Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 377
"Hey, let me out!" he shouted.
"Quiet in there." The footsteps receded.
"I didn’t do a damn thing, you stupid bastards!" He
jumped down and gave the door a sound kick.
It felt good, and the crash was satisfactorily loud, so he
kicked again. Tamsin would have a suitable insult for an
occasion like this, he was sure. All he could think of was the
one she’d used earlier today: "Trotting swine!"
He went to kick again but the door suddenly swung wide
with a shriek of rusty hinges, and in its place was a huge
scowling man with a long stick in his hand.
Before Jordan could react the man butted him in the
stomach. Pain exploded in his belly, and he went down.
He curled up instinctively and thus avoided the worst of
the kicks that followed. Then the man spat on him and left.
"Bastards," whimpered Jordan, as he unwrapped shaking
hands from his head. "Bastards bastards bastards," all of them,
Calandria, Armiger and Axel, Suneil and the whole stinking
Boros clan. "Bastards."
--And then he was in the flow of Vision, hearing the burr
of Armiger’s voice in his own chest, and an overlay of
chorusing identities in the walls, in the sullenly firm door and
the very earth under his shoulder. It was like he’d fallen in a
snake pit, with a thousand heads rising hissing all about him.
Jordan grabbed his head and doubled up again with a cry.
He concentrated. This is my hand; he brought it up to his
eyes. This is my sight. I am here, not in the palace, not in the
walls: here.
Jordan rolled to his knees, gasping. The powers
whispered and danced around him, but he had carved out a
bubble for himself in their center. He could see and hear, and
act. With some difficulty, he got to his feet.