CHAPTER 106 – Prodigy

The wind shifts like this:
Like a human without illusions,
Who still feels irrational things within her.

 

See Saphienne upon a threshold, the inspired girl, seventeen years old. Her unbound hair was yet the earthen brown of spring though summer was arisen, and her eyes held the lushness of grass weighed down neath rainfall after wintertime. But for her impaired hand, hers at last was full elven grace, her lengthened stride outpacing the strained proportions of her childhood — and so I need no longer qualify her tall height, for she was the match of her tutor and mentor both, soon to surpass them.

Not yet a woman, she was not wholly a girl, and few were those who would dare treat her as a child in her burgeoning mastery. Habitually she wove wonders that distinguished her from her peers in black, trusted now with sigils once kept in reserve, her faculty for spellcraft expanded to the fashioning of her own spells… though what she wrought was yet constrained for want of the second secret, for which she quested most diligently.

Behold her again, bent to that pursuit, seated within the same stone chamber where last we left her: legs crossed, brow furrowed, grimoire open on her lap. No lamp glow lit her reading, conjured illumination shed narrowly over her from above, making of Saphienne an island in the dark. Day had turned to night, and the summery twilight threatened dawn as she scrutinised the challenge before her.

Innovating, she studied two sigils of the Second Degree. Beside the enigmatic swirls of hallucinatory blue another spell had been added, Transmutation awaiting her with bold, splendorous curves of veridian. The ciphers sat on opposite pages, stitched so by Saphienne that she might regard them both with the same critical eye — seeking after true asymmetries in the disciplines she chose.

What did she make of them?

“…Equally confusing…”

More than two thirds of a year had not progressed her comprehension, the structure of the magical script incomprehensible. Whereas spells of the First Degree encircled a gap into which the magician could place herself, spells of the Second Degree contained no such space, their centres dense with ink as though in exclusion of the magician. Stranger still, the grammar was reversed, with physical and verbal symbols placed innermost, ringed by the mental and emotional.

She’d previously tried many exercises: correcting the patterns, inferring their extension, contemplating the world as their completion… all had brought her naught but frustrated headaches. Whatever the key that opened the way, for the present she was at an impasse with the mystery.

Tired, Saphienne closed her spellbook, dismissing the conjuration that lit the chamber as she rose and departed. Above the garden the sky was deep indigo, the stars in retreat from daytime, the solstice only a few weeks hence…

…Laelansa wouldn’t be visiting. She was headed to the Vale of Rushes, there to learn how elves and spirits were to be paired so that, next year, when she was of age, she could officiate during the solstice festival.

While Saphienne was glad her girlfriend was advancing as a novice priest, she was saddened to be apart from her without a certain reunion. They had exchanged more letters during the past year than in any prior, still close for all they were far apart; she missed her touch, her laugh.

Would Laewyn think that romantic? Saphienne imagined so. She barely saw Laewyn anymore — hadn’t since Faylar ended their relationship, swept off his feet by an unknown lover whom Saphienne was convinced must be another young man. Whyever else would the apprentice librarian be bashful?

No matter. Let Faylar have privacy with his latest paramour: she wouldn’t stoop to using Divination spells to violate his – or any other – trust.

…But she wondered how well he was sleeping, and so too Laewyn.

Saphienne stood in solitude in the tamed garden, thinking of her friendships as she drank in the fading starlight.

She seldom spoke to Celaena and Iolas. For a while, she’d made a renewed effort to see them, attending dinner at their home… yet despite her warm welcome, their lives were ruled by wizardry, as was her own, and no overlap was permitted, leaving their conversation stilted. Thessa assured her it wasn’t all in her head — that Iolas and Celaena had complained about the same, no one able to ford the widening river.

On the other hand, she and Thessa were closer now that the artist and Taerelle had parted ways. To hear Thessa tell it, the young women had stopped because they were becoming contentedly domestic, which could only lead to heartache while the years between them were proportionally so large — especially since the apprentice wizard was bound for the Luminary Vale. They’d mutually agreed that, in a hundred years or so, once Taerelle had been confirmed as a diviner and undertaken advanced studies, perhaps they could see if an ember smouldered.

Thessa still frequently visited for tea, and for yearning.

Saphienne snorted. Laewyn would find that romantic.

…It was romantic: all life lived against tragedy was romantic.

Did that make her a romantic hero? Perhaps a protagonist — but wasn’t everyone the protagonist of their own story? Sundamar insisted she was his villain, and there were many in the village who resented her as though she truly were one. Maybe she was, in their tales.

