CHAPTER 104 – Weird Sisters

Together we have leapt from the ground, and together we rise rapidly toward the moment of weightlessness before our descent begins.

Did you think it all artifice? Did you imagine the talk of Divination – and of sympathy – was only to fill the air? That the philosophical debate on right and wrong and unknowable truth, of trust, was extraneous to what was unfolding, rather than crucial?

Many have done so. I cannot fault them. Who could have supposed that she was, indeed, cursed? Certainly not the girl herself.

You may be tempted to assume you know how her story ends — that, with secret knowledge now bared, and through cleverness, you can predict what came to pass for Saphienne.

Even now, I repeat what I told you before:

What makes her story tragic is more than you imagine.

 

* * *

 

When the spell cast by the High Master concluded, Saphienne remained sitting on the gravel as the ancient elder rose.

Lenitha spoke softly. “I must consult with Elduin.” She began weaving a spell as she walked off through the flowerbeds, white and indigo indicating she employed a divinatory translocation to speak with her fellow High Master.

Stood beyond the edge of the circle, Almon, Vestaele, Lylae, and Illimun remained respectfully quiet as they awaited the determination.

This suited Saphienne, who had been left with too much to think about.

 

* * *

 

Lenitha hadn’t possessed the answers Saphienne wanted.

“I do not know,” the High Master said, folding her long sleeves back so that she could warm her hands on the idea of the fire in the envisioned library. “The prophecy was relayed to me long ago, by a friend who no longer participates in the Luminary Vale. I have observed it unfold across millennia.”

“There has to be more–”

“Perhaps.” Lenitha was dispassionate. “Yet the magician responsible for setting it in motion is dead, and left no records behind. All that I know about your wyrd comes from observing you and your predecessor, together with carefully judged interventions.”

That irked Saphienne. “Then tell me something you do know: when you say ‘wyrd,’ to what are you referring?”

Was there a hint of a blush? “…An old concept, no longer commonly taught. Your wyrd is your personal fate. Most in the present day consider the idea of a wyrd to be poetic nonsense — and they are not wrong to think so, within the world they occupy. You have read Elduin’s thesis?”

How the work was relevant escaped Saphienne. “I have.”

“Then understand that your wyrd is what was that is, what is that will be, and what will be that shall have become what was.” Her gaze drifted to Saphienne. “Would you believe he had never heard the term, yet he captured its essence perfectly? Your wyrd is that which has come to pass, that which is in the process of happening, and that which is owed.”

And Saphienne had inherited her wyrd from her ancestor, Kythalaen. “Does everyone have a wyrd?”

“So I believe. Yours is noteworthy.”

“Cursed, you mean.” She was too overwhelmed to be bitter. “What can you tell me about curses?”

“More than I have time to share.” Lenitha shook her head. “I will spare you false hope: not even the greatest High Master can fathom how the curse was woven, and to my knowledge no one but she who laid it upon your line could lift it.”

“Will you teach–”

“No. You will learn about curses and prophetic divination during your studies, and your personal interest will surely carry you further.”

Saphienne stood, her anger shown in the icy ferns tracing the library windows. “You’ve already been heavily involved in my education. Why decline now?”

Giggling, Lenitha slipped from her chair to balance on the balls of her feet. “Precedent has taught me that giving fourteen-year-old girls an understanding of curses would be unwise; and I won’t interfere any more after today.”

“I’m to believe that?”

“You should: it’s true.” She paced toward the front doors. “Four omens have now come to pass, and the last is yours alone to decide. I have done as much as I dare–”

“No.” The doors ahead of the High Master slammed shut. “No, we’re not done. You’re not leaving until you explain what you’ve been doing to me.”

Lenitha paused; her smile held an edge as she turned. “…All I need do is relinquish my spell, and our conversation would be concluded. Were that not the case,” she wondered, hand alighting upon the desk near the entrance as she stepped toward Saphienne, “are you foolish enough to think you could hold me?”

“Foolish enough to try.” Saphienne returned her gaze.

For a long moment, Lenitha studied her; then the High Master laughed and bowed low. “You are fearless! Kythalaen had courage, but she was scared in ways you are not.” When she straightened, Lenitha levered herself up onto the desk, sitting with her sleeves draped on her lap. “You could have asked me, Saphienne; I only preferred to sit on the steps.”

