L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 92
🕑 Added 2025-10-19 20:08:44 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 92 – To Bind, or Loose
Now all but initiated into the ancient ways, Saphienne reacted as she always did when she felt too much: she distracted herself with her intellect. She was powerless to prevent the mill of suffering from grinding on, and to throw herself between those long-stained stones would neither have made her feel better nor accomplished any useful purpose. This much, Filaurel had taught her well.
Perhaps her mentor had observed how Saphienne first learned to cope with traumas, and had reasoned that wizardry would be the ultimate, unending inquiry into which she could sink her sorrows. Were that the case, she would have to thank the librarian: pursuing the casting of her first spell was sufficient challenge to drive back the oppression she felt within the woodlands.
In this, she was far from alone; many are the artists in retreat from their sorrows.
The reading Almon had set was easily completed by Saphienne, whose hunger for meaning led her to devour the book in two short hours — far less time than Iolas and Celaena had needed. She then summarised the key insights in a further three, her notes thoroughly referenced against what she had recorded during her master’s lectures. By the end of the fifth hour, she had enough context to try again with her elusive sigil.
Despite her scepticism, she was forced to recognise that the wizard had told the truth: sigils were too alive to deconstruct. Two impressions were present in the calligraphy she pondered, one mere shape and line, the other spilling out beyond the blue ink to colour her perception with a cerulean shade more vivid than paper contained. Her proving spell was a complex idea of how the world should be, unrealised yet illustrated through imbuement into an arcane diagram. Saphienne comprehended that deciphering the notation, memorising what she learned, then separately committing the magic to memory wasn’t possible: she had to embrace every element simultaneously.
And there were actually more than two. The transcendental truth of the spell was grasped through its meaning, which was evoked through feeling and thought, which were in turn embodied through word and gesture, which were recorded through magical script, which was expressed through the visual depiction that comprised the sigil. All were distinct elements — yet all were one. To catch and hold the spell was to take in meaning, being, motion, description, and appearance; she had to behold them all with the same eye.
No wonder wizards had to be intelligent. As much as Saphienne loved Laewyn, there was simply no way she could fathom so much at once. Thessa, too, would be unable to perform this art, for though she could deconstruct what she saw while still feeling its presence, she lacked an appetite for the theoretical.
Would Faylar succeed? Saphienne wasn’t sure. Yet she could now discern the varied reasons why Almon had rejected him. Faylar had not been acting of his own will, had been too certain and unbending in how he viewed things, and had lacked the critical examination and inference to fathom this puzzle. Had — for he was making strides in all areas.
Having been sat in the spacious kitchen throughout her contemplation, she put aside her scroll and stretched before she went to fill the kettle. Her commentary on her friends wasn’t to make herself feel superior, she knew, but rather was an expression of trepidation as she delayed her attempt. Once the tea was ready, she would find her nerve–
Her hand cramped.
Saphienne winced and hurriedly set the full kettle to boil, darting back to the table where she’d left her satchel. Loosening her balled fist required the use of the spoon she’d been gifted by Alinar, and she hissed as her fingertips withdrew from her palm, grateful that she’d been diligent in filing her nails. She grimaced as she wedged her clenching hand over the padded ball she’d requested and received.
“Fuck me…”
Although sweat beaded her brow, she couldn’t stop to rest: this was when she could retrain her healing brain. To block out the throbbing would have meant forgoing the tactile sensations with which she needed to refamiliarise herself, and so she had to endure the discomfort as she fought to make her hand let go. Nine excruciating minutes later, she prevailed in lifting her smallest, spasming finger by half an inch.
Then her grip faltered, her hand went limp, and her control was lost.
“…Better.” She repeated what was become a mantra for all seasons.
Steam had filled the kitchen, and she laughed to herself as she went to steep a well-earned pot of tea. How more difficult could memorising a spell possibly be?
* * *
Much harder. Extraordinarily harder.
