CHAPTER 101 – Apprentice and Master

Upon a midnight shore she dozed beneath the weeping willow, listening to the gentle roar of the blackness rising ever-higher up the pebbled beach.

Although the sky was sunless, a shadow fell where she lay; she stirred, but had no strength to rise.

“You may sleep, Saphienne.”

Her eyes were too heavy. “…The hunt…”

“You felled your mark: that is enough. What hunter does not camp? How will you stalk your quarry, if not fed and rested?”

“…More to do…”

“And you shall do it — for this was well accomplished.” He laughed as he waded into the waves. “I am very satisfied. Chase on.”

Beside her, she heard another, more feminine voice. “But I am not, not yet.”

“…I gave–”

“You have withheld nothing that you promised. I do not fault your actions, but I ask you: are they balanced?”

“…No…”

“Then recover yourself, and do what you demand.”

“…Now?”

And a third speaker — unfamiliar, but recognisable. “When the time is right. Do not let her rush you to ruin: choose your moment. So long as you act as soon as you must, she and I will be pleased.”

“…Made no covenant with you…”

A smile upon the sea. “But you have kept it.”

“…Aren’t even real…”

The second of the three laughed in her retreat. “That hardly matters to us. Love for the icon is as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal, beside the sacrality on which your heart is weighed.”

Then there were red flowers sprouting all around her, and the sun hung above silvering waters.

“…Hyacinth…”

“Rest,” urged the bloomkith. “You must rest, beloved of the bees.”

She let her brow be stroked, and dreamt of happier days, when she raced after Kylantha with the wind at her back.

 

* * *

 

Daylight; birdsong; repose.

Saphienne awoke without remembering anything at all, blissful where she reclined in soft cotton sheets. A friend was cradling her as she gazed out over a field of hyacinths, and being held so warmly was all she needed.

Then she felt the change in herself–

“Spire? Saphienne’s awake!”

Hurried footsteps through a doorway she didn’t recognise, two silhouettes blurring together as she blinked sleep away–

“Apprentice!” Almon set his weight on the bed and placed his hand upon her head, forcing her to look up into his glare. “Heed me: do not touch the magic within yourself, or I will render you unconscious again. Am I understood?”

Saphienne stared. “…What?”

“Almon, give her a moment — she’s disorientated.” Gaelyn was leaning over her master in moderate worry, eyes yellow from spiritual possession.

Then the disjointed memories flooded through Saphienne, and she drew a wondering breath. “…I did it? I cast the spell?”

“You cast a spell,” Almon corrected her, wrongly. “Not the one you were trying to cast — and you are not, under any circumstances, to attempt any further feats of magic without my explicit say-so. Do you understand, and will you comply?”

“Yes.” She felt a smile blossom. “I’m still your apprentice?”

“For the present.” The wizard released her and moved aside. “Let Gaelyn examine you.”

Yet she struggled upright before the healer could object. “I’m fine. I feel weak, but… good?” Her frown didn’t diminish her smile. “Different?”

Gaelyn perched on the foot of the bed. “That’s normal. How much do you remember before you collapsed?”

Inside her mind she shifted around to study Hyacinth, who was grinning from ear to ear while enjoying the exchange; the bloomkith nudged her attention outward. “…I was sick when I arrived for the lesson. I went into the garden to prove myself,” she carefully answered, “and then something happened…”

“And before?”

She nodded. “I studied through my sickness. Celaena and Iolas left me alone. I memorised the sigil…”

“You were confused.” Gaelyn spoke softly. “Hyacinth was able to heal you, but you were running a high fever without any sleep or nourishment. What you did was foolish–”

“But it worked,” she objected. “I’m proven.”

Gaelyn opened his mouth, then reconsidered, his gaze flicking to her master. “…Are you telling her?”

Saphienne watched the wizard sigh and settle into an upholstered chair arranged in vigil beside her bed, tension running out of him as he sagged backward and wiped his hands down his rounded face. He looked rough — as though he hadn’t slept well.

“Tell me what?” She took in the rest of the gently curving, finely appointed bedroom. “And where am I? This isn’t the infirmary.”

