novelraw CHAPTER 125 – Rule of the Gifted
CHAPTER 125 – Rule of the Gifted
She sang and chanted as she worked the forge, robes thrown back around her waist, bare-chested and indifferent to the sparks struck by her hammering. In her mind their burn could not assail her, for her skin was a scaled aegis — indifferent to every flame but that of fellow dragons. No momentary pain would dissuade her from her labour.
How transformed her song! Now she sang not with fury, but with potency, weaving melodies of her own from the draconic tongue that expanded upon the ancient elven verses once taught by Eletha. So too the singer was changed, for temporary muscle bunched across her torso with every swing, beating into submission the iron she worked, folding layer upon layer to render the metal purer.
Few but her would go to such lengths. Various grades of iron were stacked on the shelves nearby, including conjured iron sealed in oil, uncontaminated even by rust. Yet Saphienne had a theory she was determined to explore.
Satisfied at last, she ceased her singing and set the billet to cool on the anvil, relinquishing her tools and dismissing the Transmutation spell that had given her the vigour she had no desire to cultivate through exercise. She strode across the sandy floor to retrieve a towel, drying herself with one hand as she drank from a pitcher with the other.
Six months had passed since her triumph, and her left hand no longer trembled.
“I can’t imagine humans working with hotter fires.”
She spoke as though addressing herself, but the hyacinths potted on the workbench before her stirred to answer. “They lack for elven song; so too the dwarves.”
Saphienne smirked she set the pitcher down, then leant against the bench with mischief in her gaze. “Impress me: finish that rhyme along with your thought.”
Rattling, the petals of the flowers yellowed. “Why else the trade upon Hareña’s wharves? Or did Filaurel lie, when she did say for elven steel the world does costly pay?”
“How do you do that? Do you plan out your speech in couplets?”
“‘Tis intuitive,” Hyacinth replied, breaking from her poesy, “and I employ common rhymes when uncertain.”
Shaking her head as she reached for her unworn sleeves, Saphienne didn’t hide her suspicion from the spirit. “That suggests you knew I was going to test you.”
“I did. Leave down your robe?”
She paused with a widening smile. “Is that lust I sense?”
The blossoms darkened to rosy red — and not in embarrassment.
Saphienne left her garment hanging from her belt as she tossed down the towel and turned away, her long, blonde braid trailing her as she returned to inspect the metal. She enjoyed being admired by Hyacinth, for the bloomkith was the only person whom she allowed to see her figment. That others saw her as the elf she’d always appeared to be was inconsequential, for someone beheld her clawed and fanged… and with desire.
“You’ve been talking to Holly,” Saphienne noted. “Did she share a cutting?”
“My want is my own, slow grown from our walking.” Hyacinth had learned sexual desire from her beloved — incorporated it into her ephemeral substance.
“That didn’t answer my question.”
A rustling like a sigh filled the room. “…Unrelenting, you are. If you would press me, grant me admittance.”
Saphienne glanced back across her shoulder fondly. “We can’t: I have work to do, and Iolas and Celaena will be arriving this afternoon. You’ll have to wait until later.”
Hyacinth drooped, her voice sulking. “Cruellest of masters. How much more terribly will you treat me, when your familiar I become? Am I to perish for lack of water?”
“I ‘water’ you regularly.” She rolled her eyes back to the dull iron. “Thirsty though you are, you’ll hardly die from thirst.”
“Should I take another lover?”
Her illusory tail flicked. “…Goading one such as I is not wise, maple-blooded.”
“Perhaps Laewyn? Or shall I seek out Thessa, for when Taerelle next visits?”
Saphienne’s growl was gentle.
“Then again, if he is to visit today, I have walked with Iolas–”
She spun in scandal. “You would never! Not with Iolas!”
Hyacinth’s smile was visible in the swaying of her stems. “Have I not?”