* * *
On the morning of their next lesson, Saphienne asked how Celaena was progressing as they walked arm-in-arm to the parlour.
The older girl sagged against her fellow apprentice. “…Does talking about how impossible it feels count as conferring?”
Her candour made Saphienne grin. “No, but it does reassure me.”
“You too?” Celaena was both relieved and perturbed. “If you’re feeling it’s this hard, what chance do the rest of us have?”
Saphienne rolled her eyes. “I’m not convinced intelligence is an advantage, only that spellcasting requires adequate mental capacity to attempt. I feel there are other qualities needed. Yesterday, I was thinking about why Faylar was refused…”
“I’ve thought the same…” And her blush admitted she felt guilty. “…But he’s come far since then; you and Filaurel have been good for him. Are you going to go back to studying together?”
Worry over what had been lost had made Saphienne put off returning to her routine. “After I talk to Gaeleath.”
“Faylar misses spending time with you.”
“So you’ve spoken with him.” She hummed as she reviewed the timing. “After you spoke with Laewyn?”
Celaena slowed her pace. “…Yes. I wanted to hear his perspective on her; or on us; or maybe just on me.”
Saphienne pressed closer. “You never told me how it went. I don’t mean to pry–”
“We,” Celaena sighed, “are on a break.”
“…What does that mean?”
“That’s what I asked Faylar.” She studied the way ahead. “He thinks she’s not ending our relationship — that she just needs time to get over how upset the wardens made her. I didn’t share what I’d said.”
Nor could Saphienne comment on his misunderstanding, not when the Wardens of the Wilds were undoubtedly nearby. “Could he be right?”
“I haven’t a fucking clue.” Serenely depressed, Celaena stamped on the grass, reminding Saphienne of the way Faylar had once kicked at snow. “She did accept why I acted that way, and she hugged me when I– when I became inarticulate.”
“You’re allowed to have cried; I won’t think any less of you.”
Her glance preceded a nudge. “I don’t want to lose composure right before we see our master. Faylar said she needs time alone: we’ll see.”
Then Celaena straightened, rolling her shoulders as she resumed her usual stride. “And you? What did Nelathiel want?”
Mulling over the predicament she found herself in, Saphienne was inclined to lie, thereby to avoid burdening Celaena. Yet that impulse to manage her friend was corrosive to their friendship, and so she made a conscious effort not to withhold more than obliged. “You recall I had my menses? Because of them, Nelathiel had to share certain parts of the ancient ways.”
Puzzled, Celaena scrutinised Saphienne. “Why would… what does that have to do with the ancient ways?”
She let her silence speak.
“…How much did you learn?”
“More than she wanted to tell.” More than Saphienne wished she knew. “Gods know that I’m a massive hypocrite for saying this, but don’t rush into finding out before your time.”
Celaena didn’t have the necessary facts to infer like Saphienne, but she understood why she was being warned off. “What you know is weighing on you?”
“All I’ll say is…” Saphienne stopped in the grove. “…When Iolas learned, I found him sitting by himself near the teahouse. He had no desire for company at first. As soon as Nelathiel was done? I went straight to visit him.” She squeezed her arm. “When it’s your turn to contemplate the ancient ways, I don’t recommend you dwell on them alone. You’ll be welcome to spend your day with me.”
Pondering Saphienne, Celaena shook her head. “…You’re different. You’ve been different — even before you spoke to Nelathiel. What in the world has changed you?”
Giving a pithy answer would be deflecting. “I decided I didn’t like how I was living. I’m trying to be better: less distant, maybe more approachable.” She couldn’t help the self-awareness that tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Easier than the Great Art… but not by much.”
* * *
The girls were first to arrive. Peacock hopped down the stairs to see them, then announced their presence to his master without his previous pageantry. The wizard gave no response – which was response enough – and Peacock shrugged before he fluttered onto the high-backed chair to watch them.
