fling it at a target. Do you think you could do the same against an opponent in combat?"

Lithos considered that. Learning from an elven wizard had been deeply weird after the stiff formality of the dwarven educational system; Master Flyleaf's methods were profoundly unconventional by comparison. 

So far, that had not been a problem. As far as Lithos was concerned, he could only dream of becoming as amazing as his master. Only when I'm a big, powerful wizard, I will have a lot more sparkly stones to float around me. He dragged his attention back. "Not yet," he said. "It's harder when they're moving." 

Fortunately, his master didn't ask him how he'd discovered this. It was far better, really, if none of the adults knew just exactly how far the rivalry with Delver Deepriver and his friends -- who were currently calling themselves the Deepreavers -- had gone sometimes. To the left, it was all just insults and pranks; nobody was out for blood. But to the right, one of those pranks had involved having Master Goodearth's prized pet duck erupt out of Delver's bag and wreak havoc in the classroom, and since Delver had been blamed for it he was not about to admit that he and James -- Iamus -- had been primarily responsible for the incident.

"Thus do we come to the topic of moving targets," announced Master Flyleaf. He drifted down almost to the stone floor of the cavern, then scooped up a handful of pebbles. "I am going to toss these at that spot on the wall. I want you blast them out of the air before they get there."

"Erm," said Lithos. He knew how this was going to go: he was going to be bad at it, and he was going to hate that. His master wouldn't criticize him; he'd just insist that Lithos keep trying until he could do it, then keep practicing until it came naturally. 

And eventually it would. Master Flyleaf had adventured alongside his parents, and Lithos knew full well that the slender elf was not a great deal stronger or tougher than himself. If Master Flyleaf could fight alongside Marduk and Tara Foundingstone using his magic, then Lithos could do the same with his siblings. 

But first he had to be good enough to hit a moving target with a splash of acid. 

Master Flyleaf was patient. He waited until Lithos nodded sharply and said firmly, "I will learn this, too."

Then he tossed the first pebble.