L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 93
🕑 Added 2025-10-21 22:46:05 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 93 – The Unknown, and the Unfamiliar
Never before had the apprentices seen their master so elated as he was in his garden after Iolas cast his first spell. Almon laughed for joy, forwent bowing to instead applaud his student with great enthusiasm, delighted beyond measure at the feat he had just witnessed.
“Excellent! No — magnificent!” His grin showed not the slightest care for the dignity with which a wizard ought comport himself. “Utterly superb!”
Catching her breath, Saphienne couldn’t restrain the giggle in her voice as she called out to him. “Well done!”
“Extremely well done!” agreed Almon, forgetting his disapproval of her as he strode across the gravel. “Yours is the fastest proving of any I have ever taught, my boy.”
Embarrassed by the effusive praise, Iolas did his best to appear unmoved, undermined by his blushing ears and the tremble that ran through him. “Thank you…”
Celaena caught up with the others, more composed as she bowed. “Congratulations on your success.”
The wizard went so far as to clap him on his shoulder. “Indeed! Yours is a noteworthy attainment, one in which you should take immense pride.” He laughed again as he glanced over at the plant shell Hyacinth occupied, in disbelief at the scene. “I presume that a single casting is your limit? Ordinarily there would be no question, but I find myself in uncharted waters.”
Nodding, Iolas absently accepted the hug Saphienne gave him. “Yes — I don’t have the sigil any more. Was I supposed to–”
“Not at all.” Almon withdrew a step and clasped the lapels of his robes. “Though spells below the First Degree are simple, holding a sigil long enough to complete its casting is accomplishment enough. Going forward, you will practice what you have done until you can accommodate another and retain it throughout the day.”
“So…” Iolas was struggling in the moment. “…I’m a proven apprentice?”
“Tremendously so.”
All his performative confidence gone, Iolas shook himself. “…Fuck.”
Hyacinth rattled as she joined in with their laughter.
* * *
Inevitably, Almon reminded himself that he was resentful of Saphienne and Celaena, banishing them back to the parlour with instructions to read a particular book while he went over what would follow for Iolas.
Saphienne folded her arms. “But what was the spell he cast?”
“You needn’t concern yourself with–”
Iolas interrupted. “Master — may I share, please?”
Performative disapproval warred with good cheer; the wizard pretended more reluctance than he felt as he gave permission. “For the sake of celebrating your achievement…”
His newly proven apprentice bowed, then smiled at Saphienne. “The spell is an invocation that captures and magnifies the magic of sunlight, presenting it for woodland spirits to consume.” Iolas gestured to where Hyacinth was attentively watching. “She was energised enough to grow her plants however she chose: this body was her way of showing me that I’d succeeded.”
“Then,” Saphienne wondered, “it’s a lesser version of the circle that our master cast when she was invoked to teach us?”
“I… imagine so?” He looked to Almon for confirmation.
The wizard glared at Saphienne, but spoke to Iolas. “That is correct. Your spell was the Least Gift of Sunlight. The spell cast during your introduction to Invocation was the Shared Gift of Sunlight, a spell of the Second Degree, which provides a more substantial benefit to any spirits who enter into the circle.”
She noted the names, sure that she would have recourse to use them herself one day. “Does it function during the night?” Like her master, she also addressed Iolas. “Your shadow impeded it until you backed away.”
His smile became a excited grin. “I don’t know! I’ll have to experiment after dark.”
Almon waved the girls off. “Enough chatter. Attend to your studies, and anticipate being thoroughly tested on the chapters I have set.”
Sensing it would be unwise to push further, Saphienne bowed, joined by Celaena, then retreated with her from the garden.
* * *
As they entered the classroom, Saphienne was worried. “Are you feeling well?” she asked Celaena. “You didn’t say very much to Iolas.”
Her friend sighed and sank down on the floor. “You do know what this means?”
“We have fifty-six days to prove ourselves,” Saphienne replied as she went over to the bookcases. “There won’t be any possibility of an extension.”
