CHAPTER 14 – An Immovable Rock

See Saphienne as she was becoming, the forthright young girl, fourteen years old. Her hair was once more brown as the earth, and she was still pale — though even these features had begun to lose their resemblance to those of the quiet child she once was, her hair thicker, gloss beginning on her skin. Her eyes were still green, but their childlike openness and passivity had been replaced by sharp observation and implicit judgement, qualities which shone brightly even when she said little. She was tall, though not yet as tall as fully grown elves, and she was not so slight in build as before, though her figure was still reaching out toward her forthcoming womanhood.

Yet the most striking change was in her face, which no longer had the proportions of a child. Saphienne now regarded the world through an expression of confidence, worn to mask her incipient resentment toward anyone and everyone who held authority over her life. She was not in rebellion, not then, but even the way she wore her light grey, apprentice’s robes evidenced her irreverence where others would bow down. She carried the satchel slung against her hip like it was a sheath for a weapon, one hand upon the shoulder strap — and the sharp pens readied within kept a keen edge.

This was how she appeared when she approached the home of the wizard Almon for the second time, no longer a supplicant, now set to be his apprentice. He had fought to refuse her — and she had won her admission.

Yet she knew he would never accept her. He had requested she visit him when she turned fourteen, and Saphienne understood that her failure to arrive on the morning of her fourteenth birthday would give him pretext to withdraw his teaching. He would demand more from her than the other students, with less support, and she would either thrive in his shade or wither into dust: that was to be their relationship. All this, she knew.

Saphienne also knew the door to his tower-like home would be open, and as she stepped through and closed it she clutched her treasured coin in her hand tightly, steeling herself as she looked over the small parlour beyond. Almon was not present. The high-backed chair in which he had lounged was still placed beside the fire, but it no longer faced the room, and the piles of books that crowded the floor by the shelves showed signs of being recently organised.

“So, the girl arrives.”

Almon smoothly descended the curving stairs at the far side of the room, dressed in vibrant, blue robes, ostentatiously formal. He paused with his hand on the banister, surveying her as he drew his outermost layer across his chest. “I had expected you would be here with the dawn.”

“That would have been discourteous, Master Almon,” she answered, and she gave him a small bow. Nothing in her demeanour disguised how she felt toward him.

And yet, her false respect was enough to make him smile. “So we are to care about courtesy now? Very well. We shall pretend, for the sake of the other students, who are not yet such ready combatants as you and I.”

The wizard alighted on the wooden floorboards, forgoing his chair as he walked to the middle of the room. “Let us see what Filaurel has made of you. Come: sit.”

Saphienne crossed to where he waited, and then lowered herself nimbly, sitting cross-legged, her robes fanned out around her.

Almon walked to the mantlepiece and collected an hourglass, and as he did he spoke without his usual drama. “This is a simple test,” he told her, “and one that all apprentices must complete to formally receive the title. Failing it would ordinarily entail another attempt in a later year, but not so for you.”

He crouched down, his plump arm extending from his sleeve as he held the hourglass horizontal before her, shaking it back and forth so that the sand stirred in the upper bulb. “You must succeed.” He didn’t need to further explain his threat. “And to succeed, you must sit in meditation for one hour, ignoring all distractions until the sand has finished pouring. Should your attention wander, should you lose focus for even an instant, I will know.”

Inwardly, Saphienne smiled: Filaurel had made her sit for two.

The wizard’s gaze was severe. “If you require preparation, say so now.”

She shook her head.

“Are you ready?”

There was no need for words; she closed her eyes.

“One hour hence,” he warned her, “and not a moment before.”

Saphienne heard the soft trickle of sand as he placed the hourglass down, and she focused on that sound to the exclusion of all others, deepening her breathing as she stilled her mind and emptied herself of any thought. She was aware of all that was happening, but her awareness was controlled.

The world around her faded. Time fell, one grain at a time.

Almon moved to the nearest shelf. He quietly lifted a book, thumbing through its pages, then placed it back. Another was soon reviewed. Then another, accompanied by a restrained cough.

There was a loud thump as he dropped the book on the floor.

Saphienne was undisturbed.

A minute later, the wizard retrieved the volume and walked past Saphienne, the hem of his robe brushing her elbow.

An obnoxious grinding filled the air as the wizard slowly pulled his chair around, dragging it forward inch by inch until it was before where she sat. He threw himself into the cushions heavily, and sighed as he settled down to read, his robes rustling and shoes clicking as he stretched out his legs.

Distantly, birdsong whistled through the open window.

“You seem to have settled into it,” he casually observed.

Somewhere in the woodland children were at play, screaming and laughing.

Almon continued to flick through his book for a while, drumming his fingers on his armrest in a faltering tempo.

Eventually, he slammed shut the book. “Time’s up.”

Still the sand was hissing; still Saphienne listened.

Standing again, the wizard muttered an insult as he stared down at her. He returned the book to its shelf, strode to the parlour’s entrance, collected a thick cloak, threw it over his shoulders — then yanked open the door, slamming it angrily.

There were no further attempts to interrupt her meditation.

…Not until he slipped the cloak back off his shoulders and rehung it beside the door, having waited just inside for several minutes, watching her the whole time. He loomed behind her, glowering down. “If you insist on making this difficult…”

Whispering incantations, the wizard invoked a spell right above her head, magic lighting up the room. Then warmth joined the light, and Almon reached down to drop the bright heat onto her shoulder, where it took hold, hissing and crackling as it blossomed into tongues of flame.

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Saphienne faltered; her thoughts returned. Almon had lit her on fire, and her robe was burning, growing hotter as the fire spread — and singed her hair. Pain bit into her neck as the scent of scorching skin filled the parlour–

No.

Either he had set her on fire, or it was an illusion. Would he risk his home? Would he physically harm her?

None of that mattered. Whether the fire was real or not, she would endure.

The flames spread across her body as she returned her attention to the hourglass, enveloping her in intensifying agony — which all at once vanished, the hallucination departing, sweet relief rushing in to fill the sudden absence.

Ignoring the cessation of pain was harder than ignoring the pain itself.

Almon moved back to his chair. He sat, and did nothing more to disturb her as the sand in the upper bulb dwindled.

Finally, as the hissing grew fainter, he breathed deeply. “Very well. You’ve proven yourself.”

Saphienne waited for the sand to settle.

“I said, you’ve succeeded.”

A few motes drifted down from the pinch in the glass.

Almon sighed and lifted the hourglass, and only then did Saphienne return to herself, looking up at him calmly.

Seated, he was studying her expression thoughtfully. “Answer me honestly,” he instructed. “Did your attention wander?”

Her reply was quiet. “I thought you could tell?”

The wizard couldn’t help but smile. “Very good.” He suppressed the feeling quickly, and stood. “Filaurel may have no magical competence, but I will confess: she prepared you more thoroughly than I expected. Convey to her my satisfaction with your readiness.”

“I shall.”

He gestured to her. “Arise, apprentice.”

Saphienne stretched, and then gracefully climbed to her feet with all the dignity she could summon.

Almon laid his hands upon her shoulders, and bent forward to look deeply into her eyes. “There will be no truce between us,” he cautioned her. “I will teach you, but the only respect and acknowledgement you will receive from me will be for the sake of the Great Art. The only fairness I promise you is this: I will recognise your accomplishments, without praise, yet without belittlement. To this promise, I will add that I will give you every instruction offered to the other students.”