They sat to meditate while they waited on Iolas. After thirty minutes, Saphienne was disturbed by twinges in her hand, reluctantly abandoning her concentration to instead knead her palm and wrestle with its twitching.
Soon, the ache subsided. Given that Iolas was overdue, she was uneager to resume meditating only to be interrupted again. Her mind wandered…
…And her gaze settled on Peacock.
During the solstice festival, Saphienne had probed the limits of figments, establishing why children could perceive Peacock unprompted. Apparently, the very young were too unworldly to not expect wonders like the bird amid such dazzling celebrations. This suggested to her that the latent attention he drew upon to maintain himself was a conduit through which he might be spotted, which implied that what began as unconscious awareness could be made conscious.
Deliberately, she shut her eyes and disbelieved the figment cast by Almon.
When she opened them again, it no longer existed.
Saphienne found the lack of fanfare very interesting. When she had first nearly lost the hallucination, accidentally, the portrayed creature had been urgently animated to insist on itself. Either the coldness that the wizard now felt toward her extended to how she was treated by his familiar, or she had gone unnoticed this time. Assuming – for the sake of conjecture – that the latter was the case: why?
Maybe because she hadn’t been giving the figment her full attention.
When Almon had first revealed the spell to his apprentices, Iolas had been told that the illusory bird had seen his calligraphy — but had only been able to see him faintly. Taking this statement at face value proposed that the greater her cognizance of the figment, the more obvious she was to it.
She would have to test that theory another time. For the moment, Saphienne stared hard at the point in the room where she knew Peacock was perched, then settled back into the meditation she had abandoned.
Fundamental to meditation was one task: noticing when she was distracted. Developing concentration was really cultivating the ability to detect her attention straying from whatever she focused on. Being that she was fixed on the top of the chair, her rationale was that the spell leeching her attentiveness to imagine Peacock would be a subtle – but perceptible – distraction. If she could detect that influence, and then intentionally let herself be engrossed…
Hazily pictured, and then suddenly real, Peacock canted his head and whistled at Saphienne in suspicion. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
She smiled and answered with complete sincerity. “I’m admiring your feathers.”
His beak opened in a pleased grin, and Peacock posed for her with wings spread wide — bathing in the willing belief that gave him life.
* * *
Iolas wished everyone a good morning as he hung up his outer robes, and he assumed his place beyond Celaena while their master descended the curving stairs.
Almon was mild as he questioned him. “You ordinarily attend earlier. What pressing business detained you this morning?”
Saphienne saw him quell his embarrassment before he replied. “My studies required that I stay up late, and I chose to sleep longer so I would be refreshed for today.”
Amused, their master leant against his chair to tease his apprentice. “Indeed? And what about your diligence demanded you remain awake? Were you perhaps ponderously thorough in completing your assigned reading?”
Pulling the book from her satchel, Saphienne thumped it on the floor. “No — he was first to finish.”
Iolas inclined his head to her in gratitude before he explained. “I made unanticipated progress with the spell you’ve set me, Master, and my enthusiasm to go further made sleep impossible to contemplate.”
Celaena raised her eyebrows.
Yet the wizard gave Iolas an open grin. “Ah, now that’s quite understandable — I can guess what your success was. Gone, now?”
“Lost with sleep.” He was slightly dispirited. “I haven’t tried again, I didn’t want to be any la– to arrive any later in the day than strictly necessary.”
Almon bowed theatrically. “My commendations on your valiant attempt at insisting on the importance of your endeavours, young apprentice!” He chuckled as he took his seat, then regarded Iolas with greater earnestness as he lounged below Peacock. “You should be more confident that they are important. Your judgement that it was better to sleep later when there was no compelling reason for prompt attendance is also sound.”
His approval heartened Iolas. “Thank you.”
“This also broaches an important topic that I intended to address.” Their master gestured to the three of them. “You have now been given the necessary introduction to your studies to allow you to accomplish your proving. Casting your first spell should take no longer than six months from your first lesson — seventy days from today.”
