CHAPTER 49 – Icons of Devotion

Sleep refreshed Saphienne, so much so that she woke up alert and angry. Quite why she was irate was a mystery to her as she lay comfortably in bed, last night’s dreams elusive, but when she stretched and faced the morning light she immediately found an excuse to show her irritation.

Peacock squawked and beat his wings as she threw open the window, nearly falling from where he was sunning himself.

“Again?” She bared her teeth. “Why are you skulking on my windowsill this time?”

The magical bird smoothed down his feathers, grumbling. “And a good morning to you, Saphienne. I can tell you’ve had a restful night.”

Arms folded, her eyes narrowed. “You were spying on me?”

“I was waiting! I had explicit instructions not to wake you.” He puffed up his iridescent chest, indignant at her accusation. “Almon sends a message: today’s lessons are also cancelled, and you are invited to visit him at whichever hour is most convenient to you. He told me to stress there’s no rush.”

Saphienne blinked. There was only one conceivable reason why he would cancel the lesson and invite her to visit with such formality. “Do you know what this is about?”

“That’s a conversation between him and you,” the bird chirped back, petulant.

Shit. Peacock all but confirmed her suspicion.

“I’m just his messenger — and yours, if you have a reply.”

Her first impulse was to go directly to Almon, try to change his mind… but Saphienne knew she had woken up in a bad mood. Filaurel had taught her well — it was very important that she not rush. If she were to persuade the wizard, she had to arrive composed and in full command of her faculties. Even if keeping him waiting put her at a disadvantage in the ensuing argument, she had to be calm and readied.

She glanced over her shoulder to where her robes were hung up to dry; the grey cloth was damp along its seams. “Give him my thanks for the time to prepare myself. Tell him I’ll be there by late afternoon.”

“As you choose.” He clicked and moved away, readying for flight.

Guilt won out against her rising panic. “And… good morning, Peacock.”

He flicked his tail feathers at her, not bothering to turn around, though his tone was mollified. “You’re not the first person to be sharp with me today. At least Celaena and Iolas were happy to see me…” Peacock took off without another word.

Saphienne left the window open, soaking in the sunlight as she imagined what awaited her at the wizard’s home. The longer she stood there the more agitated she became, uncertainty gnawing at her. Had he found out? Did he work out her involvement himself, or did the Luminary Vale tell him? Or had Taerelle betrayed the truth to him? Perhaps he was no more aware than before, and had simply decided to…

Her eyes closed. Whatever had prompted his decision – whether he knew what she had done or remained ignorant – was not what mattered most right now. Her master had decided to end her apprenticeship. That hurt Saphienne, bitterly. Examining his reasons, questioning his judgement, persuading him to reverse course? Those challenges were insurmountable while she was caught up in her feelings.

If she was to stand a chance of success against Almon, she first had to swallow the pain and centre herself. She also needed sound advice.

But not from Filaurel — no, not today. Not after their discussion last night: Saphienne couldn’t bear to worry her so soon.

No, the mentorship she needed would have to come from elsewhere. Fortunately, she knew just the person to ask.

 

* * *

 

After a full breakfast followed by meditation, Saphienne dressed and gathered herself together, taking her time before she set out into the woods. Gaeleath’s pavilion lay just a little distance to the northeast of the village, close enough to her family home to be a short walk without intruding on her private life; the sculptor had been quite open about their reasoning for where they placed their temporary studio.

This time, the flap was unbuttoned, and she heard neither chiselling nor singing. Saphienne took a calming breath before she entered, announcing herself as she did. “Good morning Gaeleath. Could I–”

But her instructor was not present.

Taken aback, Saphienne retraced her steps to look behind the pavilion – checking that Gaeleath wasn’t browsing the half-finished works arranged nearby – then scanned the woodland. There was no sign of them.

Had Gaeleath taken the day off? She had never known them to take a break from their chosen art. Maybe they were simply engaged on a short errand. But then again, they had reason to believe Saphienne would be too busy to stop by… and had been working harder than usual on their exhibition piece.

Mulling over their absence, she drifted back into the tent, where her gaze rested on the large, red, silky sheet that was draped across the work that occupied the sculptor’s plinth — a much taller statue than she remembered. Saphienne folded her arms, idly imagining what lay hidden from view as she waited.