“Saphienne of the Eastern Vale: most romantic of fools.”

She’d become more sentimental than when she was younger. Loneliness, she supposed, had gentled her in the absence of wrath–

Saphienne caught herself being poignantly morose, shook sense into herself as she tore her gaze from the heavens and back to the ground. “Go to bed: your friends will still be there to fail in the morning… or to fail you… whichever way you look…”

She started into the house–

And halted, blinking, in the doorway.

Saphienne opened her book to its back, studying in the dawning.

“…Whichever way…”

Reflected in her pupils, the sibling sigils curved upon her widening eyes.

 

* * *

 

Saphienne knocked once, then opened the single, most forbidden of doors. “Taerelle.”

Unconscious on her back, the senior apprentice kept her eyes shut as she was woken, black sheets half drawn across her face. Her sigh made the sheer silk draping her bed flutter as she emerged from her dreams. “…Saphienne, unless something’s on fire, or you’re mortally wounded, I promise: you’re about to be both.”

“Taerelle, sit up.”

Gathering together her ire, and then herself, Taerelle swung upright and let the covers fall away, clothed in modest silvery nightwear that Saphienne absently remembered as having belonged to Thessa; her summery locks hung unbound and limp. “Tell me what couldn’t wait until morning, or pick out a scenic spot for your remains to be buried.”

Saphienne sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to her long braid. “What colour is my hair?”

“Blonde,” said Taerelle, still waking up. “Congratulations on finally turning; I’m going to murder you now.”

Rotating the coin where it was clasped within her left hand, Saphienne envisioned herself in another season. “Now?”

“Yes, right n–” Taerelle hesitated. “…Red, but I didn’t see you casting…”

Again she traversed the year. “And now?”

Taerelle choked, having roused enough to sense what was unfolding.

“Taerelle, what colour?”

“White.” As was her housemate’s face in the dim sunrise haloing the curtains. “That spell… which discipline?”

“Transmutation.” Even though Saphienne was more grounded than ever before, she felt tremendously unsteady. “Permanent, superficial change — once I end the spell.”

“Under ongoing control?”

“Yes.”

Taerelle breathed very shallowly. “…With varying effect?”

“Yes…” Her hair grew as she spun the coin, falling out of its plait as it thinned, volume sacrificed for length. “…I have it…” She reversed the spin, returning each strand to its ordinary thickness as she drove on through brunette into sun-kissed blonde. “…I have it.”

Overwhelmed, Taerelle burst into keening tears — and an astounded Saphienne abandoned her spellcasting, pulled into an embrace by the sobbing young woman.

Then her shocked numbness shattered as the full implications struck her, and the magician joined her former tutor in unrestrained, ambiguous weeping, for her life was to be upended once more:

Saphienne had grasped the secret of the Second Degree.

 

* * *

 

When their tears were spent, Taerelle dragged herself and her bedding downstairs, Saphienne going ahead to make reviving tea. The soon-to-be-confirmed wizard – and sorcerer – pressed a cup of warm black into her hands as she sat and sipped the same brew, rewarded by an offer to share the blanket.

They huddled together on the couch.

“…‘Master’ Saphienne…” Taerelle tasted the word. “…Fuck my entire life…”

Saphienne shared that sentiment. “I still need to be examined… but I’ll pass.”

“More than pass.” The aloofness Taerelle ordinarily pretended was lost, her fright cold and radiant in the early dawn. “Saphienne, you’re about to be the youngest wizard in the history of the woodlands.”

“No, before me there was–”

“You’re mistaken.” Taerelle anxiously reached for her usual braid, too distracted to remember her hair was loose. “Our master wrote to the Luminary Vale for information on High Master Elduin; I’d asked how quickly you were likely to progress. The High Master was twenty-one when he decided to study wizardry, and he presented his… arcana… within two months.” She gave up groping for her absent ponytail. “But he didn’t conclude his studies until he was in his thirties.”

“…Oh.” Saphienne blinked. “Shit.”

Neither of them could immediately think of anything to say, dread crowding their words out of the sitting room.

“Perhaps,” Saphienne eventually hazarded, “I could delay telling–”

Taerelle shook her head. “No; absolutely not. Concealing magical attainment from the Luminary Vale is a crime.” She gulped the hot tea she held — then clutched Saphienne’s wrist. “You know that, Saphienne! You know I’ll have to report your success, if you don’t go to our master.”