Saphienne caught what he was doing. Almon had originally claimed that most elves who were capable succeeded within six months, but that some needed longer, with one year being the cutoff for assessment. Iolas was evidencing progress, and so the wizard had no qualms about setting a tight deadline in the hope that Saphienne and Celaena would fail.
“Accordingly,” he went on, “I will begin in future by asking whether you are ready to demonstrate mastery of the spell you have received. Understand that this is prescribed ritual: I do not anticipate success for a further month at minimum.”
Celaena shared the conclusion Saphienne had reached. “Not even from Iolas?”
The wizard was notably curt with her. “No.”
Although Celaena tried not to react, Saphienne could tell she was upset by the way he had dimmed.
Greater rapport was in his words as Almon expanded for the eldest apprentice. “Without meaning to dissuade you, Iolas, your swift progress to the penultimate step does not presage imminent accomplishment. Six more weeks would be typical.”
Dismayed, Iolas pursed his lips.
His teacher attempted to console him. “Pursuit of the Great Art is not linear — truthfully, some proven apprentices who are delayed in casting spells of the First Degree are quicker to attain the Second Degree.”
Iolas, however, was disapproving of the way his master had treated Celaena. He looked across to her as he adopted stiff politesse toward the wizard. “Please consider my expectations to be duly tempered, Master.”
Almon narrowed his eyes as his affability drained away. “…As you wish.”
Irked, the wizard rose and collected from Saphienne the text he had loaned to his apprentices the week prior, replacing it on his shelves before he browsed for another volume, wearing his unhappiness as vividly as his sapphire robes.
His back remained turned to them as he began his oration. “You are not yet proven ready for magical theory; during this interregnum, I have substantial freedom in choosing which subjects we will cover. Considering the predilections of my audience, I think we will start with a topic that will engage Iolas…”
He selected a larger volume, resentment simmering as he paced to loom over Saphienne and Celaena.
“…Moral philosophy. Specifically, today we shall examine several theories which attempt to formalise the social contract — essential learning for any wizard who intends to uphold the consensus of the woodlands.”
Indifferent to his reproach and resigned to his boundless pettiness, Saphienne took out her writing kit.
* * *
“… Hence we avoid the endless war of all against all by contracting with each other in service to maintaining mutual peace and prosperity. Participation in our social contract is valid only to the extent that it is upheld by its participants, who must each discharge their responsibilities to receive the rights it conveys. From this shared endeavour proceeds the basis of the order on which we have built our consensus.
“The consensus that emerges between free individuals, while superior in effect to every alternative, is not the only possible form that a social contract may take. Examining the territories governed by mortals, another contract reveals itself, one that is imposed on the many by the few, with consent obtained through violence.
“However, what distinguishes this social contract from our own is not the issue of consent and how it is obtained. An individual born into the consensus of the woodlands is obliged to conform to our social contract from birth, and while consent is explicitly obtained upon physical maturity, to claim this is very different from the implicit consent given by mortals to their dynastic rulers would be disingenuous. For all that their social contracts are dictated from above, ours is equally enforced from all around.
“Freedom is therefore not found in the choice to abide by or withdraw from a social contract, but by its universal adoption. Free societies are those in which all individuals, whether implicitly or explicitly, are bound equally. Tyranny occurs when one individual or group determines the constraints that will be placed on others, without themselves being subject to those restraints.
“A tyrant is exempt from the social contract they enforce, for good or ill.
“The tragedy of mortal societies is that their social contracts can all be reduced to the same formulation: the law must bind the many, but not protect them, and protect the few, but never bind them …”
* * *
Studying under Almon would prove far less enjoyable for all three students now that he held two of them in contempt. Gone was the back-and-forth that stimulated discussion, replaced with dry summary, sharp interrogation, and perfunctory answers to any query not raised by Iolas — who was unfalteringly polite.