Now her tail lashed, her reptilian pupils thin and teeth bared as she stalked back to the potted plant with claws itching where they protruded from her fingertips. “You haven’t done that with him. I was your first: don’t pretend otherwise.”
“But not my last, the way you decline to–”
Conveniently, figments were dependent upon belief, which meant that when Saphienne pressed the sharp edge of her claw to the base of Hyacinth’s stems the bloomkith felt the threat, and quietened.
Her voice lowered. “I’ll prune you for your insolence.”
Hyacinth’s flowers rustled, restless. “…I would not complain…”
Then Saphienne snorted, and they both laughed as the tension broke.
“Laelansa has your measure,” she told the spirit. “She assumed your influence was what had made us willing to let her lead. She’ll be delighted to discover you’re so needy.”
“I would like that…” Hyacinth flourished as she daydreamed. “…I would like to fall in love with her as well. Together with the novice priest, I would worship at your altar–”
“Stop!” Saphienne abandoned her playful superiority. “I really do want to finish my work before they arrive.”
“…To be continued, Master Saphienne.”
“Good girl.” She ignored the ripple of pink she provoked in the petals as she brought her hands together and concentrated, aligning herself with the sigil of the Least Gift of Sunlight as she invoked the bounty of the daytime. Wordlessly, she moved to the open doorway and dropped the spell on the threshold in the morning sunshine, where magic concentrated into the semblance of a flower.
Hyacinth’s interest was immediate. “May I partake?”
“Didn’t I say you’ve been good?”
Saphienne grinned at the cool breeze which slid past her as she went back to the anvil, there to busy herself casting a Divination spell of the Second Degree.
Hyacinth used the gifted nourishment to weave a floral shell from her flowers, stumbling as she uprooted her feet from the floor. “Sand discomfits me. Could you not use clay instead?”
“Not a bad idea.” The magician scrutinised the minute crystals patterning the iron, examining the impurities that remained. “That would give me a surface to write on. Less comfortable on bare feet, though…”
Hyacinth draped herself on Saphienne’s shoulder, her cold greenery fashioned into an uncannily detailed elven semblance. “My roots prefer stone or clay over sand. This foundation is unsteady.”
“You just want to complain.”
“I do.” She leaned her petalled head against Saphienne’s. “I am like an elf in her teenage years: taming myself. My constant want is more curse than boon.”
Her lover giggled. “A sweet curse.”
“Only as sweet as–”
Saphienne cut the bloomkith off by turning and catching her floral mouth in a kiss, tongue irritated by the hyacinths. She didn’t take physical pleasure in kissing the shell, but Hyacinth always seemed to, and the stunned reaction she provoked was ever delightful.
When they parted Saphienne immediately gestured for Hyacinth to fetch the pitcher, promptly rinsing out her mouth. “…I’m going to be feeling that throb all day…”
“Do you wish my healing?”
Saphienne wasn’t naïve enough to welcome her within. “I’ll endure. How is it that you’re so desirous when you don’t have–”
“Flowers are not indifferent to the buzzing of the bees.” The bloomkith yearned where she settled against her master. “To acquire the instinct for coupling is to be frustrated:
I have no flesh, yet I must fuck.”That won further giggles from Saphienne.
Hyacinth studied the iron. “Is this for another gift?”
Saphienne’s eyes flitted to the workbench, where lay several enchantments, ready to be given to her loved ones. “No. And it’s not related to the Tome of Correspondence, either — I’m taking my time working on that.”
Blossoms trailed admiringly up her arm. “Then for what do you flex and strain?”
“I have a hypothesis about a magical metal.” Reaching out, Saphienne turned over the forged iron, sufficiently cooled from contact with the anvil that she wasn’t seared, merely uncomfortable. “Adamantine is unbreakable, and usually made from iron or steel…”
“Your coin was neither.”
Were she fully clothed by her robes, she would have produced the disc from her pocket. “I don’t know how I brought about the change. Conventional theory holds that how I comprehended copper and the coin counted most, but my intuition says the material substance was equally important. Specifically, I suspect that the imperfections mattered: Faylar recently told me human coins are often crudely alloyed with other metals.”