“…Yes, that too.” Celaena was glum. “But I was thinking of how, as far as our master is concerned, I’m going to be the last one to cast my spell. Even if I manage before you, he’ll fail you if you’re last…”
That Celaena remembered the promise she had made to Saphienne touched her. “I wasn’t focused on the consequences for you… thank you, for holding back.”
“You’ll probably be quicker.” She smirked sadly. “You and Iolas are much smarter than I am… though, I’ll still try my best to get there ahead of you.”
Unsure of how to respond, Saphienne busied herself with browsing the shelves, searching for the text they were to study. Her eyes caught on the thick slab of ‘Meditations on the Aether,’ and she was tempted to sneak a glimpse at its contents… but the last thing either of them needed was to be discovered misbehaving.
“Here we are,” she announced, lifting down a much lighter volume. “‘Identifying Languages Ancient and Contemporary: A Primer on Glyphs.’ Do you think this is the transparent busywork it feels like?”
“Maybe.” Celaena shuffled closer as Saphienne sat beside her. “Then again, I suppose it could be useful to be able to identify languages we don’t speak.”
“I’d rather learn them than how to recognise them.” Nevertheless, Saphienne shrugged and turned to the first chapter, absorbing the opening page before flicking–
“Saphienne?”
…Celaena wasn’t anywhere near as swift a reader. “Sorry; you take it.” She tried not to feel frustrated with her glacial pace.
* * *
Intending to stave off boredom, Saphienne fetched a writing board and began making notes on the languages as they went, not noticing until she was halfway through her first summary that she’d made Celaena self-conscious. She gingerly set her pen down–
“…Just keep writing…”
Well, the damage had been done.
She knew the alphabets for many of the human languages, being as they contributed to the common trade tongue, but it was still interesting to recognise the differences between Aiglantois, Hareñol, and the stranger symbols from lands far beyond. Dwarfish she was very familiar with, but dutifully recorded for Celaena–
She blinked as the page turned. “Magical script?”
Celaena was confused. “What? This doesn’t remotely look like magical script.”
Saphienne was busy reading, marvelling at the curved, slash-like, yet flowing strokes in which the incomprehensible words were written. The legend at the bottom captured her attention — and her imagination. “…The tongue of dragons. I’d heard that dragons taught magic to the first elven wizards…”
Sceptical, Celaena squinted. “…Maybe. Seems like a stretch to me.”
But Saphienne had spied the half-formed symmetries, which presented themselves most obviously, for all they were unknown.
* * *
That night, after returning from celebrating with Iolas and his family, Saphienne shut herself away in Celaena’s study and once more attempted to memorise the sigil in blue ink. She stared long into its fathomless depths, knowing and feeling the layers that made the transcendental truth apprehensible, regarding it with the same conviction as had Nelathiel when the priest had gazed upon the sacred icon. The magic was immanent, occupying all levels at once, in the world and yet not of the world…
…And yet, and yet! For all that it writhed to escape the scroll, the hallucination was unable to leap into her yearning mind. She gathered all the parts of it into herself, yet the stacked tinder could not catch the vital spark, and what should have burned steady and clear instead blew out the instant she closed her eyes.
Over, and over again she tried. Her concentration was so absolute that, by the end, she emerged from her reverie to realise she was dehydrated and had a pounding headache, the pot of tea beside her long gone cold.
She drank from the spout as she stood by the window; she let the unseen wardens judge her however they wished.
To persist with the same when the result was constant would be folly. What was she missing? What hadn’t she considered, that was so obvious to Iolas? How would he approach the problem?
She paced back and forth as she finished the pot, then went over what she knew about how he saw the world. To Iolas, life was not a solitary endeavour, and he naturally let what he felt be coloured by the company he kept…
…Was it that simple? Was she too inflexible? Did she need to see the world, not as Iolas did, but through the cerulean hue of the spell?