This did not improve their master’s mood across the weeks that followed.
After their third such lesson, the demoralised apprentices trudged to the teahouse in search of relaxation. Most of the tables were occupied, but the queue to make requests was short when they joined it, so they stood together while waiting their turn.
Iolas stared up at the ceiling, weary. “I don’t think I can suffer through this for the next fifty-or-so years.”
Saphienne smirked — entertained that the only student Almon wanted was just as drained as she was. “Taerelle says he’ll thaw. She thinks our master will warm to us again, once Arelyn is accepted into the Luminary Vale.”
Celaena’s eyelids were heavy, her ears drooping. “How long until then? He’s demanding when he examines you, but whenever he comes to me he’s merciless. He tore my essay on deontology to pieces — literally!”
Patting her shoulder, Iolas offered comfort. “Don’t mistake his unfairness for what you deserve. Your essay was much better than mine; it was excellent work.”
“I’m not so sure.”
Upset to hear her say that, Saphienne clasped her hand. “Iolas had an easier time with consequentialism, since the problems don’t lie with the premise of wanting the best result, but in how that’s realised in practice. You were forced to argue that principles were worth upholding no matter the outcome. I’d find that difficult.”
She pulled away. “That’s kind of you to say, but you were challenged to prove the existence of virtues and how they could be defined — without an ideal society to agree what they were. I couldn’t even follow your argument.”
“That was my trick.” Saphienne flashed a wry smile. “Neither could our master. My first essay showed that he won’t criticise what he doesn’t think he understands.”
Thankfully, Celaena laughed.
Iolas regarded Saphienne thoughtfully as they neared the front of the line. “What are your thoughts on deciding right from wrong? That ‘essay’ on wisdom avoided telling us.”
Saphienne blinked. “…I’m not sure. I used to justify what I did with consequentialism, but that was just an excuse — a bullshitter can convince herself what she wants to do is always for the best. I’m suspicious of deontology because rules and principles are not the same as the good they reach toward, and I’ve seen what happens when they’re followed as though they are.”
“The topic he set you, then? Virtue ethics?”
“Who decides what is virtue and what is vice? I obfuscated it in my essay, but how they are assessed is contingent on social judgement — saying someone is virtuous is just saying they’re a good person.”
He frowned. “Can you clarify?”
“Good people behave in good ways, because they possess good qualities. How does society determine what those are? They refer to good people — judged so by their conduct. Absent a definition of goodness that doesn’t emerge from social judgement, the argument is ultimately circular.”
Celaena was tired of moral philosophy, but her interest in Saphienne’s position made her squint. “Then you aren’t a pragmatist either? You don’t think what’s good can change as our collective understanding improves?”
Her lip curled in distaste. “I think that betters our ability to achieve good outcomes, but goodness doesn’t alter. What was done in ignorance might have been reasonable from a limited perspective, and so forgivable, but that doesn’t mean it was right. When I learn I’m wrong, I only improve if I accept that.”
“You’re no egoist,” Iolas flatly stated.
“No. I think saying one ought to act in one’s own best interest creates a false dichotomy between oneself and other people, and reframing what we do for others to really be of benefit to ourselves personally inclines toward solipsism. To treat myself as though I’m the person whose needs matter the most is to say no one else is as meaningfully alive.”
“And she definitely doesn’t believe in moral relativism,” Celaena snorted.
“Different people do adhere to different moralities…” She was being too literal. “…But normatively, no: I don’t think we should concede it’s impossible to define an overarching good, and even if we can’t perfectly know it, that isn’t a reason to be paralysed, or to conclude that all moralities are equivalent in its absence.”
Iolas was curious. “What about pluralism? Can different people have mutually exclusive conclusions about what should be done, and yet be correct?”
“Only where morally neutral.” Saphienne indicated the urns behind the counter. “If I choose black tea and you choose green tea, neither preference is a moral matter absent a larger context.”