Aware that she was letting her emotions rule her, Saphienne relented, crossing her arms defensively. “…Fine. What have you–”

“When the attempt was made,” Lenitha began, “to prevent the omens from transpiring for Kythalaen, I did not understand how powerful the curse upon her was: I did not understand that it was her wyrd. To deny a wyrd only delays it, and a wyrd delayed comes to pass with greater strength.”

Saphienne blinked. “…You did the opposite. You hastened the omens for me.”

“Some of them.” She peered across the low shelves of the children’s section. “Your mother was anticipated as Kythalaen’s descendant — initially, it was thought that Kythalaen’s wyrd had passed to her, for she fulfilled the first omen. Yet for all she is similar to you, careful augury revealed she was more fortunate. From this, I intuited that she would conceive a daughter, and plans were made far in advance of your conception.”

Unspeakable, unfathomable, undeniable terror made the scene of the library collapse around Saphienne, who beheld–

“Saphienne.” Lenitha was holding her shoulder. “Calm.”

She did, steps sliding into place beneath their feet.

“Among many preparations, a promising apprentice wizard was positioned to become your mentor,” Lenitha confirmed, “working on the assumption that you would pursue wizardry to fulfil the second omen. Then, not long after you were born? Taerelle’s aunt conceived, and she deliberately chose a name for the child that unknowingly imitated your ancestor. That was when I was sure of your wyrd, and of your first omen’s form.”

Kylantha. “Deliberately, yet unknowingly?”

“In the time of my youth names had meaning, and it was believed that name could affect wyrd.” She withdrew her touch. “Accordingly, Kythalaen was given a name to counter the curse. ‘Ky’ means ‘to lie down’ or ‘to settle’ in place. ‘Tha’ means ‘belonging to’ in early Elfish…” Lenitha grinned. “…And was commonly used as a suffix.”

Saphienne swallowed, unsteady. “Phelorna is too young to have known Kythalaen, but she knows the practice, and the ancient meanings.”

Lenitha’s mirth died. “She does; her chosen art was to be a storyteller and linguist. The middle syllable she gave to her daughter means ‘beloved of,’ for she wished your friend to become so loved by the Eastern Vale that she would be allowed to stay. Sadly, neither name had their intended effect.”

 

* * *

 

Kylantha had been doomed. Her friendship with Saphienne meant that, even were the ancient ways to have been defied, a more terrible fate than exile would have befallen the mortal elf. Rather than fight prophecy, Wormwood had let Taerelle take a constructive interest in her cousin; the rest happened as long ago decreed.

Before Taerelle, Almon, too, had been appointed a role in anticipation of Saphienne, selected because his path to wizardry aligned with the omen of choice. He misunderstood: there had been no feats of open prophecy by Lenitha, only the inexorable progress of a curse, sweeping up whatever served its purpose. The rest had been the work of simple augury, constant scrying, and wisdom.

Then later, shortly after Phelorna fell pregnant, Wormwood had arranged for Hyacinth to arise in a sacred glade of the Eastern Vale, there to be gifted cuttings that would predispose the spirit to serving Saphienne — and serving her wyrd.

Her apprenticeship, her apostacy, her rapid mastery of the First Degree: three omens had been facilitated, that they might swiftly follow the first. All along the way, without realising what they had been brought together to do, the major influences on Saphienne’s life had been moved likes pieces on a chessboard, arranged around her in the hope of imparting what Lenitha never saw possible for Kythalaen:

A chance to choose a happy life.

 

* * *

 

These were the horrors alive in Saphienne as she sat in the garden, wrestling with the guilt and rage that blossomed all around. Never had her eyes been darker, and never had she felt so sickened, and so ashamed, for want of an answer that no High Master could provide.

Where did the influence of her wyrd end?

If not for the curse, would her mother have been well? Would Taerelle have been better loved? Would Hyacinth have arisen later in another, kinder age?

Were it not that Saphienne might witness, would Kylantha have been born to suffer?

These happenings were not her fault, yet they all proceeded from her being. She was complicit in the lives that spiralled around her, dragging them down beneath the weight of a tragedy that had proven inescapable to her predecessor.

“Only, you can choose a different fate,” Lenitha had promised.

That was why the High Master had shared. All that remained now was the choice, to be made whenever her wyrd demanded. Saphienne evidenced what Lenitha had prayed to see: a desire for happiness, a willingness to reject her worst inclinations, a yearning to rise above the suffering revealed too soon and see the good in her life…

…In the woodlands. She could make a life for herself here, or be destroyed by dragons’ fire.