One more time, she leant over the table, her long hair tumbled loose to curtain off the sigil from all distractions. Saphienne made herself believe in the songs she might sing through its magic, willed herself to be the music that the Hallucination spell would loose, suspending all judgement and doubt. “…Become melody…”
There, at last, what had seemed frantic became calm upon the page, satisfied that it beheld itself in her wide and receptive pupils. Inside, Saphienne discerned the sigil coalescing, welcomed as a guest–
And then, disintegrated.
She flinched, unsure what had happened. The resonance before her was once again demanding entry, but what had become of its mirror? She’d held it — and she’d been focused on it absolutely.
Only for it to shatter, ejected from her memory with prejudice.
She slid down to the floor – uncaring that her chair waited nearby – and clutched her face in the inexpressible grief of disillusionment. Just when it had seemed tangible–
Her left hand spasmed.
“Not now!”
Saphienne slammed her clenching palm on the floor — where it absurdly obeyed, falling limp and tingling by her side.
She snorted. Then, she laughed at herself, cradling the palm that faintly stung where it was reddened, raising her head to the shelves across from her. If only those books contained the answers she needed… but they were not tomes of mystical insight, and their academic yet mundane contents were scarcely worth rereading. She suspected Celaena had studied them all exactly once, for her friend never referenced them.
What a pitiful display! Both the unloved library, and the frustrated girl groaning in self-awareness as she returned to her feet.
She redoubled her efforts, to no avail.
* * *
What point was there in having a tutor if she couldn’t turn to her when she struggled with the Great Art? Although Saphienne knew Taerelle was unlikely to give her an advantage in her proving, having someone she could complain to who would listen and then tell her to stop being self-pitying was helpful.
When she knocked on the now less menacing grey door, however, she found that Taerelle was not home alone.
“Speak the spirit’s name! Come in, prodigy. We were just talking about you.”
Saphienne hovered in the entrance as she scrutinised the man she didn’t know, observing that he was dressed in black robes like Taerelle, yet with minor alterations — the sleeves of his outer robes held to his wrists with dark, near-black crimson silk. His hair was short for an elf, coming to his shoulders, and he wore it in a functional half-tail that was braided without care for appearance, ostensibly to keep the strands behind his ears.
Where he studied her, the apprentice she intuited to be Arelyn did so with a gaze of evening blue. “Good to meet you, Saphienne. I’ve heard you’re a character.”
Remembering herself, she didn’t immediately join them. “I’m sorry for dropping in on you so unexpectedly, Taerelle, I can return another–”
“He knows.” Taerelle descended into her armchair, at ease. “Shut the door.”
Her body moved of its own accord as her thoughts raced, closing the entrance as she moved toward the couch. “…You told him?”
“Taerelle wanted my advice.” His thin smile was less from aloofness than from mild entertainment. “And to forewarn me about our futures. When she shared that I would be accepted by the Vale, I stopped being a perfectionist about my thesis.”
She was probably safe; Arelyn had as much to lose from exposing her as–
“Prodigy…” Taerelle knew her mind. “Sit down. Arelyn is a friend, and one day the three of us are going to share the dubious honour of all being wizards of the Luminary Vale who were first taught by Master Almon. Do you trust my judgement, or not?”
She should: Kylantha had. Saphienne sat on the couch, leaving space between herself and Arelyn. “…How much did she share?”
“Nothing too personal,” he answered, propping an arm along the back of the couch as he stretched out his legs. “I’m aware of the particulars of your activities, and Celaena’s, and the consequences that have proceeded from them.” He offered her a slightly superior, yet warm smile. “She’s also told me about the kind of person you are: what you’re afraid of becoming, and who you’re trying to be. Your natural competencies are intriguing.”
Reflexively, she crossed her arms. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
Both of the senior apprentices laughed.
Arelyn tilted his head. “Ask you a candid question?”
“You may.”
“What do you think of Almon’s instructional methods?”
The man beside her had ambitions of being a teacher, she recalled. “…I think–”
Taerelle interjected. “Be honest.”