Hyacinth tried to follow her logic. “You believe there were traces of iron?”
She surveyed the distortions in the billet’s grain. “That isn’t what intrigues me. More accomplished magicians than myself produce orichalcum from purified gold, mythril from purified silver, but adamantine is harder to form from pure iron. That suggests to me there’s a secret to be uncovered… eventually…”
“To what end?”
Saphienne wondered. “No specific purpose. I’ve just been thinking about the boundaries between one semblance and another; about composition; about what we assume when we talk about these things, and what we mean by strength. That’s what inspired me.”
Hyacinth gave no comment, subtly stroking the frills atop Saphienne’s tail.
* * *
There were spirals in the grass outside the ritual space.
“More signs of the dragon.” Hyacinth hid her amusement. “My sisters despair about these symptoms. For how long will they continue to appear? Has the dragon not gone?”
Despite the spirit’s teasing, Saphienne wasn’t convinced they were her doing. “No one really knows. Dragonflare has been observed to exert influence for years. We’re lucky that Parthenos wasn’t here for long.”
“How terrible it would be, were a dragon to dwell in our vale!”
She glared at the bloomkith as she let her figment disperse, not daring to maintain the hallucinatory form outdoors. “I’ll leave you to correct this; plant your shell in the flowerbeds if you like. I’ll call for you when I’m done for the day.”
Hyacinth duly moved among the spring flowers, crouching down to root her shell by hand and foot. “Should I be slow to answer, blame Holly for detaining me.”
“Convey my regards to her; and to Nelathiel, if you see her.”
“The two are never apart for long…”
As ever, the bloomkith swirled around Saphienne before she left — but such had her boldness increased that she flurried beneath the magician’s robes, caressing her beloved before she departed the material woodlands.
Saphienne found herself blushing as she went into the house.
* * *
The kitchen was unchanged, as was the sitting room beyond, but Saphienne admired the glades that Thessa had painted on the walls — bright and vivid transitions between spring and summer, complementing the emerald furnishings. She intended to enchant them with figments when she found time; she still appreciated Illimun’s artistry from when she’d lived with Celaena.
Climbing the stairs, she passed by the bathroom, then the narrow guest room, continuing past the former studio that was now her bedroom and along the extended landing, going through the open door to the second tree. There she leant on the railing, pretending her attention was on the bark-strewn floor of the enclosure below.
Eight blue legs crept down the nearby wall.
She remained where she was. “…Don’t jump on my shoulder…”
Minina instead pounced onto the railing, scrambling to find purchase, her fangs digging into the wood as she righted herself and waved a leg.
Saphienne shifted her weight onto her elbow as she reached out to pet the spider, who’d grown as large as both her hands put together. “Excellent manners! But you’re getting too big to spring around like that. What would happen if you fell?”
Contemplation showed in four pairs of eyes as the aberration considered this, and then Minina attached her golden webbing to the wood and tumbled off, dangling over the drop before descending.
“That’s not a solution,” Saphienne tutted as she went over to the spiral staircase. “You could have missed! If you’re going to leap around, tether yourself first — and remember to clean up your webbing when you’re done.”
Minina was indignant where she climbed onto a golden, silken hammock placed under the landing, baring her fangs and tapping a rear leg.
“Oh, don’t be childish.” The magician lay down beside the spider, lifting an arm so that Minina could nestle against her. “Think of how upset I’d be if you were hurt. Do you want to make me cry?”
This calmed her arachnid friend, who settled, laying one limb on Saphienne’s stomach as she huddled close.
“Let’s see…” Saphienne casually cast a minor translocation – Far Hand – to levitate a children’s book to her from a shelf across the room. “…I don’t have long to read to you this morning, so how about a short story?”
Minina raised a front leg in question.
“Because Celaena and Iolas are coming over–”
The spider began excitedly shimmying.
