He knew he wasn’t that powerful. He knew it the way he knew he had brown eyes, and would never be tall, and had a freckle on his left ankle. Whatever he had was diluted, worn down, a trace of recognition. Generations back. Mostly human.
But it was still a trace; and the more he listened to it, the more he opened up and invited it—not trying to shut it off or hide it away, not trying to command it—the easier it felt. Like his own heartbeat. Like a tale he might’ve known from childhood, familiar.
Maggie, he thought, might have been right. About him. And power.
He could feel Jer’s fire, competently made and burning. In the deep woven hymn of light, he knew it: the shape and substance of it. He also knew the water, cool as rain in the copper of the tub. He said silently, or did not say, or