Was she so readable? Or was it just that Taerelle assumed she would fall back into the habits she wanted to break? “…I don’t know.” She exhaled as she settled back on the cushions. “He seems to have some talent, or the Luminary Vale wouldn’t have appointed him. Iolas proved himself yesterday–”
“Already?” Taerelle’s eyebrows couldn’t be higher.
“Our master was overjoyed.” As had Saphienne been, before she’d attempted to match him. “Therefore I’m not prepared to say that his teaching methods are without merit… and anyway, I find it hard to distinguish how I feel from what I objectively think of them.”
Arelyn accepted her appraisal thoughtfully. “He follows a very classical, combative style of pedagogy. Not that it’s all for the sake of teaching — he’s inclined to it by his pugnacious personality.”
“His teacher was the same, wasn’t he?”
“Keenly perceived.” Arelyn’s smile was impressed. “Yes: Almon was challenged throughout his studies. His master believed he wasn’t suited to the Great Art, because his master had no affinity for Hallucination, nor patience for the whimsy it requires.”
She’d suspected so since their lesson on Divination. “Even before… everything that happened… he never liked me much.”
“I imagine you scare him.” His own comment made him frown. “Not in the sense of being afraid of you, but rather that he is inadequate to teach you. Added to that, he’s playing out the same pattern that was visited on him in his apprenticeship, and the two of you apparently have enough similarities to repel each other.”
Why was Arelyn sharing? “What do you think of his teaching method?”
“It’s awful.” His grin was for Taerelle. “Our beautiful and learned host might get along well with antagonism, but I believe the best way to learn is with unambiguous faith from one’s instructor. Quite the minority view, so I’m told.”
“…That’s why you want to teach?”
“Be the change?” He shrugged. “Teaching isn’t what I want to do forever, but the best way to learn what you have is to teach it to someone else. If I can shift some attitudes along the way, I’ll be satisfied.”
Taerelle stirred. “Arelyn doesn’t see teaching as a sacred duty. He’s not as committed as our master.”
Her guest didn’t object to her characterisation of him.
“Why did you stop by today, prodigy?”
Anticipating that she would be laughed at again, Saphienne pushed aside her reluctance to share. “I’m having trouble committing my sigil to memory, and I wanted to moan about it.”
Taerelle did laugh — but Arelyn leant forward, engaged. “Proving is quite testing, but every wizard is tested in different ways. What’s giving you difficulty?”
Saphienne hesitated. “…Are you allowed to help me?”
“I won’t confirm or imply anything about what you should be doing.” He brushed her apprehension aside. “There are other ways to aid you than to provide solutions, and Taerelle can offer emotional encouragement.”
The woman across from him chuckled. “He means listen to you whine and then tell you to get back to it.”
“An important step.”
There was no harm in trying.
* * *
A quarter of an hour later, having exhausted her thoughts, she lapsed into silence and sought to read their reactions — in vain. Neither senior apprentice gave any indication of whether she was on the right path.
“It would appear,” Arelyn hazarded, “that you have made some progress. I can’t say more than that without prejudicing the outcome.”
Did he mean that she had made progress – and he was qualifying the confirmation with plausible deniability – or that she was mistaken? “I know this is meant to teach us the reality of wizardry… what it’s like to seek what no one else knows. I think I’d be less dissatisfied if it was something no one else knew.”
Taerelle steepled her fingers. “Very understandable. Being out ahead and falling behind feel just as lonely, but the pressures are distinct.”
“They are,” Arelyn affirmed. “Attaining the Second Degree felt easier for me than casting my first spell. At least with the secrets of the degrees, for all that they are transformative revelations, each builds on what came before. Working the Great Art for the first time has no precedent.”
His phrasing grabbed her. “…The secrets of the degrees? Each degree rests on a specific principle?”
Taerelle stood. “I warned you: she’s always paying attention.”