Being fourteen, she managed all of five minutes before she decided to peek.

At her gentle tug the cloth fell away, flowing from the polished sandstone in a scarlet wave that pooled upon her feet. Her smile was just as swift to rise — untempered delight at the artistry unveiled. Gaeleath had the talent to make stone appear soft, to make still shapes imply motion, shown well by the two dancers where they clung to each other. Man and woman, they were embracing as they spun, their long hair whipping around them in matching spirals, the male supporting the female by shoulder and posterior, his fingers sunk into her curves while she hooked one leg around his waist. They were both delicately fashioned, rendered so realistically–

Saphienne froze.

Slowly, with dawning realisation, she tilted to the right like a tree bowed by the wind as she observed where the two figures were joined, bending further down to peer between–

Her startled intake of breath was accompanied by a blush so fierce that it made her crimson ears twitch, and she blinked several times as she stared, unconsciously pressing her hand against her stomach with a wince.

Then she snapped upright and turned to leave, feet immediately tangling in the bolt of cloth, which she scooped up and nervously threw onto the statue — only for it to slide back off, requiring another attempt before it hung as Gaeleath had left it. Once Saphienne was sure the veil of modesty would hold, she all but ran away.

So that was why they had asked her not to stop by unannounced. The more she thought about it, the less she wanted to, and she was soon hurrying down a grove in the village before she remembered why she had originally visited the workspace, stopping against a tree to catch her breath and groan.

Thanks to her curiosity, asking Gaeleath for advice was now completely out of the question: Saphienne wasn’t sure she could ever look them in the eye again. And now she was even less composed than when she woke up.

If only she hadn’t been surprised… if only she were more mature, more comfortable with…

…The thought of being comfortable in the presence of that sculpture made Saphienne feel vaguely nauseous. Especially because it was beautiful, which made the subject all the more challenging to contemplate. Nothing she had read had prepared her for the sight of…

Saphienne clutched her ears and pinched.

“Not now,” she told herself aloud. “All of that can wait until I’m eighteen.”

Although she struggled to believe it, repeating the words aloud made her feel better. She let go of her ears, wincing again as her blood rushed back in, and thought about her predicament as she stared at the ground.

Who else could she speak to? Who else would have sympathy for her plight? Who else knew about being a wizard’s apprentice, and had the maturity to help her examine her situation?

Who else, above all, had her trust?

 

* * *

 

While Saphienne could have asked around until someone pointed her in the right direction, she had a better idea for how to find Iolas’ home, and so headed deeper into the village. By the time she arrived at the bakery she was no longer blushing, and the scent of warm bread was quite pleasant as she stepped inside.

There was no sign of Laewyn. The girl’s master in baking, Tanelia, was busy bundling requests into bags of plain white cloth. “Just a moment, please.”

Saphienne waited by the counter, contemplating the pastries laid out in the glass cabinet to the left — the strawberry tarts in particular. Yet an upside-down reflection in the glass soon caught her attention, and she looked up, to the opposite wall near the ovens, studying the pair of painted panels hanging there with fresh eyes.

Religious art was such a common fixture in elven society that, much like the air she breathed, Saphienne had never really given it much thought. She simply took for granted that people decorated their homes and places of work with depictions of the gods, especially patron gods, where such had been chosen. The diptych showed two figures in equal glory: a man cupping fire between his hands, his gaze upon the flames, and a woman tilting an hourglass as she intensely scrutinised the viewer. A god and goddess, Saphienne knew… she could even guess which.

“Our Lord of the Everlasting Hearth,” she said aloud, nodding to the paintings, “and Our Lady of the Chosen Moment?”

Nonplussed by the question, Tanelia had to follow her gaze before she indulged Saphienne with her answer. “They are. But in here, they’re Our Lord Who Tends the Hearth and Our Lady Who Waits in Patience.”

“Appropriate patrons for a baker.” Saphienne folded her arms as she leant forward on the counter. “I’ve never noticed before.”

Finishing her task, the baker wiped loose flour from her fingertips using a towel looped through the strap of her apron, then approached Saphienne with a shrug. “I’ve not got much to say about them. They’re not my patrons. I offer a few prayers here and there, when work gets busy.” She placed her palms on the counter. “I’ll grant this, though: less has ended up burned, since I hung the diptych.”