“Then,” he concluded, “we’re left with the social contract.”
Celaena groaned. “Not that again…”
Smiling apologetically, Saphienne shrugged. “That is close to what I was describing in my first essay. ‘Society is founded upon that which proceeds from us that we each forbear to claim; wisdom is knowing what to forbear to claim.’ The first part is abiding by the social contract, while the second part is the open question of what that contract should be.”
Iolas folded his arms in gentle confrontation. “My answer was that it can’t be decided by any one person… except we have to take a stance to contribute. So where do you stand?”
She allowed herself to be glib. “For now? Waiting for tea.”
As though on cue, the couple that had been ahead of them moved on, and Celaena leapt at the chance to do the same. “Good afternoon Alinar! I’d like a strong black tea, please.”
Iolas shared a smile with Saphienne before he made his request. “Green tea for me, with jasmine if possible.”
She imitated them. “And for myself–”
Yet Alinar ignored her as he walked away from the counter, busying himself preparing their requests.
Disconcerted, Saphienne was patient; she tried again once he brought over their cups. “May I please have black tea with oat water?”
Alinar was dour as he reached under the counter. “I’ll need to check.” From below, he drew out the ledger in which requests were written, performatively flicking through as he scanned down the pages to see whether Saphienne was within her share.
Behind her, the rest of the queue shifted restlessly.
Celaena coughed. “If you’ve asked for too much, I’ll request–”
She stilled her companion with a touch. “Thank you Celaena,” Saphienne murmured, her eyes hard emeralds where they fixed on the man inconveniencing her, “but I believe he’s making a point.”
Iolas swung to Saphienne, astonished, and his face flushed red with outrage as he pointedly put his cup back down. “Alinar, there’s something wrong with my tea: it’s much too bitter.”
The elf who ran the teahouse didn’t set aside the record. “…Sundamar said it was exactly right.”
Of course — Alinar heard all the gossip; Saphienne glared. “He misjudged. You should ask Alavara about his opinions.”
Uncowed by the apprentice wizards, Alinar took the cup Iolas had set down, and he sipped while holding her gaze. “…Tastes fine to me. I know what went into it.”
Celaena’s tea splashed as she set it down. “Let’s leave.”
Yet Saphienne stood her ground. “Am I within my share or not?”
They both knew she was well under her limit. “Barely.”
“Then I’ll thank you to fulfil my request — to take home.”
She watched him prepare her drink, aware that he was not the only one in the teahouse who regarded her with disfavour.
Let them. Better her than Celaena — she would endure.
* * *
As they made their way up to Celaena’s study, Iolas finally broke his brooding silence. “Why did you insist he make you tea?”
Saphienne paused ahead of him, between floors. “To frame it how we’ve been taught… Alinar believes I’ve broken the social contract, but he can’t prove it, so he feels he’s justified in excluding me in a way that’s deniable. To accept that would be to confirm excluding me is acceptable.”
Celaena had been griping the whole way home. “We should complain to someone. There has to be a way to ensure you’re not excluded.”
“I don’t think an appeal to authority would be effective.” She wondered whether she was wrong… perhaps she could ask Taerelle, or Filaurel. “The social contract can only be imposed to a certain extent; it ultimately depends on everyone supporting it to make it work.”
“Oh, sod this shit about the fucking social contract!” Celaena sat on the steps in a huff. “You’re being punished for something that– that you didn’t do. We can’t just accept it.”
“I didn’t. And I won’t.”
Iolas tapped his fingers on the banister. “You can’t disprove a rumour. And you can’t force Alinar to change what he believes, so even if he pretends otherwise, how he feels will be the same no matter how he treats you.”
“That’s not the issue.” Saphienne took out her coin purse, tossed it up and down as she explored the tangle in which she was caught. “How Alinar sees me isn’t important — so long as he isn’t in the majority, and so long as no one with meaningful power over me agrees with him, then my life just doesn’t have to intersect with his.”
