CHAPTER 102 – The Source of Her

That Almon listened did not mean Saphienne convinced him, not immediately, though he did take seriously what she shared about High Master Lenitha, and Wormwood, and the influence of the primeval spirit over Taerelle and Hyacinth. The wizard fetched out the Tome of Correspondence to review what had been written on the night Saphienne copied his library, and when Arelyn arrived with the contents of his spellbook – bewildered – he thanked his former student, but declined to elaborate.

Then he left his newly proven apprentice, climbing the stairs to think long and heavy on the implications of what she’d outlined.

Two hours passed before he descended to the sitting room again, carrying most of the retrieved sigils and what Saphienne guessed was his new spellbook. He set them on his chair before he stood over her, arms folded.

“I believe you’re telling the truth.”

She tried not to show her relief.

“Years ago, before you were born, Taerelle mentioned that she had won the mentorship of an old bloomkith; I ought to have followed up to determine precisely which.” His eyes hardened. “I did not. The matter slipped my mind. That is quite out of character for me — when Rophana announced she wished to go wildling, I interviewed her spirit. The more I reflect on that, the less I believe I erred.”

“…You were fascinated?”

“That it is my hypothesis. Fascinations need not be ongoing to have their intended effect: it can be enough to make a victim overlook a crucial detail at the right moment.” He paced to the window, where Saphienne watched his reflection against the winter night. “Then there is the matter of how Hyacinth participated in your introduction to Invocation. You may recall that I laid out hyacinths, bluebells, blackthorns, and violets; I was told there were four spirits ready for rite of passage. By right, whichever responded first would have participated.”

“But?”

“The other three may not have existed.” He met her gaze in the dark glass. “Violets are associated with cuckoos, a symbol of deception, due to the timing of their flowering; an obscure name for blackthorn is ‘mother of the wood’; and bluebells…” Almon smirked. “…They are sometimes called ‘wild hyacinths.’ Joined together–”

“Deception concerning Hyacinth — authored by a mother of the woodlands.” Saphienne couldn’t say why, but she intuited that Wormwood found humour in invisibly signing her work.

“Then there are minor coincidences… my predecessor in the Eastern Vale deciding to step away not long after I reached the top of the list for appointment…” His stiff posture suggested more, unshared. “To these, we may add the explicit interference of the High Master. You would not have met Taerelle so soon if I had not been told to investigate the clearing; the High Master personally encouraged you to continue recklessly; she granted you dispensation to read ahead.”

Saphienne inclined her head. “You read it that way, too?”

“The wording is too perfect.” He gestured to where the enchanted tome lay on the arm of his chair. “Plausibly deniable, but available to be pointed to should it suit her purpose. I have never had any direct dealings with the High Masters, but it’s whispered they are all supremely wise…” He turned to face her. “…Wise enough, perhaps, to make a senior member of the Luminary Vale plead for help, indebting himself on a personal level for his daughter’s sake, unaware that he sought permission to do precisely what was desired of him.”

She swallowed. “…Celaena’s father is a master of–”

“Fascination. The irony is not lost on me.”

They were on edge in the silence.

“Saphienne,” Almon finally said, “it should not be possible to both divine a personal future and change it, but the High Masters are capable of works that escape the understanding of lesser magicians. This is the divinatory territory of open prophecy, which I considered to be myth.”

She blinked. “…I’ve been prophesied?”

“Sever the term from religious connotations.” Absentminded steps carried him to the chessboard, where he lifted one of the more colourful pieces from the drawer of the table on which it was placed. “Priests casually refer to auguries as prophecies, while wizards use the term to refer to any augury of an individual that binds their future. True prophecy is rare, and usually brought about by an individual consenting to an augury of their future.” He set the violet piece in the middle of the board. “An open prophecy predicts what will befall an individual… without binding them to that course. Theoretically, a diviner would be able to see the future, then choose whether or not to accept that it should come to pass.

“I cannot say for certain,” he continued, “whether this has been done to us. We do not know how many of the High Master’s works were to effect an outcome, and how many were hedged against uncertainty. But the sophistication… the depth to which individuals would have to be predicted, in order to align them…”

Saphienne closed her eyes. “…I thought I’d caught out Wormwood, when I invoked her… was that part of her master’s plan? Is this conversation–”

The Tome of Correspondence rang.

