The problem wasn’t that combat training was too difficult. It was plenty difficult. The problem was that the other kalashtar caught on faster than Cyrus could, or at least it appeared that way. Going into training, Cyrus thought working on the farm his whole life would have prepared him better for the long, grueling days of sparring with his comrades. He had the frame of a fighter, but none of the coordination. As his father puts it, stamina can only get you so far. As if reading Cyrus’ mind, which was highly likely, his father slaps the flat of his sword against Cyrus’ shin and a wave of force sweeps him off his feet. In what feels like half a second, Cyrus is on his back and gasping for breath.
“Again,” Tarkosh demanded in his head. “You’re a big target. You need to keep your feet moving.”
Cyrus stared up at the purple afternoon sky, the barely stifled laughs of the other trainees carried on the soft breeze he desperately gulped down. His body ached. His mind ached. At some point this had to get easier. Right?
Tarkosh reached down to help Cyrus up, his gaunt face as unreadable as ever. His surface thoughts were much the same. As soon as Cyrus regained his footing, his father launched an attack. Parry. Sidestep and duck. Lunge. Swing. Miss. Sword to the back. Pain. Parry. Strike. Miss. Trip. Pain. Ground. Sky.
“Again.”
Telekinetic training was marginally easier. Connect with your allies, relay battlefield info, move on. Always be aware of the others on the peripherals of your mind. Incoming arrow? Project a shield to deflect the attack, keep moving. Telekinesis had a rhythm to it that just made sense to him, almost as natural as breathing. It was fluid and intuitive, but it was here that Cyrus struggled with stamina. He was quick to react, and his abilities packed a hefty punch to rival his physical stature, but the others were years ahead of him.
He wasn’t like them, or at least not really. He didn’t grow up moving objects with his mind, or communicating purely through the Web. Hells, he didn’t even know that was even a possibility until the Dark tried to burn his house to the ground a week ago.
What he wouldn’t do to be down by the river with Tristan again, soaking up the last bits of summer before the leaves changed. But here he was, with a father he hadn’t even known was alive, in the realm of dreams, with people just like Cyrus that telepathically told him to fuck off on a regular basis.
Maybe mother was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t that special after all.
“You’re losing focus, Cyrus,” Tarkosh says, pulling him back to the moment. “Don’t think too hard. Anticipate. React. Find the thread and follow it.”
His father waited quietly as Cyrus pulled himself back on his feet. “Right,” Cyrus said, “follow the thread.”
“Again.”