“–But not to play! I’m going to have to shut the door.”
She stilled. Her body lowered in sadness.
“There may be time for games after. If there isn’t,” Saphienne promised as she opened the book and thumbed through its pages, “then I’ll take you for an extra long walk this evening. No, not through the village — more people need to meet you first.”
Consoled, Minina placed her foot back atop Saphienne.
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“Let’s see… this is a good one for us. It’s a story about a little duckling who didn’t quite belong. You remember those noisy birds at the lake? Well, maybe we’ll go visit them again…”
* * *
Once Minina was dangling below the hammock, asleep, Saphienne returned upstairs, brandishing her hallucinatory seal before quietly shutting the door to the library behind herself and drawing the privacy bolt.
She needn’t have bothered: she wasn’t going to be disturbed.
Minina had stopped trying to get inside once Saphienne had relented and shown the spider around. Whatever the curious aberration had imagined lay within, she’d been disappointed by the sparse bookshelves lining the walls – less than a quarter filled – and the starry lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Perhaps the room would look more impressive with figments? Yet they’d be wasted, for few people other than Saphienne would see them.
At least the view from the window was good where the large, abjuration-reinforced pane overlooked the hillock in the garden. Minina hadn’t spent long staring out, entranced instead by the mirror standing in the centre of the room.
Saphienne had known why. Later that night, Minina had raised a foreleg in question, pointed to herself, then counted to two.
“No, my Minina, there aren’t any other spiders like you. Rydel didn’t intend for you to be so intelligent — he doesn’t even know how his Transmutation spell did that. Oh, Minina: please don’t be sad. Just because you were an accident doesn’t mean you’re unwanted…”
Part of Saphienne wished to expand on his work, that Minina might find companionship with others like herself. Yet the Luminary Vale would never approve… and intentionally creating sentient aberrations was the height of hubris. The best she could do was provide the spider a home until old age claimed her.
Saphienne blinked at her reflection. Would seeing herself as an elf always make her morose? She put the memory out of mind and went to close the curtains, thereafter stripping and cleansing herself with a spell before she reviewed the new robes and jewellery waiting upon a mannequin behind the mirror, especially crafted by her for the occasion.
Her mood soon lifted. She had a reason to be joyful.
Today she would finally tutor her friends.
* * *
Almon had exhausted every pretence to delay her. His inevitable concession had been preceded by several minutes of pacing and muttering, passing back and forth before the unlit fireplace in his parlour, entertaining Saphienne where she sat in his high-backed chair.
“You have adequately distilled the essence of the fundamentals,” he admitted as he propped himself against the mantlepiece. “You’re unqualified to teach apprentices of your own, but your grasp of pedagogy is tentatively sufficient to support the work of a highly competent teacher. You may begin later this week, after their lesson.”
She steepled her fingers, finger rings and bangle inactive where they were worn upon her left hand. “You mean you can’t fault my memorisation and analysis of the reading, and instructing me any further would rise to the level of education available at the Luminary Vale — so you’re forced to set me loose.”
His dour expression told her she was right.
Humming, Saphienne slipped her hands into her sleeves as she sat forward. “Shall we proceed to the ground rules? You must have written some.”
“Conceived in principle.” Her former master folded his arms. “Given your formidable record in subverting rules as written, we’re not going to engage in a back and forth over definitions. When it comes to the education of Iolas and Celaena, as far as you are concerned, I am a capricious and vengeful tyrant.”
She smiled, having expected no less. “Fine enough, old friend. How shall I avoid your vengeance?”
The wizard stood taller. “Heed me well: thou shalt not teach Iolas or Celaena any magical principles that I have not revealed to them, nor present sigils without my explicit approval. You are not to criticise my methodology to my apprentices, nor do anything to undermine my authority as their master. Speaking of which, I must authorise every text you wish them to read. As far as spellcraft is concerned? You are limited to encouraging them to follow the lines of inquiry of which they are aware — their journey of discovery is sacrosanct.”