The green in her gaze was bright. “No, what I need to do is prevent this turning into justification for everyone else to mistreat me with impunity. If I cede ground, then anyone having a bad day or wanting to be vicious for its own sake will abuse me. Then the majority, who aren’t inclined either way, will go along rather than fight against the wind.”
“Do you think his opinion is that widespread?”
“Not yet. And it won’t be, if I keep pushing back. The worst thing I could do would be to become a recluse, avoiding engagement. But I can’t be undisciplined about how I put myself forward. I need to be very deliberate about making myself an undeniable part of everyone’s lives, forcing them to acknowledge me — without whining.” An outline coalesced. “They have to be made to realise they can’t push me aside; they need to be made to flow around me. If there was a way to inconvenience Alinar back– why are you smiling?”
Iolas’ humour was ambiguous, and his stare had been distant. “…Nothing. It isn’t related to this. Won’t messing with him just lead to escalation?”
“Not if it’s a prelude to someone we both respect playing peacemaker.”
Celaena climbed to her feet. “Make messing with you too much trouble to be worth it? I think I know what would work. The question is, would Thessa be willing to help?”
The artist’s brother foresaw what was coming, and his ears drooped. “If I ask her… but who would intervene to smooth the situation over?”
Saphienne resumed scaling the stairs. “Assuming he isn’t convinced I’m evil, then I know one man everyone in the village defers to, even when they don’t agree.”
* * *
Fortunately for Saphienne, the best placed person to intervene was very familiar with the pressures of conformity, and disinclined to make assumptions about her virtue. She didn’t raise the problem to him when she visited his studio.
Meanwhile, Alinar was flummoxed when all the younger people he relied upon to help with the teahouse told him they would be unavailable. At first he had no idea what was going on — not until Iolas and Thessa ignored him in the grove, whereupon he understood that others, too, could protest perceived wrongdoing.
As the week wore on, Celaena called in to see the usual chair of meetings of the local consensus, informing him about the dispute before it got out of hand.
And so, just as Saphienne had planned, Jorildyn paid a visit to Alinar, and the two talked very frankly about the compromises necessary for a quiet life.
* * *
“This is becoming a inconvenient habit.”
Almon was pacing back and forth behind his chair, having said little to Saphienne and Celaena for the first hour and a half.
“Do either of you know where Iolas is?”
Whatever his reason for not being present, Saphienne was sure Iolas was justified — and that the wizard was being hypocritical again. She crossed her arms as she responded. “I expect he’s doing something important, Master, content in the knowledge that a wizard’s time is his own, and his absence is no excuse for boredom.”
Unexpectedly, Almon stopped mid-step. His reluctance was visceral as he gave her the shallowest of bows. “…A necessary reminder. Yet it isn’t boredom, but rather agitation, and quite unrelated to my unproven apprentices.”
This was the first occasion on which he’d ventured beyond the topic of their lessons since he’d rebuked her and Celaena, and Saphienne dropped her hostile body language to give him a nod. “That implies it’s related to our seniors?”
“One of them…” He fussed with the arrangement of the books next to him. “…My most capable apprentice has announced he is ready for his final examination, and this afternoon I will be assessing whether he is correct. I expect Arelyn will satisfy me, but then there comes the fraught affair of arranging his external assessment.”
Celaena had reflected on his preoccupation. “…Have any of your apprentices ever failed their final examination?”
Yet her voice reminded the wizard of whom he was addressing, and his tone was black ice as he stalked to the window. “No, but you need not concern yourself with that eventuality.”
Seeing her distress, Saphienne silently urged Celaena to remain calm and accept incremental improvement. The look she received in return told her that the older girl was very aware that there was no alternative but to stoically withstand his antipathy, though it didn’t hide that Celaena was unhappy.
