I slip, feet first, into the dark waters under the bright sun of consciousness. Here, near the surface, where the rays still illuminate the water, some flip their illuminated selves, flip and flutter so that they descend ever-faster into the calm depths.

But it's Shira I really need to talk to you about. I'm sure you've heard something of her.

But if I hold still, stretch myself out and forget that movement exists, I sink fast.

Her instructors recognized her promise during her first lesson. On only her second try, she found her trance, and stayed there for a whole five minutes. Many of our students never find their perfect trance, you know.

I forget the world under the sun. Under water, where only one force can reach me, I sink quickly.

Promising though she has been, there is this one problem. She effortlessly mastered the creation of her trance, but she has not discovered any meaningful abilities through it. Her instructors have puzzled over this endlessly.

I reach that place, the place where gravity holds me, that center, that place I cannot pass.

Yet it appears to be without external cause. Shira has shown no signs of fatal ambition or anything that might keep her from reaching her potential. Her motives appear true. She has observed the austere student life without infringing on so much as the slightest precedental ruling.

The ultimate center feels more fragile than it ever has. I feel as if a tremor in my hands, a fluttering eyelash, a breath, could shatter it. Though it cannot be broken from the inside- only left.

Her attitude is fine.

Slowly, reluctantly, I open my eyes.

It seems that she lacks that which I will for the sake of argument call "divine inspiration."

The world is underscored with liquid power. My heart barely maintains its sedated slumber. It wants to beat fast.

That is what the students are calling it now, at any rate. There have always been silly names for it. But you know what I mean. The urge to meditate that leads to the discovery of ability. I could recount a hundred examples.

My fists want to clench, but I do not let them. All I let my hands do is rise. With a thought, they float effortlessly.

One student had the sudden urge to meditate after he had made camp in the West Forest one evening. In his trance, he discovered that he could control the movements of the campfire, and all open flames. Another student broke novice laws in order to meditate around the other non-mages, his inspiration was so strong, and he discovered his mind-reading abilities.

Even the air is saturated with something that makes me want to catch my steady breathing. It is dense as water in early spring.

Abilities have never been distributed fairly or evenly. Some mages possess many. Others never find theirs.

I give my eyes a moment to blink.

And yet, everyone is loath to give up hope on Shira, because of an event that hints at tremendous promise.

Then I pull my hands together and down. Smoothly, so as not to make ripples in the air, the magic of which lends a grace near-heavenly. I wonder as I see my movements. And then my blood would quicken, if it could, because for the infinith time, I can see my hands glowing.

It is really quite unusual for a trance to cause selfluminescence. There have been occasional cases in which lights have been created in meditation, but only two mages in recorded history have been able to cast light from their own persons.

Moments pass, and I shift my focus. My hands floating, shedding pure white light. Up my arms, across my scalp, down my hair, around my throat, down my back, through to the tips of my toes. My inside, warm, and my outside, throwing light. Then through the air around me. I feel the world with dreamlike intensity. I understand the stones of the floor, feel every roughness, feel the exact width of every crack I sit on. Every draft is alive with feeling, cold and fresh and wonderful. Sounds- dripping water, bare footsteps, wind across shutters, a door closing three stone corridors away- are like something I can hold on to, study, put away only when I finish. If only I could live in this intensity!

The other two, Hesuit of Tamarlon and Rist of Slolom, had great powers. Each had a profound effect on his time. Everyone had high expectations, and we pushed her hard.

But I cannot. I close my eyes and lift my head up toward the sun. I break the surface and take fast, deep breaths of the thin, hot air. And I open my eyes and the world is under dense layers I cannot feel through. I look at my hands and wonder how the stubby-nailed things are capable of grace. I feel a dank draft and wonder how it can ever feel good. And I do not let dissappointment exist.

And yet, we have found the glow to be nothing but light. Shira can do nothing exceptional. I shrug as I say this but you understand the significance. Her room and board cost no mere day's wage, and there are hundreds who would take her place. We have given her everything a mage in training deserves, but promise is waning.