He was being more reasonable than she’d anticipated. “‘In the end, a magician must pursue the Great Art alone…’” She crossed her own arms as she rose. “…What are to be the limits on collaboration between them?”
He exhaled his resignation. “Having consulted with Masters Arelyn and Taerelle, I’m permitting you to use your discretion when setting activities that are to be completed jointly. Subject to these restrictions, I’m prepared to allow you to explore the thesis that junior apprentices can pursue spellcraft together – to a limited extent – without damaging the development of their faculty for the Great Art.”
What fascination had his former students cast on him? “…Are you reconsidering the assumptions of the syllabus?”
“Your genius, Master Saphienne, is not sufficient to explain your attainment.” He challenged her to argue with him.
She had no quarrel with his assessment. “You believe Taerelle’s tutoring–”
“Master Arelyn,” he interrupted, strolling over to the window, “shared with me a fact of which I was previously unaware. Did you know that very young children are quicker to crawl, walk, and talk when they are surrounded by children close to them in age?”
“I didn’t.”
“I spoke to Jorildyn about it.” He hadn’t disclosed that the tailor was his brother, but he knew Saphienne was aware. “For all I’ve eclipsed him in mastery of my chosen art, he is my senior in age by a year. He confirmed it: when we were children, and I hadn’t yet developed into the remarkable man you know, I would follow him around, doing as he did. I learned to read and then write before I was formally taught, through imitating him.”
She recalled how Kylantha had moved ahead to join her in lessons; she’d innocently accepted that her friend matured quicker than the other children due to having a human father. “…I know of a similar instance.”
“Teaching, Saphienne, is my life.” He faced her soberly. “I love the Great Art… but sharing that love with new generations of wizards is of greater value to me than mastering its secrets. I can conceive that this endeavour would be better served by encouraging my apprentices to emulate their peers — not at a distance, but through close rapport.
“This,” he asserted as he approached her, “is why I am risking them in your hands. You and I differ in disposition, but we hold in common our wonder for the art of magic. You want to tutor them? Demonstrate that; inspire them; relate to them as I cannot. Succeed in this, and whatever may become of their wizardry, they will always be great artists.”
* * *
Foolishly, owing to her distraction during the enchanting, Saphienne had neglected to remove a pin from the shoulder of her inner robes when she’d completed the stitching. She discovered this upon feeling its prick, digging deep enough into her flesh to make her wince and take off the silk to inspect the damage.
A bead of glittering blood had already dried upon the wound.
She brushed the excess red away and hunted for the pin, plucking the sharp from the lining to set aside for proper cleansing. As she finished dressing she was smiling, pleased by the enduring change that her perilous casting had worked on her body — for it was proof that she was correct about her heritage.
Transmutations of the Second Degree were limited in what they could accomplish upon living creatures. Inanimate objects were simple, and Saphienne was adept enough to exploit the distinction between creatures and objects when restyling her hair, reasoning that although her strands were attached to her, they were not alive. For anything that lived, however, permanent alteration was only possible for the superficial, such as shifting hues or smoothing away minor scarring. Even ongoing spells could only transmute a form into one that was close, such as giving an elf the facial features available to elves.
Yet her research with Minina had shown that many inconsequential details together comprised a substantial difference. She couldn’t transmute a creature to a loosely related or unrelated semblance, but she could make lasting, incremental steps toward a form that wasn’t far away — provided the magic had a template to follow. Spider haemolymph from vegetarian cousins had sufficed for Minina; the blood of a drake had served for Saphienne.
Her spell had unfolded in two parts. First, it had employed Calamity’s donation to permanently refine her body to be minutely more draconic. Second, it’d then sustained an ongoing transmutation based on her semblance, conveying a small measure of the regenerative capacity enjoyed by dragons.