“Master Vestaele,” Saphienne unthinkingly corrected her. “Master Vestaele is responsible for teaching me spellcraft.”

Taerelle frowned. “…Tell Master Almon first.”

“He’s not–”

“That doesn’t matter.” She tapped the rim of her teacup. “He’ll pretend ignorance when she informs him. If you don’t tell him in advance, you’ll be doing both him and yourself a disservice. Given your history, he has a right to be told before Master Vestaele.”

Did he? Saphienne pondered her first master in the Great Art — soon to become her ‘old friend.’ They still didn’t like each other, Almon believing Saphienne too quick to dismiss the wisdom of orthodoxy, Saphienne considering Almon pompous and conceited without justification. While less abrasive and oppositional than he’d once been, the wizard still possessed a fierce temper, though he reserved his cruelty for games of chess in which he held the advantage; Peacock had become more sarcastic as a consequence of his master’s newfound restraint.

But, as much as they quarrelled whenever their patience wore thin, there existed an uneasy and unspoken respect between them. Almon had, unerringly, recognised her every achievement with the Great Art — and he always acknowledged his errors, when she convinced him he was wrong. He’d never once admitted it, nor would he ever, but Saphienne could tell he regarded her as his greatest – though far from favourite – student.

Didn’t that count for something? If she owed her teacher little else, didn’t she owe him this single loyalty?

Taerelle didn’t press the point. “Do you have a plan for your thesis? I assume you’ll apply immediately.”

Saphienne nodded, gaze on her tea as she made up her mind. “I do; I didn’t anticipate I’d need it so soon, but I have an outline prepared. I won’t be going right away.”

“Of course not; you’ll need to be examined, and to ready your application.”

How softly she smiled as she looked up at her former tutor. “Not because of that. I decided last year: I won’t apply to the Luminary Vale until you do.”

Beside her, the woman who had tutored Saphienne was thrown; her icy eyes glimmered, but she held her calm with a shuddering breath. “…You’re tragic, prodigy. I won’t let you curtail your–”

“Apprentice Taerelle,” Saphienne announced, mischief rousing as she sat up and crossed her arms, “I hereby advise you to reconcile yourself to no longer having say over how I choose to pursue the Great Art. Once I am confirmed as a master of wizardry and sorcery, my progress will not be your concern — and I expect excellence from you, apprentice, as I will not abide your keeping me waiting.”

Taerelle’s brows couldn’t have risen any higher. “…Really?”

“You may anticipate further grievances, apprentice.” She grinned. “And don’t call me ‘prodigy’ around anyone else: it won’t do to be condescended to by my junior–”

“Junior?” Incensed, Taerelle downed her tea then tossed the cup on the floor, uncaring if it broke as she leapt to her feet. “We’ll see about that! I’m not going to be lectured by a precocious little shit who suddenly thinks she’s–”

“Good.” Saphienne languidly stretched, then stood. “And, if you don’t want to be stuck with all the cleaning? Catch up quickly, for I’ve much more important things to be doing than tidying up after you.”

Despite her indignity, Taerelle matched Saphienne’s grin. “…You’re going to be insufferable. You were arrogant before, but with this?”

“Arrogant? Hardly.” Saphienne headed for the stairs. “Just sure of myself.”

“Full of yourself, you mean.”

“You’ll excuse me,” she nonchalantly replied, “but before I upend over six thousand years of assumption about the timeline for mastering the Great Art, I’d better rest. Goodnight, Apprentice Taerelle.”

“…I’m not calling you a master, Saphienne — not until forced to.”

She smothered her fears with wry humour as she ascended. “Shan’t be long, I expect.”

 

* * *

 

Fraught though their relationship remained, time had worked one more change between Saphienne and Almon: whenever Saphienne made a claim about herself, the wizard now listened with absolute and unquestioning seriousness.

“The Second Degree.” He slowly set the book he held back on its shelf, turning to place his hands atop his tall chair. “Already.”

Saphienne bowed to him from across the classroom. “I haven’t told Master Vestaele. You’re the second person to know, after Taerelle.”

He was dazzled where he clung to the high back. “Where? When? How?”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“In our garden, shortly before astronomical twilight this morning.” She managed a smile more confident than she felt. “You’ll excuse me, Master, but I’m not sure I’m permitted to repeat the secret of the Second Degree to anyone other than Master Vestaele.”

“And you’ve cast a–” He rubbed his face. “Stupid question; ignore it.”

“As you wish, Master.”