Stay or die? Hardly a choice.

Yet the thought that ate her heart and leeched colour from her eyes and lost the world to grey was larger than self-preservation. In her misery, when she asked herself what Kylantha would want for her, now she felt doubt that couldn’t be soothed:

Would Kylantha want her to live, if she knew Saphienne caused her woes?

No wonder Lenitha had warned her to tell no one. They would fear and revile her — as well they should. Anyone close to her risked ruin.

This was why she was unlovable.

And that belief was what she must defy, to live.

But for what? To live, for what?

Lenitha interrupted Saphienne as she returned, waving the wizards and sorcerers closer as she approached with a mischievous smile. “High Master Elduin has concurred with my assessment.”

Welcoming the distraction, Saphienne forced herself to stand with Almon and Vestaele either side of her; she waited patiently for the pronouncement.

When none was forthcoming, Almon coughed. “High Master, if you would not consider it presumptuous, might I inquire–”

“Yes.”

He flushed crimson. “…My apologies.”

“What for? I was answering your question.”

The master of Hallucination froze.

Vestaele hid her irritation well, but not well enough. “…Pardon me, High Master, but he didn’t finish asking. For those of us who lack your enviable skill with augury: is Saphienne a wizard, or a sorcerer?”

Yet Lenitha was grinning. “Must I repeat my answer, young Vestaele?”

Behind Vestaele, having too long suffered the eccentric humour of Lenitha, Illimun folded his arms. “High Master,” he inquired, “if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition: would you be so kind as to share what you learned about Saphienne from High Master Elduin? What specific conclusion you reached?”

“Spoilsport.” Lenitha briefly pouted, then sobered. “I described what I discerned, and he agreed: Saphienne has both sorcery and wizardry. She possesses innate magic that she draws upon to cast her spells, and she does so by memorising sigils, using her wizardry to acquire patterns through which to channel her sorcery.”

In the astounded lull, Saphienne nodded. “That makes sense.”

Bewildered, the comparatively young wizards and sorcerers around her exchanged equally unnerved glances.

Lylae gathered up her voluminous robes to wring the fabric. “Apprentice Saphienne… in what way does that make sense?”

“That’s how I cast?” Saphienne remembered to whom she was speaking. “Please excuse me: that fits with how it feels when I’m manipulating a sigil, Master Lylae.”

Vestaele smoothed the edges of her short mantle. “High Master, might I query the practical implications of this… novel approach to spellcraft? What can we expect from Apprentice Saphienne?”

Lenitha shrugged. “Longer term, who can say? But as for her capabilities as a magician,” she went on, “Saphienne possesses the flexibility of a wizard and the endurance of a sorcerer, combining features from both. She is, definitively, both a wizard and a sorcerer. She is also a senior apprentice, having control over her casting, knowledge of the First Degree and the corresponding faculty for its spells, and the ability to memorise sigils. You needn’t chaperone her around the Eastern Vale.”

Almon was trying very, very hard not to meet Saphienne’s triumphant gaze. “Who,” he managed, “shall be her master? Is she more of a sorcerer, or a wizard?”

Lenitha was familiar with the contest between master and apprentice, amusement in her voice. “I’m afraid you aren’t getting rid of her, Master Almon; nor are you, Master Vestaele; I expect you to collaborate in support of her independent study.”

Almon, Vestaele, Lylae, and Illimun all exploded with objections.

“You can’t be serious about–”

“Independent study is forbidden–”

“High Master, wisdom demands–”

“All education must proceed under–”

High Master Lenitha crossed her arms. “Enough.”

Her juniors quietened.

“I speak now on behalf of the Luminary Vale.” She seemed to grow in stature as she invoked her full authority. “The High Masters speak through me. Hear us: Apprentice Saphienne is to be supervised by Masters Almon and Vestaele, who will guide her pursuit of the Great Art as she prepares herself for examination. Apprentice Saphienne is to be educated to the highest standard, furnished with whatever knowledge may be made available to an apprentice wizard or sorcerer, and trusted to seek the wise counsel of her masters, whom she will keep apprised of her progress.

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“No spell that is harmless is to be withheld, and any sigil that could result in harm shall be given to her when she is judged ready by both of her Masters.” She inclined her head. “However, the conventional timetables for education shall be dispensed with, and judgements as to her readiness shall not be made with regard for her age, only her sagacity. Masters Illimun and Lylae will adjudicate disputes. Should consensus still not be reached,” she sweetly smiled, dropping her formality as she unfolded her arms, “I will be disappointed.”