Technically, what she’d done to herself shouldn’t have been possible. Transmutations of oneself were extremely demanding, allowing only superficial changes that would lapse once the spell concluded. She’d forged the enchanted choker to get around that limitation, at the cost of requiring her spell to be precisely defined and entirely correctly conceived, for it necessarily proceeded according to fixed instructions. That had entailed substantial risk.
If Saphienne had been wrong – if she hadn’t been descended from a dragon – then the spell would have proceeded regardless, maiming her.
The damage she’d subsequently inflicted on her own brain would also have killed her.
“‘…Either live out her life in the woodlands, or be destroyed by dragons’ fire…’”
Saphienne had wielded her own fire against herself for multiple reasons, but the primary had been that if it was dragon’s fire, then High Master Elduin had been right.
“‘…That which does not kill me makes me stronger…’”
As best she could fathom, when she’d decided to die her wyrd had summoned a dragon to ensure she was destroyed in the foretold way… but the contradiction she’d unwittingly forced led to strange and unpredictable consequences. To end her life to dragons’ fire while in the woodlands would violate the ‘or’ in the final omen. What could her wyrd do to satisfy the intent of its author under that circumstance?
Laelansa had once told her that the literal translation of ‘destroy’ in ancient elfish was ‘burn,’ and that the word had multiple interpretations, including ‘resculpt.’ Saphienne reasoned that Lonareath must have worded the omens in ancient elfish — which meant that her wyrd could be satisfied using those meanings.
She wanted to destroy herself; a dragon needed to destroy her; no dragon could kill her while she lived in the woodlands.
“‘…Know well what you make of yourself…’”
And so compassionate Parthenos had come to resolve the contradiction, destroying the Saphienne that despaired and doubted by revealing her hidden ancestry. Applying the same logic, if Saphienne was a dragon, and her fire was a dragon’s fire…
She’d been immensely pleased with herself ever since.
Her smug reverie was interrupted by a bell softly chiming, indicating that her visitors had entered through the front door. Nervous, yet resolute, she slipped on the headpiece of her jewellery, nodded to herself, then went to meet them.
* * *
He didn’t know it at the time, but Almon hadn’t been the only old friend to advise Saphienne about teaching.
Vestaele had been dismissive as they shared tea in the terraced garden. “I’m unqualified to educate wizards, Saphienne.”
Saphienne watched Calamity race after the ball she’d just thrown. “That’s not the part that I’m looking for your perspective on. You can’t say there’s no commonalities between the learning of sorcerers and wizards.”
“True…” The fascinator sat back on the wrought iron bench Saphienne had previously conjured, observing her pet drake bounding back. “…But you weren’t fond of my teaching style.”
Too self-assured to blush, Saphienne contrived meekness as she held out her hand, into which Calamity obediently dropped his ball. “I find value in perspectives that differ from my own.”
Vestaele narrowed her eyes at Calamity. “…He makes me fight him for it. Why does he submit to you?”
“You’re like a parent to him,” she deflected. “He takes you for granted.”
“Whereas you’re someone he wants to impress?” Vestaele was unconvinced. “You just have an affinity for odd creatures. How fares your little hunter?”
Minina had pounced on Vestaele when she’d last called in. “Thriving; and she really was sorry for startling you.” Saphienne surrendered the ball to her.
Dubious about that, the sorcerer mimed a toss, grinned as a confused Calamity went careening down the path in search. “She enjoyed playing fetch… and my drake has instinctual behaviours just as vexing.”
“Leaving trinkets in your bed?”
“I don’t let him sleep there.” She waited until Calamity had spotted the ball and was racing back before she tossed it, making him spin around. “But yes, he hoards things. Anything metal or shiny he’s not supposed to have ends up under his bed. I wouldn’t mind, but he chews on any cutlery I leave out.”
The drake hadn’t disturbed Saphienne’s possessions when he’d stayed.