Then the door opened, and Almon whirled around. “Good! If you would kindly take your place, Iolas, we might proceed to–”
“My apologies for interrupting you, Master,” Iolas said, his eyes glinting, “but would everyone please join me in the garden? Thank you.”
He left the door ajar.
Surprised, Saphienne saw Celaena bewildered, and then beheld Almon–
Whose mouth hung open in a shocked smile. “…No. Surely not?” His robes trailed past the girls as he approached the door, gathering there as he beckoned them with hushed anticipation.
In due course, the two unproven apprentices accompanied their master to where Iolas stood rolling up the light grey sleeves of his robes in the middle of the gravel circle. There could be no doubt as to his intent when he called to Almon. “Master, would it be appropriate to have a spirit present during this?”
“If you’re confident of success.” Almon brought his hands together beneath his prominent stomach. “You only risk their ridicule if you fail.”
“In that case…” He bowed to Saphienne. “…Would you please invoke Hyacinth?”
Saphienne had to query Celaena. “Is she in her flowers?”
“She went out again last night.” Celaena bit her lip, still appraising Iolas. “She’s not as worried as she was before…”
Part of Saphienne felt regret for the current distance between her and Hyacinth, but ever since she’d been informed about the ancient ways, she’d been dreading the conversation they were due. Overdue, now. “…Master, do I need to make a circle, or will the shape of the gravel be sufficient?”
He tried to be withering, but his excitement undermined him. “Use your intellect: why else would it be laid out this way?”
She repressed the impulse to retort to him, matching Iolas’ dramatics as she raised her arms and called out Hyacinth’s name three times. When the winds that carried the bloomkith arrived, they did so with haste and joy, then palpable confusion, drifting to the flowerbeds and back as the spirit tried to determine what Saphienne desired.
Almon squared his shoulders. “Proceed when ready, apprentice.”
Iolas bowed to his audience, closed his eyes, and held out his hands.
When the pale, unsteady, yellow light appeared between the gradual but deliberate weaving of his palms, Saphienne no longer breathed, awed by the vision of her friend as he whispered a combination of syllables she could at last comprehend:
“Sun-font.”
Then Iolas cupped his hands around the constant glow, reopened his eyes, and crouched down amid the circle.
Hyacinth stirred toward him.
“You know what this is,” he grinned. “Here.”
He relinquished the invocation to pool on the ground, where it shimmered and rippled as he withdrew his shadow, the spell rising into a small yet steady beam that soon blossomed like a flower in the daylight — before it was invisibly plucked, diminishing into nothingness.
At once the bloomkith flew outward, breeze sifting the flowerbeds until she found what she sought, diving beneath the soil to where the bulbs of her namesake were concealed in anticipation of spring. Yet they did not remain concealed, their green shoots piercing up through the summertime perennials that thrived around them, creaking as they flowered, then sprouted, melted, contorted, sculpted–
Hyacinth pulled free the roots of her verdant shell, and her rattling laughter was loud as she bowed to the now proven apprentice.
End of Chapter 92
And we're finally caught up from the week I was off sick! Thank you for your patience, and I hope this was worth the wait.
Comments
Arete
Almon is what happens when competence in a subject is confused with the competence to teach that subject. Or anything, really.
Jaggeer
So, Saphienne has to be the next to cast the spell or he fails her for falling behind? Man... Almon is such a disapponting adult, quarreling with a 14 year old child.
Claire Hiria Ahuriri-Dunning
“Easier than the Great Art… but not by much.” <3 XD LOVE the bit with Peacock XD "resigned to his boundless pettiness" - chef's kiss “That was my trick.” Saphienne flashed a wry smile. “Neither could our master. My first essay showed that he won’t criticise what he doesn’t think he understands.” - AHAHAHHAHAHA skillful gambit GOD DAMN her argument around what happened at the teahouse and how to manipulate how other people treat her... just... I wish I had the guts. Yay Iolas <3
