Mykal wore the green cloak Blodwyn had given him. It was long, heavy, and protected him from, among other things, the wintery weather—among other things. The falling snow seemed like a perfect reason to skip the day’s lessons, but Blodwyn wasn’t having it. The morning sun did its best, but most of the rays, and all of the heat, were absorbed by flat grey clouds. His hot breath plumed in front of his face, but did nothing for the frozen hairs inside his nostrils.
Blodwyn stood with his left leg forward, right back, and knees slightly bent. He held his staff balanced out in front of him in the palm of one hand, and the back side of the other. He started slowly, twirling the staff around and around until the staff spun so fast the wind whistled. Mykal could barely see the staff at all. As if