“If you really must have my input,” Vestaele said as she stood, “then I’ll offer this: do not treat them as your friends while you are tutoring them, or they will value your instruction less than they should. Adopt a persona that is clearly demarcated from the Saphienne they know. Lay out how you intend to proceed and never stray from that path. Begin by awing them, and proceed to command, not ask, whenever they should obey.”
Saphienne’s lips twitched. “Rule them, you suggest.”
“Knowing your feelings on the subject of rulership, Master Saphienne, I would never
phrase it like that…”* * *
Closing the door to the extension, Saphienne paced along the landing, keeping back from the railing overlooking the sitting room.
“Saphienne?” Iolas called up to her. “Do you want us to come up, or–”
Violet was the shape she aligned with her sorcery, and the glamour that wreathed her insisted both apprentices grant her their full attention as she descended the stairs, dignified in outer robes that reflected a starry sky in summertime, mysterious in inner robes that swayed like shadowed foliage in evening. Upon both hands were clawed finger rings in pale gold, around her waist a matching belt of scales that hung long behind her to show through a slit in her outerwear, and dainty metal horns glimmered mischievously where they curled beside her sharp gaze.
Celaena covered her mouth where she stood beside the couch; she made no attempt to free herself from the fascination.
Iolas shook off the beguilement. “Striking… but what are you wearing?”
“These, dear apprentices,” she lied as she held up both hands, “are the latest refinement to my support — I can use my left hand just as well as my right while wearing them. The design necessitated points on the fingers, and since a little pageantry is necessary when teaching the Great Art – and dragons were the first to teach magic to elves – I decided to lean in.”
His grin was sardonic. “So we’re being tutored by a dragon, are we?”
“At least the equal of one,” she promised.
Celaena remained dazed. “…Your hair is still so golden… and pretty…”
Iolas nudged her, and she flushed as Saphienne let go of the spell.
“I like being blonde,” Saphienne confessed as she swept her braid aside and took her seat. “The only expectation for hair colour is to be blonde during the solstice festival, so I intend to be like this year-round.”
Sitting, the older of the apprentices showed his disappointment. “I’ll miss seeing you brunette. That was our colour when we got to know each other.”
“A dragon is not for turning.” She steepled her fingers. “Be seated, apprentices.”
Humouring her, Iolas and Celaena bowed before they sat on the couch.
Celaena had recovered enough to clear her throat. “We’re going to be formal?”
“Less so than were I your master, but yes; when I’m tutoring you, we will proceed with formality befitting the study of the Great Art…” She tilted her head as she surveyed her own attire. “…Which isn’t to say there’ll be no irreverence. The rules are thus: outside of these tutoring sessions, treat me as Saphienne, your eccentric friend; during our reviews, and whenever you ask me for my help and guidance with your studies, treat me as Master Saphienne, the prodigy to whom a dragon submitted.”
The two apprentices shared a look; Celaena was first to smile. “How does Laelansa say it? ‘I’m game.’”
Iolas shrugged as he folded his hands in his lap. “Makes sense to me. This is so we won’t feel intimidated when we’re socialising, isn’t it?”
“I’m also told I look good with horns.”
They laughed, Iolas canting his head. “…You know, you do. They’d look better if they were larger.”
Celaena frowned. “Not sure about those claws…”
Iolas opened his mouth, hesitated as he glanced at Saphienne… and then she saw him consciously choose not to censor himself. “Celaena? You really shouldn’t be thinking about our tutor like–”
His fostered sister elbowed him, quite hard. “Please ignore him, Master Saphienne.”
“But of course, Apprentice Celaena.”
She nevertheless grinned as Iolas rubbed his ribs and smothered his laughter.
* * *
Saphienne explained that they would meet once a fortnight, but the apprentices had a standing invitation to seek her out whenever they needed. Their revision was to be led by need, to which end she inquired what they were presently engaged in learning, and what they each found most challenging.
Iolas opened his satchel to take out sheets of intricate calligraphy. “Our master is teaching us how to properly identify and diagram resonance–”
“Still?” Saphienne hadn’t meant to blurt out her incredulity.