Dry laughter drew her back to Almon.

“Saphienne,” he conceded as he folded his arms, “you continue to defy my expectations in ways that make neither of us happy. I must commend you on consistency in one regard: no pair of your vexations are ever the same.” He leant forward. “You presently occupy my spare bedroom, where you have lain for the preceding three days. We have been waiting for you to rouse; Hyacinth conveyed that you were utterly spent, and needed sleep.”

Her stomach confirmed that she hadn’t eaten. “She sustained me?”

“Tended you throughout…” He flicked his fingers dismissively. “…But that is unimportant.”

Noting that she was dressed in her nightwear, Saphienne pulled the sheet up as she properly – and expectantly – faced her master. She crossed her arms.

Almon’s lips made a thin, wry line. “May it console you to know that we were both right — and quite wrong. I was correct that you are unsuited to wizardry, and you were correct that you must learn magic. Happenstance has decreed you intrinsically worthy of instruction in the Great Art, for you–”

“You think I’m a sorcerer?”

His scowl collapsed into a weary smile. “I ought to have recognised your brash impatience as an indicator. Yes, Saphienne: you are undoubtedly a sorcerer.”

 

* * *

 

Rather than argue, Saphienne let Almon and Gaelyn talk.

Sorcerers could not learn magic in the same way as wizards, for sorcerers and wizards were fundamentally different. To the wizard, magic was external, like a wind blowing around him, and the method to spellcasting below the First Degree was to memorise a sigil and then fly it like a kite upon the breeze. For the sorcerer, however, magic was internal, an ocean ready to rush out through whatever symbol he used to open the way.

Like Saphienne, Gaelyn hadn’t been aware that his magic was there before it erupted; until it first stirred, how could anyone recognise what had always dwelled inside?

Crucially, sorcerers could not memorise sigils, for the moment they were copied into mind they were dissolved by the magic within. This was what Saphienne had experienced — what Almon, who was unacquainted with the experiences of sorcerers, had misdiagnosed as inability.

Naturally, her master was unapologetic.

Other differences followed from this distinction. While wizards exhausted their sigils to cast them, the sigils of sorcerers were parts of their very being, thereby difficult to inscribe or expel, yet constant while internalised. The sole limit to the spellcasting of a sorcerer was his endurance — how long he could hold open the symbol through which the Great Art flowed.

More subtly, wizards had an intellectual relationship with magic. But sorcerers? Magic was intuitive to the sorcerer. This was how Saphienne had been able to cast a spell that belonged to the First Degree: she had unconsciously grasped the secret without putting it into words.

Throughout, both magicians promised her that all was well, and that she had a bright future ahead.

 

* * *

 

“What about Iolas and Celaena? I remember–”

“They’re fine,” Gaelyn assured her. “Celaena was unharmed. Your spell convinced Iolas that his ears had burst, and they spasmed so hard that their vessels ruptured, but Spire healed him.”

“This,” Almon reiterated, “is why you must not trifle with the magic now revealed within, for until you are properly trained you risk worse. We were fortunate that you have a natural aptitude for Hallucination, rather than a more dangerous discipline.”

Saphienne paused to take stock of herself, aware that the steps of the library on which she was mentally sitting were a superficial arrangement masking a truer tableau. Hyacinth gasped as the scene fell apart into the kaleidoscope of elements that had originally confounded the spirit, but the maelstrom was not unordered as it spun, rather turned by the magician as she peered from the green beneath to the night above, both empty.

“…That won’t be a problem.” She massaged her numb hand as she restored the steps for Hyacinth. “You’re wrong about me. I’m definitely a wizard: I’ve lost the sigil I cast.”

Wizard and sorcerer both chuckled.

“No,” replied her master. “You simply do not recognise whatever symbol you were using, but it remains alive within you.”

“You’re mistaken–”

Gaelyn cut in. “Saphienne: look at your left palm.”

Perplexed, she turned it over — then blinked at the newly present, circular scar.

“Almon? Please show her what she did.”

With exaggerated irreverence, the wizard reached into his pocket and withdrew a distinctively dull grey disc, tossing it onto the bed where Saphienne could see the crude human face that had been – quite impossibly – struck upon it.