“And spells below the First Degree don’t.” She turned the observation over, wondering whether she was overcomplicating the task she faced.
While Taerelle went to make tea, Arelyn reassured Saphienne. “Forget about the degrees of magic — they don’t matter right now, and they won’t help do what you must. What you’re going through is normal.”
Hearing that from a man who would soon be a wizard helped. “Thank you; you really do approach things differently from our master.”
“I see the world differently.” He adjusted the bindings on his wrists. “He’ll doubtlessly have told you all about the unknowable nature of truth?”
“Yes.”
“He’s wrong.” Arelyn was frank, his mouth drawn. “Or at least, his way is not the only way to go. Can you summarise what he’s taught you?”
“We can’t really be sure anything exists, apart from ourselves — because we’re asking the question of what’s real and what’s false. The only self-evident truths apart from ourselves that we can reach comprise the Great Art, which are self-evident because they transcend the contingent, unknowable nature of the world and reveal their truth directly.” She canted her head. “My conjecture is that spells are the embodiment of transcendental truth within the world, the point where it touches.”
“Reasonable supposition.” He motioned as though tossing it aside. “But the nature, the origins, and the limits of knowledge fall under the branch of pure philosophy called epistemology. The particular epistemology of truth favoured by our master is formally named foundationalism, called so because it’s about building foundations for believing and knowing that don’t depend on any other supports.”
“You’re not a… foundationalist?”
“I am,” he grinned, “because there’s more than one kind. Almon has adopted privilege foundationalism, which says that what we believe about our subjective mental states is true. When someone believes they are thinking or believes they see or believes they remember they can’t be wrong, even though the content of those thoughts, observations, or memories can be wrong. You can’t be wrong about what you know of the experience of being yourself.”
“But, if fascinated–”
“The content is wrong, and your conclusions are wrong, but you’re not wrong about the experience of yourself as you’re going through the fascination.”
Parsing the subtlety was demanding. “What I know can be wrong, but my experience of knowing can’t be. I can trust that when I say ‘I think this,’ then so long as I’m being honest about how my thoughts appear to me, then I do think that in the moment.”
“You have it.” He shifted to crouch before her, animate. “But for Almon, that’s where certainty ends. Only what he knows about what is occurring as himself is trustworthy, because that knowledge has epistemic privilege — no one can refute or invalidate what he knows about his experience in the act of thinking, remembering, or perceiving. That’s the justification.”
Taerelle brought through three cups. “Does she really need to contemplate this now?”
“She can, so why not?” He didn’t desist. “Meanwhile, I’m an experiential foundationalist. What I believe is justified by the fact I’m perceiving it to be true, and future experiences don’t contradict what’s come before, but contribute to an ever-emergent truth.”
Several issues with this perspective occurred to Saphienne. “But how can you trust that what you perceive is real? Or that your senses are reliable? Or that your memory is trustworthy? Or that, ultimately, you’re not dreaming — don’t dreams appear true in the moment?”
Taerelle giggled. “Go for his throat, prodigy!”
Taken aback, Arelyn stood and accepted his tea. “As I said, the truth is perpetually emerging.”
“And hopelessly subjective, to him,” Taerelle mocked the would-be teacher, giving Saphienne her teacup. “But he’s a conjurer, so convincing himself that how he perceives the world in the moment is the truth of the world makes sense, for him.”
Finally, the importance of what Saphienne was being taught crystallised. “This about developing a magical praxis. Is that what I’m–”
“No,” responded the senior apprentices, in unison.
“You don’t require a magical praxis now,” Taerelle insisted. “That’s why I question the wisdom of even talking about this…”
“My purpose,” Arelyn clarified, “is just to show you that what you’re being given is only a start. Don’t confine yourself to how our master insists you should approach magic; ask three wizards to explain the Great Art, and you’ll get nine answers, and eighty-one further possibilities that they don’t regard as sufficiently convincing.”
He had been advising her: Saphienne was to find her own path, and not worry about whether she was going about it the right way. “…I think I understand what you’re sharing.”