Celaena was smiling affectionately. “I knew you’d react like this. Yes, Master Saphienne: we’ve been diligently practicing our scrutiny of resonance with the Second Sight for the past three years. Other than this, we’ve been reading translations of the commentaries of Corytho, and supplementary material that’s even more confusing.”
“And,” Iolas added, “we’ve been honing our spellcraft. Celaena can hold three spells in memory at a time; I can only manage two. Neither of us is anywhere close to the First Degree.”
Saphienne was embarrassed by her own progress. “…You’re probably closer than you think. What’s causing you the most difficulty?”
“Theory,” answered Celaena. “The mysticism confuses me.”
“Spellcraft,” sighed Iolas.
The magician realised she had much to do.
Rising, Saphienne waved for the apprentices to follow her, going into the kitchen and then out into the garden as she unclipped her spellbook from her belt and flicked through to the sigil that would best serve their education. She slipped her coin into her hand as they joined her, flipped it over as she swapped out her cleansing spell for a figment she’d cast once and then never returned to; she ignored the false complaint of neglect with which the hallucination sought to elude her, bringing it to heel.
“I want you both to forget about spellcraft, and theory.” She clasped shut the book and returned it to her side, spreading her hands. “Forget all of that. Tell me what you see around you.”
Celaena was wry. “An impression of our master?”
Saphienne gave her a withering look.
To the magician’s surprise, this made her cringe. “Sorry. We’re in a garden, Master Saphienne.”
“Wrong.”
Iolas raised his eyebrows. “We aren’t?”
Saphienne spun away as she wove her right hand around her left, obscuring the symbolism she enacted to bring forth the figment to settle invisibly over the grass, silvery to her perception. The figment in which she often revealed herself was a simplified form of this spell — which wasn’t confined to its caster, nor to her control alone.
“Which spell?” asked Iolas; Celaena began casting the Second Sight.
Saphienne called back. “You don’t need to understand this. No scrutiny: just stand beside me, both of you.”
Puzzled now, they did as she had bidden them.
“Apprentice Celaena.” Saphienne placed her claws upon the woman’s shoulder. “Return to the night when your master took you and Apprentice Iolas to the clearing; think of how you felt when he asked you what was around you. This goes for you as well, Iolas. Recall what you thought when you entered his parlour for the first time — all your uncertainties, all the unspoken hopes.”
The wind stirred; if spirits were in attendance, she let them remain unannounced.
“Don’t answer my question like a wizard. Don’t think like an apprentice.” She gently squeezed. “Again: tell me what you see around you.”
Celaena had shut her eyes, and opened them. “…Boundless potential?”
“Are you asking, or are you answering?”
The woman who remembered being a lonely girl bristled. “Boundless potential.”
Saphienne spoke to Iolas. “Potential for what?”
His smile was tender. “Magic, I think she said. That’s my answer, too.”
“Both of you, focus on how that appears to you; you’ll see it, if you look for it.”
The apprentices squinted…
Then appeared flowers growing up about their ankles, birds with impossible feathers that fluttered overhead, shining figures who danced in radiant health–
And a girl with brunette hair in pale grey robes, glaring back at the trio where she sat cross-legged among the blooms, sceptical of all she bore witness to.
* * *
Once Saphienne had recovered from her laughter, neither apprentice would admit who’d been responsible for the vision of her younger self. She deduced that both shared in the blame.
Her first lesson was concluded concisely. “Remember how you once surmised; return to that when lost.”
Then she had them wait while she went into her ritual space, returning with enchantments, contriving that she’d merely been practicing and would welcome them being put to good use.
Celaena received a pendant shaped like a feather. “A ward against fascinations.”
To Iolas, she gave a pen that conjured ink. “This never runs dry — don’t stop writing your poems.”
Having held back, Ruddles chose that moment to announce herself — and share a gift of her own. She brought welcome news:
Laelansa was moving to the Eastern Vale.
End of Chapter 125