Flashing a playful smile, Saphienne asked “Divine intervention?”

“Or just more mindful about my business.” Tanelia gestured to the cabinet. “Here for a strawberry tart, Saphienne? If you’re here for Laewyn, she’s out fetching in our provisions.”

Being remembered still put her on edge. “I wouldn’t refuse a tart… but, am I within my share?”

“You’re more than fine.” She waved her worry away. “As I reckon it, you’re in surplus for a good while. Your mother rarely requested anything on your behalf. Besides,” she said, “a wizard’s apprentice needs nourishment, if she’s to be any help to the woodlands.”

A small bow hid Saphienne’s consternation at the mention of her mother. “…You’re very kind. In that case, I’d like a strawberry tart, and a cinnamon roll.”

“Hungry today?” Tanelia set about fetching the pastries as they spoke.

“The roll is for Iolas.” Weighing up her odds, she decided to try her luck. “Speaking of which… I know his sister has a regular request. Do you happen to know where they both live? I’ve never visited before, but he mentioned his home isn’t far from mine.”

Pausing, Tanelia canted her head. “Unless someone’s taking advantage, requests are meant to be private.”

“I’m not asking about a request,” Saphienne countered, reaching for a sympathetic half-truth. “I just want to cheer him up — the first few lessons have been quite hard on us.”

The baker’s eyebrow twitched. “…So Laewyn was being honest, then. She said Celaena was still in a bad way, these last two days; I wasn’t sure if she was using her as an excuse.”

Judging the mood, Saphienne lowered her voice — conspiratorial. “I know Laewyn isn’t, um, very invested in baking… but she’s quite protective of Celaena. She wouldn’t lie about her.”

“She’s a decent girl at heart,” Tanelia accepted, “just lazy. Gods know what her chosen art will turn out to be. Still, whatever her passion, there’s always a need for baking.” She placed the cinnamon roll and strawberry tart into a small wooden bowl, covered it with a fresh cloth, and slid it across the counter. “Not as hard as magic, I’m sure.”

Thinking back to her failed loaf, Saphienne’s grin was wry. “You’d be surprised. I’m not much of a baker — my bread turns out flat.”

Now Saphienne had the baker’s sincere interest. “Do you have yeast? And syrup for the yeast? Of course you do.” She crossed her arms as the answer came to her. “Betting you didn’t know to proof the yeast before you add the flour — or you don’t allow the dough to rise before it goes in the oven.”

A frown showed Saphienne’s confusion. “…The recipe never mentioned anything about proving yeast, or letting the dough rise.”

Amused now, Tanelia was blunt. “You need a book for beginners; advanced recipes gloss over the basic steps. Or ask Laewyn to show you how it’s done.”

All the testimony Saphienne had heard suggested Laewyn would be difficult to motivate. “…I’ll check the library.”

“Probably the wiser choice.” Unfolding her arms, the baker came around the counter to walk Saphienne to the door. “As for Iolas’ home? If I remember right, his family live near you…”

 

* * *

 

Two groves over from her family home, Saphienne approached a house that wasn’t much larger than it, hiking uphill against the wind while the boughs stirred and the long grass rippled in cascading waves that broke against her shins. Windchimes, made of metal, rang cheerfully up ahead.

When she crested the hill the breeze diminished, and Saphienne was enchanted to see that the chimes were accompanied by faded paper wheels that spun in lazy greeting. They were all hung from the branches of the house by ribbons — bright, in rainbow colours, arranged to decorate the otherwise ordinary bark. So too the tree was motley in the way it had grown and been added to, a little lopsided, less carefully cultivated than was typical.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Yet the feature that drew her interest was a large sunroom, built at ground level and extending into the overgrown garden, roofed and walled in glass to protect its occupants from the weather while affording a view of the woodland. The transparent doors on each side were presently slid aside, the space within open to the air, and there she could see someone seated at a desk, head bowed in concentration as he read through myriad stacks of weighted-down papers and made adjustments to a series of abacuses arrayed before him.