She blinked.

“This was not an act of wizardry,” Almon declared as she scrutinised the coin. “You are a tremendously potent sorcerer in the making, Saphienne, for the magic you channelled through base metal was sufficient to transmute it into a magical material that is completely beyond most magicians.”

Her fingertips traced its rounded edge, then the mark left from where she had clutched it during her casting. “…Adamantine…”

“The rarest magical metal. Unbreakable.”

“Some sorcerers,” Gaelyn shared, “use tools to cast spells — reifications of the symbols within themselves. Wands and staves are most common, but in human lands there are sorcerers who use cups, blades, and even coins.”

Almon raised his eyebrows. “I never knew that. We were always encouraged to go behind the symbolic.”

“My master learned it at the Luminary Vale…” Gaelyn yawned. “…He taught me the problem with magical implements is that they can be damaged in use, but I don’t foresee it being an issue for Saphienne.”

She reclaimed her beloved coin, which was cool, and which remained so as she placed it upon her scar — where her hand reflexively closed around it.

“Interesting.” Gaelyn shuffled closer, gently probing her fingers. “I’d assumed you’d grabbed it when your hand spasmed… you must have muscle memory.”

Almon offered context. “Saphienne often held that specie while writing during lessons. I presume it is of some significance to you, apprentice?”

She found forming words difficult. “…A friend… she gave it to me…”

The wizard sought guidance from Gaelyn. “Is there a danger in letting her–”

“No. So long as Saphienne stays calm and doesn’t pry into herself, then there’s absolutely no danger. Magical implements aren’t necessary for sorcery, and just having them won’t elicit a spell. Most are quite ordinary objects.” The healer patted her shoulder. “This is an encouraging sign for your recovery. Can you let it go?”

She couldn’t, but nor was she making a fist, and so was able to pull the talisman loose, at which point her hand went limp again. “I’m not doing this intentionally.”

“The mind is a mystery. Incorporate it into your exercises, and see if it helps.”

She nodded. Her hand gripped the coin again, and continued to hold fast as she lifted her head to Almon. “What happens now?”

“I have contacted the Luminary Vale.” He spoke with greater formality. “You will be assigned a sorcerer who is qualified to teach you, and he or she will travel here forthwith. Once you have demonstrated your potential to your new master – under controlled circumstances – I will formally pass your apprenticeship over.”

“You won’t have a choice at first,” Gaelyn warned her. “Every sorcerer has to be taught how to control their magic, if only to prevent its accidental use. Once you demonstrate you have it in hand, you’ll be free to decide whether to continue with your studies, or whether to pursue another art… but I’m sure we can guess which you’ll choose. Until then,” he yawned again, “you have to be chaperoned by a qualified wizard or sorcerer — and your master is the only such person in the Eastern Vale.”

This disturbed Saphienne, who had been thinking carefully as she listened. “I’m going to be escorted everywhere?”

Almon disabused her of the notion as he stood. “Absolutely not. You’re going to stay put, here with me, and not do anything that might overexcite you. Gaelyn informs me that your passions are the key to unlocking your sorcery — the last thing I want is to have to fascinate you again.”

A fragment of the past resurfaced from the void: Almon telling her to sleep. “You prepare a Fascination spell every day?”

“With no desire to use it.” He gave her unease an approving nod. “Fascination is one of the disciplines most appropriate to self-defence, for it avoids bloodshed; safe as the Eastern Vale generally is, I always have it ready, precisely in case of something like you happening.”

Despite herself, Saphienne managed a smirk. “…I remember thinking I could resist, but deciding that I was tired…”

“Let us not test your hypothesis.”

Gaelyn stretched as he joined Almon in standing. “Don’t fret about the future. The first casting is the worst: you won’t ever feel the same way again. For now, eat and drink as much as you can, and sleep whenever you’re tired. I recommend reading to busy yourself–”

“I have something else in mind to keep her occupied,” the wizard interrupted, gesturing to the door. “You may as well go home and rest, Gaelyn. Pass the good news to Tolduin when you see him — I’ll send Peacock to inform my apprentices.”