Her quip cut through his daze, and he exhaled a shallow, unwilling laugh. “…Every other question I can think to ask is equally facile — and spare me your barbs, apprentice, while I recover my wits.”

Saphienne indulged him. “It is a lot to take in.”

He appraised her foremost as a marvel of the Great Art. “Did you cast first, as before? Or did you comprehend the secret intellectually, then apply it?”

“Intellectually.” She would have shared more, but the rule against it was supreme.

Yet Almon was dissatisfied as he drummed his fingers on the upholstery. “…By agreement, Master Vestaele should have been informed ahead of me…”

“Am I to be censured, Master?”

The wizard glowered. “I see sentimentality is a flaw you haven’t outgrown.”

“Nor have you.” She smirked. “But, Taerelle did prompt this visit.”

“A loyal apprentice.” He didn’t specify to whom he referred, his fingers hastening their tempo — until he slapped the back of his chair as he reached a decision. “Damn Vestaele! I don’t particularly like her, Saphienne, and I’m far too curious to leave this alone.”

Never before had Almon afforded her such a candid admission, and Saphienne recognised this was the first occasion on which he was treating her as the peer she was to become. Slowly, she allowed herself to smile. “Finally, common ground: Master Vestaele is close to the opposite of what I believe a magician should be.”

He inclined his head. “She sees the mystery, but not the wonder. It pains me that she’s my superior as a magician.”

Approaching, she hazarded her own complaint. “Ever since our first lesson, she’s been steadfast in trying to groom me into taking an interest in politics. She asked what my magic would be for, as though pursuing the Great Art isn’t intrinsically worthwhile.”

“That isn’t entirely unreasonable.” Almon leant his elbows on the chair. “Under the credible assumption that you are to join us in the Luminary Vale, I’ll warn that status is as persuasive as attainment to magicians below the High Masters. You will be approached through guile, by devious minds, who would use you as a stepping-stone to influence and prestige. Some, like Vestaele, thrive within those schemes; if she’s being direct enough for you to discern what she’s doing…”

Saphienne faltered. “…I hadn’t considered that…”

“She is very reserved.” He gazed up at the ceiling as though mulling over what awaited Saphienne. “You don’t have to engage in politics; you possess sufficient talent – in alarming quantity – that focusing on the Great Art will be enough. If you would heed the advice of a wizard who is ill-suited to politics’ machinations,” he offered, “I suggest reciprocating her frankness, and asking how to best position yourself to avoid being ensnared.”

…High Master Lenitha had been thinking very far ahead, when she chose Vestaele to be her master in sorcery. “That might be some of the best advice you’ve given me, Master. My sincere thanks.”

The wizard waved off her words as he squared his shoulders and forsook the prop of what Peacock had called his throne. “Recalling that a sorcerer is permitted to state the secret of the Second Degree to her master when commanded, and that while I am not a sorcerer, I am your master…”

He solemnly paced toward her; despite having outgrown him by two inches, Saphienne beheld her master towering over her, as he had done on the night they first met.

“…Apprentice Saphienne, I command you: explain to me the secret of the Second Degree, and how you attained it in such a brief time.”

 

* * *

 

Magic shifts in response to our thoughts and feelings.

 

That was how Saphienne had phrased the secret of the First Degree to Taerelle and Vestaele. Prior to uncovering that truth, she had heard Arelyn say the secrets of the higher degrees built upon each other, arranged in sequence.

What, then, was the secret of the Second Degree?

 

Magic shifts in response to our perception.

 

To observe was to change what was observed. Intuitively, Saphienne had tapped into this truth when memorising her proving sigil, having altered the way she saw the world so as to make herself more welcoming to its cerulean. And hadn’t the scholar Corytho implied perception was fundamental to spellcraft, with his supposition that all of magic was contingent on how one perceived the world unfolding?

Whether a magician stood in the centre of her spell or surrounded it was all a matter of perspective, and so sigils of the Second Degree hinted the way forward — for those who had eyes to see.

That Saphienne had figured it out thanks to a late night reverie on her failing relationships would probably have entertained Almon, were she to have told him. Instead, she wove together poetic nonsense about the changing of the sky around the constant stars, intending that the imagery ought please him enough to keep her troubles private.

 

* * *

 

Having a standing arrangement whereby she was free to call in on Vestaele unannounced from evening until midnight, Saphienne passed an hour walking in the forest, composing what she would say, anticipating possible reactions and rehearsing responses so that she wouldn’t be caught off guard. This was a frequent habit, adopted from the example often set by Almon as he’d prepared to deliver his lessons.