Master and apprentice looked at each other, their dread undisguised.

“…Less and less a myth,” Almon murmured as he lifted the book, opening to the latest page. His lips pursed. “…Your new master has been arranged, and will be arriving via portal five days from now.” He paled as he read aloud. “‘We congratulate Master Almon and his apprentice Saphienne on their successful navigation of complicated circumstances, and trust they will soon be satisfied with the fruit of their patient endurance.’”

The familiar clearly inherited her sense of humour from her master. “Is it written by–”

“No.” He snapped the book shut. “A formal notice. They’re never signed individually, and the scribe who writes them merely passes on each message.”

Anxious, Saphienne stood. “…What do we do?”

Indeed — what could they do?

 

* * *

 

This is what Almon decreed:

Presuming that she had been manipulated into disloyalty, Saphienne was forgiven for her betrayals of his trust. He sanctioned her copying of his library, her reading ahead in the syllabus, her ‘borrowing’ of his sigils, her scrutiny of them, and excused the destruction of one of their number.

He did not, however, easily forgive her for the mess she made of his home, and for the burning of his spellbook.

In recompense for her vandalism, Almon had Saphienne detail the method by which she’d evaded Peacock, restitch the sigils into his new spellbook, and then he extracted a promise she would spend a week gardening once spring arrived… disturbing circumstances allowing.

Otherwise? The wizard wrote down their suspicions, signed the account with his apprentice, affixed his seal, then vowed he would find a way to see it delivered to the consensus should calamity befall them. How he might manage this was an unanswered, possibly futile question, but Almon insisted that refusing to try would be throwing away any agency they might yet have.

Thereafter, he informed Saphienne they would be safest proceeding as the Luminary Vale had instructed…

…Which dissatisfied her, so she requested a second opinion.

 

* * *

 

Turbulent snow, and flowers that bloomed through a thousand colours, before settling on the same white as covered them.

“You did not tell me what you risked…” Hyacinth was too shocked for poesy where she held to Saphienne, blossoms trembling. “…You wished to spare me…”

Hyacinth was unsurprised that Wormwood had been teaching her for reasons other than altruism, but still disconcerted that the ancient spirit had been manipulating Saphienne from afar.

Yet not enraged, and soon calming. She knew something she couldn’t share. “There is more to this than you know — I see more than you do, for your having enlightened me.”

“Why can’t you tell me? If it’s the ancient ways–”

“I am not prohibited by ordinary means.” Hyacinth fretted where they sat on the field together. “More than mere convention binds me… but I do not think you have to be concerned about High Master Lenitha.”

Saphienne blinked. “No?”

“Nor do I think you need be too apprehensive…” She squinted. “…The motive may be benign. I cannot be certain, yet there is a possibility that all of this was done in simple kindness, albeit not simply done.”

Saphienne canted her head, sceptical and suspicious. “…You’re subject to a spell?”

Hyacinth gave nothing away — not even through the embrace of possession.

“The sort of spell a High Master could cast?” When no answer came, she slowly lay back on the flowers. “You could be forced to say that.”

“…I am no different from my sisters.”

“Well that’s hardly reassuring.”

The spirit reached for her hand. “If you wish it, have my secret name, that you may change me…”

Saphienne stared at her. “…And make you tell?”

Hyacinth could not speak.

“…That inclines me to trust you, but there’s no way to know whether…”

“Yes.”

And there, once again, lay the question central to Saphienne’s life:

Was it all the work of an evil wizard?

Taerelle had taught her to trust, even when she felt she shouldn’t. For all that the senior apprentice was herself manipulated by Wormwood, Saphienne was still persuaded by the woman’s answer to her existential dilemma.

“…This is naïve,” the girl sighed, “but I’d rather live in trust than fear. I don’t want power over you, Hyacinth, so I’m choosing to believe I can depend on you not to mislead me — or that, if you are misleading me, you’re just as much a victim as I am.”

“…Had I the roots to pray so, I would.”

She took the bloomkith’s hand. “If this ends in ruin? I forgive you.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure it was noon?”

Almon glowered at Saphienne where he stood beside her in his garden. “Entirely certain. The message was unambiguous.”