“Once you’re further along, ask Taerelle about coherency — then you can tear her apart over it all being circular reasoning.”
The diviner clicked her tongue. “Says the boy who doesn’t care about objective reality or consistency. The sooner your egotistical ass fucks off to the Luminary Vale, the better.”
Arelyn downed his tea, his expression fond. “See what I mean about antagonism? I’ll miss your company as well, Taerelle.”
* * *
Days later, on the eve of their next lesson, Celaena was wide-eyed as she came unannounced into Saphienne’s bedroom.
“What’s the matter?” Shutting the book on recognising languages, she–
…Watched as the volume pulled itself from her grasp and levitated across the room to where Celaena, unsteady, received it with her outstretched hand.
Neither of them could form words as the moment stretched.
“…I did it.”
Celaena swayed, too adrift in surmise at her future to know her own passions.
Feeling now a measure of the same dread as her friend had conceived upon the success of Iolas, Saphienne decided anything less than vicarious happiness was unworthy of their friendship, and stood with a grin that beamed more certainly the nearer she approached the proven apprentice. “You did it… you’re going to be a wizard.”
“I’m going to…” Celaena’s eyes sparkled with tears that could have spilled for either euphoria or tragedy, until she reflected back the smile that Saphienne projected, and shrieked as she dropped the book and threw her arms about the younger girl. “I did it!”
And the most magical thing was that, faintly, Saphienne did feel Celaena’s exultation, and it dispersed her own self-doubt like a sun risen above the fog of nighttime.
* * *
“Say it again.”
“You’re the better apprentice wizard.”
Celaena giggled where she reclined beside Saphienne on the windowsill in her parlour, having brought up the last of the chocolates that had been kept cool in the pantry; she fed one to Saphienne. “Damn right I am.”
Saphienne didn’t mind playing along. In that moment, it was true, and they each knew that their standings could change after they were both wearing dark grey. To compliment Celaena seemed fair recompense for the praise she was sacrificing by keeping her success a secret. “Once we’re both wizards, and he’s not our master any more, we have to tell him.”
“Absolutely!” Celaena massaged her cheeks, sore from their curving. “Serves him right for being so unfair. He could have two apprentices ahead of schedule, but his acrimony toward you… he’s only hurting himself.”
While that wasn’t strictly correct, Saphienne wasn’t going to take sentiment literally. “He won’t keep us down.” Her gaze drifted to the book propped on the back of the couch, lingering on the corner Celaena had dented. “I better fix that before tomorrow. Want me to say it once more?”
“…I’m so childish.”
“You’re the better apprentice wizard.”
Despite their separate struggles, they shared their guffaws.
* * *
There was another way to see the spell — another way to tame it. Whereas before she had moulded herself to embrace the world through the musical, azure sight of the sigil, now Saphienne sat cross-legged on her bed and asserted herself on the hallucination that cowered and twisted to evade her.
She would not dream of song — it would dream of her singing. Where she spoke, it would reorder the heavens and the earth to make her every word melodious. All who heard would be swept up in the rhythm and cadence and notes that emerged, not through her being, but from the demand of her will.
Saphienne would be unmoving, and yet she would move them.
Captured by the irresistible belief that was integral to its becoming, the Hallucination spell yielded, surrendering itself to her possession–
And then, dissolved.
“What the fuck am I doing wrong?” She fell back on the bed, peering into the hallucinated sky that was matched to light of day or lamp: she didn’t know which.
Then she set her shoulder to the stone again, clapping iron concentration on what she copied… only to achieve the same hopeless result. No matter how Saphienne brought the sigil into herself – no matter how gently or fiercely she fixed it in mind – the sigil would not withstand her.
She didn’t comprehend why. She was missing important context, but had no way to obtain what she needed until she was proven.