Pausing near an open doorway, Saphienne studied the man. From his facial features she could guess he was Iolas’ father, but he was not at all like she had pictured, his hair loosely held back with an effeminate band to fall sheer about his shoulders, shoulders which were covered with an airy, floral-patterned mantle that seemed more suited to a woman. He was otherwise conventionally masculine in appearance and build, his wrist toned where he reached out – without looking – to adjust one of the counts. He was writing with his other hand, albeit in fits and starts, his eyes on the sprawling scrolls and ledgers before him, his lips moving and muttering as he sweated his way through rows and columns of figures.

Remembering Iolas’ politeness, she knocked on the doorframe.

The man raised a finger without raising his head. Then, he finished noting down whatever had demanded his focus, set down his pen, and leant back with his eyes closed, sighing away the stress of his work before he opened them again. He smiled at Saphienne, a smile very similar to the one she knew from his son. “Hello there! You must be Saphienne.”

Given that she wasn’t wearing her apprentice’s robes, she wondered how he knew. “Have we met before? Or am I that easily recognised?”

He chuckled, stretching as he stood. “Iolas mentioned you — your hair gave you away.” He came closer, stopping a little distance away with a friendly bow. “I’m his father, Athidyn; it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Perplexed, very much wanting to examine her own hair, Saphienne returned the bow as she spoke. “A pleasure to meet you, too.”

“I’m afraid he isn’t home right now,” Athidyn went on. “He’s gone out with his sister — something about visiting the lake? You’re welcome to wait, but they could be several hours.”

She tried not to let her frustration show. “I might just go and look for them.”

“A good excuse for a hike,” he said, wistful, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed. His reluctant nod to his desk conveyed his envy toward his children. “I’d be out there myself, if I didn’t have this lot to shovel through.”

Saphienne’s gaze flicked to his desk — and then to the wall beyond, where another religious painting was hung. She didn’t remember the goddess depicted, and so studied the implements the divinity held, trying to recall her title as she carried on the conversation. “That’s a lot of reading…”

“Six months of requisitions,” he explained, “along with the latest forecasts for farm yields and crafting rates. I was up to my armpits in barley when you knocked.”

The significance of the scales and the sickle became a little clearer, but the nature of the goddess was still ambiguous to Saphienne. “If you don’t mind my asking: what’s your chosen art? Iolas said you liked the outdoors…”

“I do.” He laughed. “But I’ve a talent for divining trends.”

Her gaze returned to his face. “You’re a diviner? You can’t be, Iolas said–”

“Gods, no!” He laughed a little louder. “If only! I just compare changes in production and consumption, define the key questions that need answered to forecast our future, and send them off — actual wizards do the spellcasting.”

Bemused, Saphienne opened her mouth, shut it, then tried again. “…Can’t wizards just divine the future?”

“Only if they know what questions to ask.” He went back to his desk, lifting an unfurled scroll. “Here’s a report on the production of oats from a local farm. There are two dozen fields being worked, each broken down into furrows. This records details of the geography, soil quality, measurements of temperature and irrigation, timing of the planting and harvest, and the total yield. A skilled wizard who knows farming could read this information and cast a Divination spell to foretell the next harvest.”

Saphienne trailed after him, drawn by the puzzle. “…I understand…”

“But this farm provides less than one twentieth of what we grow for our village in a given year — and a wizard doesn’t have time to pull all of this together for a single field, never mind two dozen, never mind all our farms.” He handed her the scroll. “Iolas said you haven’t covered Divination yet, so I won’t get too deep into it. Let’s just say that complexity is an impediment to Divination. The simpler, clearer, and more precise the question you pose, the more accurate the divination will be.”

Overwhelmed by the extent of the scrawl, Saphienne gave up reading and handed back the scroll. “So you work out how it all fits together?”

“Yes.” Athidyn swept his hair out of the way before he sat on the edge of his desk. “The purpose is to simplify what’s going on, using correlations and reasonable guesses to come up with an easier way to divine what will happen — one that doesn’t need the attention of a powerful wizard to be accurate. The goal is to pose useful questions that can be answered by divinations of the Second Degree, and to combine the answers to predict the big picture.”

“…Practical spellcraft.” Saphienne remembered Rydel’s interest. “This is about figuring out how to meet our collective needs, isn’t it?”