She covered her nervousness with politeness. “…Would it be rude to ask the exact wording?”

Her soon-to-be-former master rolled his eyes. “‘Saphienne’s new master will be arriving in the Eastern Vale by portal, five days hence, to attend upon Master Almon at noon.’”

Saphienne squinted up at the sun, then craned her head toward the house. “…Could those be–”

Almon swore as he grabbed her sleeve, hurrying her into the kitchen and up the stairs, there pausing to compose himself in the sitting room as they heard Peacock chatting amiably with someone in the classroom below.

“… Lovely young girl, when she’s not sneaking around.”

The woman conversing with the familiar spoke with clipped, deliberately enunciated diction, yet her voice was low and velvety. “She has a penchant for subterfuge?”

“More of a natural talent! Before she cast her first spell, she worked out how to evade me from first principles.”

“Indeed?” Her tone warmed considerably. “And she is only fourteen?”

“Closer to fifteen now.”

“Yet fourteen.”

“If we’re being precise–”

“There is no other way to be.”

Having heard enough, Almon strode to the top of the stairs and began his introductions. “Good afternoon, and welcome to the Eastern Vale. I am–”

“Master Almon, hallucinator, Second Degree…”

As Saphienne quietly followed the wizard she caught sight of the woman who would be teaching her, intrigued to find she was dressed in a practical, long-booted garb, largely comprised of black fabric and dark leathers, the only clue as to her specialism being the dim purple lining her shoulder-length, hooded mantle and ribboning her elbow-length gloves where she gripped Almon’s wrist.

Her gaze was grey beneath her crown-braided hair, and focused on Saphienne as she finished her introduction. “…While I am Vestaele, fascinator, Third Degree.”

Saphienne couldn’t repress her recognition. “You authored ‘Of Delusion’?”

Dignity ruffled by Vestaele, Almon refused to evidence any displeasure for Saphienne’s failure to introduce herself in the proper manner, instead smiling fondly as he released the sorcerer’s hand and swept his arm to the girl. “And this precocious youth is – but of course – Saphienne.”

She bowed as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

Vestaele shallowly reciprocated, her eyes narrow. “I am indeed. You have noticed my work on these shelves?”

Were this woman to be her new master, Saphienne would begin as she intended to proceed. “Actually, I’ve read it.”

An outside observer would not think the look Vestaele gave Almon was anything other than mildly curious, though Saphienne knew she was taken aback to hear a freshly proven apprentice had been entrusted with advanced magical theory. “…Is that so? How very interesting.”

The wizard held the lapels of his robe. “Young Saphienne is something of a prodigy, and was granted consent to read ahead by High Master Lenitha.”

A faint twitch of Vestaele’s cheek was the only indication she was stunned. “I see.”

Then she crossed to Saphienne, footfalls silent despite the heaviness of her boots; the sorcerer was indulgent as she placed her hands on her hips and addressed her future apprentice. “To business, Saphienne. Let us see how well you have been taught my–”

“I read independently.”

“…How well you have taught yourself my work.” Vestaele held the faintest glimmer of annoyance, tempered by the open-minded scrutiny she gave the girl. “Please summarise my thesis, and offer your commentary.”

Behind Vestaele, unseen by her, Almon grinned — and Saphienne received his command.

“As I understand it,” Saphienne began, clasping her hands behind her back and squeezing her fingers, “Larimon’s ‘Sigil as Empty Vessel’ and Rovalia’s theory of magic as an unique emergence inspired you to approach the subject of spellcraft from an unorthodox perspective: via the unique symbolic associations of each magician.

“Your implicit thesis was that Rovalia had overstepped — that differences in apprehension of the symbolic are responsible for distinctiveness in spellcasting, but this does not mean magic itself is idiosyncratic. Your explicit thesis, which was much less interesting,” she candidly remarked, “was that the inability of Fascination spells to directly compel spellcasting indicates that the performance of magic is not contingent on symbolic connotation, but rather denotation. Therefore, subtly changing the connotations of symbols is not a viable means to alter a spell.

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“As reductive as I’m being,” she asked, “am I in the right copse of the woods?”

A long pause ensued.

“…I would say so,” conceded Vestaele.