* * *
Long threatened, the priest whose chosen art was the healing of the physical brain came to visit with Nelathiel, and Saphienne sat with both adults in the garden while the woman in sleeker, golden robes cast spells, took notes, consulted her books, and made Saphienne undertake all manner of physical actions.
Merelia was quiet in disposition, which made her seem far younger than she doubtlessly was for her mastery. She hummed to herself for several minutes before she made her pronouncement. “…I can’t explain what’s happened to you.”
Intrigued, Saphienne straightened. “My brain was injured by–”
“–A depressed skull fracture with bleeding between the outer membrane and your skull, poorly alleviated by the expulsion of your blood through the site of superficial injury.” She was detached as she repeated what she’d observed, having said as much during the first fifteen minutes. “That much is unambiguous. Yet the contents of your skull show no voids or other structural defects to indicate lasting damage. There are remarkable features – the density of your brain matter, the convolution of its outer presentation, and the lack of clear delineation between expected divisions – but nothing suggestive of injury.”
“…So this isn’t a physical injury?”
“No, it very much is — and I can’t find the site.” Her grey-brown stare showed disappointment in herself. “What you’ve described is very consistent with serious disability, and my observations of function substantiate it. I just have no way to inform on your prognosis: all I can tell you is to keep doing what you’ve been doing.”
Saphienne thanked her for attending, then walked them out of the garden.
Nelathiel paused by the gate; her eyes flicked to the grand house in whose shade Saphienne dwelled. “Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”
For all that what the priest suggested was impossible, Saphienne had spent hours picturing what her life would have been as the youngest child of three — supported by a family who invited her presence, were charmed by her eccentricities, perhaps even pretended the love she could not be given. She was frightened, and allured, and were she free of the mire muddied by her relationships, then against all caution, she would have accepted.
Alas, Celaena would have been left on her own. She couldn’t do that to her. “Thank you for the suggestion, Nelathiel, but I’m good where I am.”
* * *
I have oft ruminated on Saphienne’s happiness, and the forms it might have taken, or should have taken, were her fate kinder. In the days and weeks between visitors like yourself, I have pondered who was to blame for all that she went through. Lynnariel, Delred, Tolduin, Almon, Jorildyn, Filaurel, Eletha, Ninleyn, Gaeleath, Taerelle, High Master Lenitha, Athidyn, Mathileyn, Alavara, Gaelyn…
Every occasion upon which I clamber above these tales to survey the full course of her life, I find more names from her childhood to repeat, forever uncertain who was most responsible, yet evermore convinced she was owed better.
Nelathiel has the sole distinction of being the person whom, while among the least culpable, could conceivably have made the greatest difference. Had she refused to let the child choose; had she gone to Tolduin and Almon and even her mother; had she compelled the consensus to see that Saphienne deserved a home that was full of care and compassion; then, I think, this story would have ran a different course.
Celaena would have been saddened, but if the imposition had come from outside? She would not have felt betrayed.
I do not sleep; but in my dreams there lurks a vale where a short-eared girl was allowed to grow old, tended to in her infirmity by a steadfast friend whose bittersweet tears were first fed by the watering she had received when she was nourished in her childhood.
And that Saphienne does not weep alone.
* * *
Filaurel did not invite Saphienne back to the kitchen in the library, but went to walk with her in the woods beyond the village, leaving the tending of the bound leaves to Faylar as the pair strolled under leaves which hastened to their turning.
The question Saphienne had asked was not an easy one for the failure of a wizard to answer. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything that would help with your proving.”
“I’m not asking what to do.” Saphienne kept pace, untouching, but nearly so.
“…Do you have reason to suspect you’re like me?”
She let the sun shine on her face. “…I can’t hold on to sigils. They disperse as soon as I have them. No matter how I touch on them… no matter how I fix on them…”
Timidly, Filaurel took her arm.
How Saphienne wished she could lean in. “Was that how it was, for you?”
“I couldn’t sense the magic.” She relaxed as they resumed old rhythms. “Not everyone fails for the same reasons… but for me, sigils were just writing, and the craft songs were just songs.”