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Saphienne bit her lip as her teacher showed the healer out. “Master… would you be willing to do me a small favour?”

Irritable from lack of sleep, Almon nearly denied her unheard request, but Saphienne saw him exhale his stress and beckon for her to continue.

“I’d like to see Filaurel.”

He pondered his apprentice from the doorway. “According to the procedure for handling newly emergent sorcerers, no one other than your family and priest should be told until your new master has arrived…” His tone was not refusing. “…But, I have some discretion. Celaena and Iolas know, obviously, along with Gaelyn here; I informed Arelyn in case I needed his aid, and he insisted that I tell Taerelle as well…”

Recognising that he was talking himself into doing what she wanted, Saphienne remained quiet.

“…In recognition of her role as trusted secretary to our consensus,” he satisfied himself, “and owing to her limited familiarity with magical affairs, I think we can permit a short visit, once your strength is restored.”

Grateful that he hadn’t made her fight for once, Saphienne bowed. “Thank you.”

He ushered Gaelyn out, not bothering to close the door as he left.

 

* * *

 

“…Well.” Saphienne leaned back against Hyacinth, inhaling the scent of her petals. “What do you make of it all?”

Having held her tongue as she was holding the girl, the bloomkith squeezed Saphienne in affection before disengaging, rising to dance along the steps.

“Hyacinth?”

The spirit paused her jubilation. “They have misjudged. Beheld I have the sigil shining true, for you did make a bridge between yourself and what you could not hold.”

That was what Saphienne had believed, before the coin had been presented to her. “Could you be mistaken?”

Hyacinth shook her head as she swayed. “The like have I surveyed before. All told, not all they spoke rang with untruth, but you are not what they believe…”

“If not a sorcerer,” Saphienne challenged her, “what am I?”

Shrugging, the bloomkith abandoned her rhyming as she came to sit beside the girl. “…I do not know. I cannot tell how you have changed yourself, nor what this…” Usually so eloquent in her verse, she groped for a way to describe the fertile, verdant endlessness that was concealed by the steps. “…What this latest expansion may portend.”

“So you’ve never perceived my magic before?”

“There were no signs.” Hyacinth mulled the question over. “I had an intuition, which I expressed to you, but I never imagined that you might a sorcerer be. When they told me that was the case, I was excited for you… but having now listened to their reasoning, and having witnessed here what you can do…”

Saphienne once more let the steps fall apart, steadying Hyacinth as they were surrounded by the patterns whose repeating was no longer dizzying. “This isn’t confusing anymore. The flowers in the distance are you, but the library is my thoughts and feelings within my mind, while the night sky is where my memorised sigils should sit, and my magic lies below us.”

“…I cannot impose any order upon this…”

“No, because this is my order.” At her will, the shapes slid seamlessly into place, and they were seated before the fireplace inside. “This is my domain. During whatever happened when I cast my spell, I took possession of myself.”

Amazement, uncertainty, and fear were in the bloomkith. “…I know of no elf who can do this; whereas once I was intimidated by what you had accomplished, now you awe me, Saphienne.”

She clasped the spirit with both hands. “Please, don’t be afraid.”

“Never.” Hyacinth giggled. “How will your master respond, when he learns that you are more than he believes?”

Saphienne repressed the memory of her illegal acts, putting on a smile; she didn’t want what time she had before her confession to be anxious. “We’ll find out, later. I want to share my accomplishment with Filaurel first.”

“She will be conflicted by your success.”

That pained Saphienne, who withdrew as she rose. “…I think she’ll be proud of me.”

“That she will,” the bloomkith hurried to affirm, sensing the hurt she had caused, “but you have achieved what she once dearly wished for herself, and the old wound will make your triumph bittersweet. Maple-blooded, do not mistake the consequence of her past for how she feels for you, nor my words for other than caring.”

Mollified, Saphienne nevertheless brooded as she stared into the safely contained flames flickering beside them. “Thank you for warning me… and for supporting me, while I was recovering.”

“You are forever welcome, most beloved of the bees.”

Her warmth rekindled. “I love you too, Hyacinth.”

 

* * *