“Then,” Saphienne shouldered onward, “my commentary is that I’m convinced by your unstated thesis: you excellently highlighted the shortcomings of Rovalia’s conceptualisation of magic. However, I’m unconvinced about connotation in spellcasting, and I’d propose that one might employ the methodology of Galuin to test your thesis.

“Say a cooperating magician detailed the full symbolism of a simple spell. One might interrogate their associations with those symbols, then diagram the resonance of the spell when cast. Then, with their consent, one could fascinate the magician to alter the connotative component while leaving the denotative untouched, and observe what, if any, changes resulted to the resonance.

“In doing this,” she concluded, “I’m confident that the limits on connotation in spellcraft could be surveyed — though I anticipate that the extent to which connotation is impactful varies according to the individual magician. My intuition is that it would only superficially affect your spellcasting, Master Vestaele, but would profoundly change Master Almon’s.”

Wide-eyed, the sorcerer was unintentionally sharp. “Why?”

“Your punctuality and intentionality strike me as adverse to ambiguity, whereas Master Almon’s magical praxis depends upon uncertainty.”

Vestaele said nothing, studying Saphienne, while Almon beamed his satisfaction.

Then the sorcerer smiled, and she laughed, crisp and gentle, folding her arms and tilting her head. “I was not due to take an apprentice, and I had wondered why my attention was required when there were other, sufficient sorcerers available; but you would be wasted on them, wouldn’t you?” She spun to the wizard. “Let us sit comfortably.”

“Of course,” Almon replied as he led them to his sitting room. “And, having welcomed you to the Eastern Vale? Welcome to teaching Saphienne…”

His apprentice wanted to skip up the stairs behind them.

 

* * *

 

Declining tea in favour of water, Vestaele waited until they were seated before explaining how she had been translocated into the village at sunrise, there to undertake the necessary research into Saphienne’s genealogy.

Almon sympathised with her wasted effort. “Unfortunate. If you had come directly to me, I could have shown you my notes–”

“I read them.” She sipped her water, then balanced her teacup on her knee, where it remained level throughout. “They were my starting point. You provided them to the Luminary Vale when you accepted Saphienne as your apprentice.”

The wizard’s eyebrows raised. “Then, why replicate my research?”

Vestaele answered with a diplomatic smile. “They were insufficient. Their content was factual, but ended when you established Saphienne’s lineage could not be definitively traced beyond the woodlands.”

Saphienne nearly dropped her cup. “You went further afield?”

“Physically, no.” Vestaele had a small satchel at her side, and she unbuckled it to withdraw a sheet of paper that Saphienne recognised as old by its visible grain. “Let this be your first lesson: a wizard concerns herself with what can be established through fact and logic, but a sorcerer is unconfined. While I wasn’t able to speak with your mother, I interviewed your priest, Elder Tolduin, and profiled both her and you from what he said.” Unfolded, the page showed Old Elfish. “From there, I searched the records beneath the village hall, working under the inference that your mother had been left to be found by Wardens of the Wild from this vale.”

“Found?”

The wizard dismissed his apprentice’s question with an observation of his own. “That seems more assumption than inference…”

“You would think so.” She smiled at where Saphienne was perched on the edge of the couch. “But I knew – based on Saphienne’s mother, and from the report of her first casting – that she was very unlikely to be a sorcerer by the grace of woodland spirits. Of the remaining possibilities,” she tapped the record, “my hunch was that she had an ancestor who was notably accomplished in the Great Art. By reviewing the register of magicians prior to travelling here, I arrived with a likely candidate identified.”

Now even Almon was transfixed.

Vestaele recited from memory. “Master Kythalaen, born one and a half millennia ago, precise date of death unknown — but believed to have reached her sixth century. An accomplished conjurer, she left the woodlands when she had attained the Fourth Degree with her wizardry… and departed in haste. Reading between the lines? I suspect consent for her journey was granted retrospectively.”

Almon glanced wryly at Saphienne. “…Perhaps precedential…”

“Her remains were retrieved and interred in the Vale of Tears,” the sorcerer relayed, “but the enchantments found with them evidenced that she had attained at least the Fifth Degree. I scrutinised her necklace, and can attest as much.”