Illimun bowed. “As we are commanded, High Master. May I ask a question?”

“Please do.”

“You implied that this is precedented.” Saphienne watched him clasp his hands behind his back. “Might we know more? How many others are there, like Apprentice Saphienne?”

Lightly, the High Master brushed her hair past her ears. “To our knowledge, there have been two who presented the same way, each under irreplicable situations of profound duress. One became a High Master.”

Saphienne had been cradling a dreadful premonition. “And the other?”

Lenitha remained smiling, but there was a caution in the stare she gave Saphienne. “Her, we do not talk about.”

All the woodlands were silent.

“But,” Lenitha brightened, “heed one who has lived it: history never repeats in the same way. We are unconcerned.”

Not so Saphienne.

“Vestaele and Almon, divide her education between you both as you see fit. Saphienne, tell Taerelle to show your masters the letter. Illimun and Lylae, I’ll open a portal back to the vale, here, two hours after sunset.” Lenitha lifted her hood and set off into the forest. “Our meeting is concluded.”

 

* * *

 

Although the High Master was finished with her subordinates, Almon was not through with Saphienne. “…What letter?”

She winced. “Taerelle received–”

“Your senior apprentice,” Illimun interjected, “was appointed to tutor Saphienne. Apprentice Taerelle caught Apprentice Saphienne covering up her involvement in the spiritual affair, and had the discernment to write for further instructions, reasoning that she had best report the incident than risk a misstep.”

While his reply was subdued, Saphienne read conflicting feelings in her master’s narrowing eyes. “…I see.”

“It was reasoned that Apprentice Saphienne would benefit from the example of a girl closer to her age.”

She saw Almon take into account what he knew about Wormwood’s influence over Taerelle, and beheld the moment he decided: this did not reflect on his abilities as a teacher. “Understandable.”

Taking a chance, Saphienne bowed. “Master, she was later appointed to take a similar interest in Ce– in Apprentice Celaena.”

Now his intellect was fully engaged. “Presumably,” he inferred, “because she had additional context with which to recognise…” Aware that others were listening, he amended what he said. “…That Celaena would benefit from the same mentorship.”

Illimun smiled tightly. “Exactly so.”

Lylae was conciliatory. “While there is precedent for Apprentice Saphienne’s unorthodox education, I think we should note this is uncharted territory for ourselves, Master Almon; the appointment reflects well on your education of Apprentice Taerelle.”

Her master in wizardry brushed the matter aside. “Of course: I have every confidence Apprentice Taerelle knew what she was doing.”

Having held back, Vestaele cracked her knuckles. “I have no qualms about Apprentice Saphienne being tutored in wizarding. Regarding the division of labour between us, Master Almon, I propose that her theoretical studies are best handled by yourself, and that the development of her spellcraft would benefit from my instruction.”

Almon found this equitable. “With the caveat,” he offered, “that she will need to be trained in techniques of memorisation befitting a wizard.”

“Which leaves,” Illimun murmured, “the question of her living arrangements.”

Saphienne blinked. “I’m living with Apprentice Celaena–”

“No longer,” Almon informed her. “Junior and senior apprentices cannot live under the same roof; there is too great a temptation for the senior to inappropriately assist the junior, or for the junior to read beyond his studies. A wizard or sorcerer could be trusted, but Apprentice Celaena is older than you, and your close friend.”

Layers of irony accumulated on her shoulders, and she bowed under their weight. “…I understand. I should be the one to tell her.”

“Where, then,” pondered Lylae, “would be suitable? I presume there is a reason you live apart from family.”

There, Almon raised a finger, pausing Saphienne as he contemplated. The smile on his lips portended petty revenge. “…There is, and we need discuss the matter no further, for I can think of an excellent candidate for Saphienne’s new domicile.”

“Alone?” asked Illimun. “Or under adult supervision?”

“Neither.”

Saphienne’s suspicion petrified, then crumbled into panic. “No– you can’t– she’ll murder me!”

“Doubtful.” The master of Hallucination beckoned to the upper floor of his home, from which Peacock descended, the familiar having surreptitiously surveilled from above. “The pair of you are closer than I imagined… and having made her bed,” he joked, “the least she can do is let you lie in it.”

 

* * *