“How do others fail?”
“Some can’t comprehend; some can’t reproduce; and the rest…” She was apologetic as she trailed off, unwilling to jeopardise what Saphienne had fought to win.
“I don’t know what to do.”
In reply, Filaurel led her over to a mossy boulder, and she perched with Saphienne. “Choose to persist or choose another art, but you must choose for yourself. Don’t let my aspirations for you determine who you become.”
Despondent, Saphienne stared up into the guarded gaze that held her captive. “What if I choose that your aspirations for me matter?”
Filaurel swallowed what arose, her voice low. “Even now?”
“Why not?” She slid her palm down to interlink their fingers. “Why care? We’re both alive, we’re both here, and we’re elves. We’re going to live forev–”
Filaurel hugged Saphienne, more firmly than in the past, as though afraid that she, too, might fade from memory.
That heartfelt embrace was what inscribed in stone all that she would become:
No one could stop her being what her beloved mentor wanted her to be.
Not even Filaurel.
* * *
Upon a field that was in ceaseless dispute of winter, Saphienne strode out amid the pink blossoms to meet Hyacinth, not waiting for the tendrils that would surely climb the steps before she took her friend by her hand and lay down.
Perceiving the unweighted yet intent demeanour of the girl, the bloomkith claimed her Elfish speech as they lazed together. “For weeks apart you have remained from me, yet now you come to speak made sweet and free?”
“Drop the rhyme?” Saphienne made the request knowing she would obey.
“As you like.” Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. “As you command.”
“Don’t pretend it bothers you that much; with others, perhaps, but you’re not afraid of losing your sense of self with me. And,” she smiled wryly, “don’t pretend you haven’t any idea why I’ve been withdrawn. I know you’ve been talking to Celaena, and she must have asked you questions.”
“About the ancient ways.” Hyacinth’s petals shivered, her self-assuredness faltering. “She did convey that the priest told much to you. I did not grant to her what you fair won from me.”
“Tell me this: is it just my reproduction you’re called to tamper with?”
“Intentionally…” She raised her fingers to point to her yellow eyes. “There are other changes that I can neither will nor prevent… though you seem to resist them. I have been mindful of my effect, yet little physical have I seen.”
“And have you already tampered?”
“No.” The spirit’s lips curled down. “By the time I understood your yearly cycle had begun, the danger of conception was no longer present. I let the priests play their part.”
So frequently? Saphienne winced. “Then every year, I’m going to be sore–”
“Not if I suspend your rhythms.” The way she said it was not quite a question, yet one hovered above them.
“…Is it permanent until undone?”
“Dependant on the method. I can halt the progression entirely, in which case so, or trick your womb into believing you have conceived, which will abate your menses for at least a year, thereafter to be reapplied.”
Saphienne was in no hurry; her mind was on other things. “Hyacinth… you won’t tell me what you truly think about the ancient ways. So forget that. I’ll ask you something entirely unrelated.” Her tone was meaningful. “Do you find doing this for me burdensome, or does this come easily to you?”
Biting was the laugh that answered. “…It challenges me. Why, I have never done it before — I fear I am ill-suited.”
Saphienne was gladdened. “Then… make it stop entirely.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She stared unblinking into the sun. “I shouldn’t be a mother.”
End of Chapter 93
Every time I go into philosophy, the editing takes a little longer.
I'm planning on chapter 94 on Wednesday/Thursday, chapter 95 on Friday/Saturday. Let's see how the week plays out.
Comments
Claire Hiria Ahuriri-Dunning
"She drank from the spout as she stood by the window; she let the unseen wardens judge her however they wished." - Gurl, you messy XD "The sooner your egotistical ass fucks off to the Luminary Vale, the better." - LOVE HER "And that Saphienne does not weep alone." - JFC T_T Fascinating scene with Filaurel <.< That ending, daaaaaaaaaamn
Mr Penguin Friend
Enjoyed the touching on the draconic script.
