CHAPTER 55 – What Elves Won’t Speak About

The next morning Saphienne was quieter than usual, and she could tell Celaena had assumed she was in another bad mood from the space that the older girl gave her. Yet as they walked through the village and passed by the storehouses she shut her eyes and swallowed, her face otherwise expressionless, which Celaena obviously noticed. She felt her friend struggling with how to respond as they passed through one of the central meadows, keeping silent in the coolly overcast, early light, and Celaena might have not said anything at all — were it not for the solitary magpie that flew across their path.

“Saphienne,” Celaena asked, “is something wrong?”

Saphienne had expected the question, dreading it, and her prepared answer was superficially mild. “No. I slept poorly.”

A few steps away, Celaena frowned. “…I know you’re closer to Iolas. Is it something you’ll talk to him about?”

She wanted nothing less. “Weren’t you listening? I told you: I just slept poorly.”

Now a peevish flicker tugged at the corners of Celaena’s eyes; yet she refused the provocation. Saphienne watched her face forward and breathe, her pace slowing as her steps became meditative.

When they reached the western side of the village, Celaena closed the distance and reached for Saphienne’s hand — holding on when she tried to pull away. No words followed, not at first, her firm grip saying everything that was needed, forcing Saphienne to feel even though she didn’t want to listen.

Saphienne’s heart was very weary when she stopped resisting and leaned in. “…I don’t want to talk about it.”

Celaena accepted this. “A wizard keeps his own counsel on his personal affairs,” she said, and Saphienne knew her father was speaking through her. But then her tone eased, like strings being loosened upon an instrument. “…But… Iolas was right, the other day. I was thinking about father. About how we relate to each other… and all the ways we’re so very alike. He holds so much of himself back.” Her palm was sweating against Saphienne, her lips quivering beneath the strain of honest speech. “I find it hard to be with people–”

“But you’ve always been popular,” Saphienne said, hearing the faint pang of lonely resentment in herself after she had interrupted.

“…Have I?” Celaena stopped walking, halting them both. “Have I?” She spoke as though waking from a dream. “I’m not sure that I have. I’ve just been the way my father presented himself, when in public. Like a little wizard: putting myself in front and assuming everyone will do what I want them to.” The ghost of denied sadness haunted her self-reflection. “And of course they would, wouldn’t they? Father is such an important man. And my home is so impressive…”

Her grief shocked Saphienne, who realised she was now holding Celaena’s clammy hand just as fiercely. “You’re good with people.”

“No…” Celaena snorted, then laughed. “No, I’m not! If I was, I wouldn’t be saying this… we’d be talking about you. I’m just…” She drew a deep, aching breath, which she held until it burned.

When she let it out, her certainty returned. “…I’m going to be a wizard.” She turned to Saphienne and took her other hand. “And you’re going to be a wizard, too — better than me. I should hate you for that; I don’t know why I don’t.” She held Saphienne’s gaze. “I wish I was more like Iolas… like Laewyn, too. They can just talk to people. Really talk to them. And the things they say, they’re always helping.”

Saphienne had never noticed before, but Celaena’s eyes were not perfectly blue, streaked through with grey. “Celaena, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yes.” Her smile was appreciative, her gaze longing. “I just want you to… know that you could?”

She wanted to be her friend, like Faylar was to–

Saphienne realised too much about Celaena in that moment, enough to make her own, bright green eyes shine and then spill with soundless tears.

Why were Celaena and Faylar friends? Because they were the same. Neither of them knew how to be themselves, and hid behind the person they had each learned to be, Faylar with his insistent irreverence, Celaena with her performance of importance. On the night they had all been introduced, Celaena had represented herself as knowing more than she did, as being schooled in ways she was not — which she no longer did, at least not to Saphienne, against whom it would never work. And Faylar, too, had been denied his usual defences by Saphienne.

Why was Celaena close to Laewyn? Because the mere baker’s apprentice didn’t care for who Celaena pretended to be, but for the girl beneath the costume. The lonely girl, isolated in her towering tree, befriending birds because she had no one else she could talk to. And Laewyn was unlike Faylar — who wouldn’t joke about the birds, but who Saphienne knew would be too meticulously insincere to let himself enjoy feeding them.

Why was Celaena close to Saphienne? Because she had so few friends.

“…Faylar said you knew Kylantha.” Saphienne had trouble seeing. “He said you asked about her, after…”

With a wounded gasp that betrayed her misunderstanding, Celaena hugged Saphienne, almost smothering her against her shoulder as she rubbed her back. “I’m so sorry–”

Why had Saphienne said that?

“We used to play together–” Her touch stilled. “…I used to make fun of her. But she never let me get to her. Whenever I called her names, she called me names too. No one else was like that.”

Anger seeped into Saphienne’s tears, and her face became a rigid mask against the grey cloth. “You made fun of her. For being a half-elf.”

“But, I wasn’t the only one–” Her voice cracked. “…I didn’t understand what it really meant. I didn’t really mean it. But I don’t know if she knew that, or if I was just like the rest to her…”

Pulling herself away, Saphienne contemplated Celaena — seeing clearly now that her tears had dried. Her rage toward the elf was peerless. Yet the face that stared back was lost, alone, and full of regret, lit from beneath by confused shame that was trapped under the weight of the shadow cast by her parent, and thereby obscured, knowing itself but dimly.

She looked like Saphienne had felt before.

“Why did you do it?”

The wizard’s daughter sniffed. “Because everyone expected me to.”

“Why did you ask about her?”

Celaena wilted. “…Because I realised I missed her. And I thought no one else did.”

What had roused within her heart peered into the older girl, searching for the slightest portent of betrayal. There was none. Against every instinct that guided her, Saphienne had to accept: the cruelty had been in childish ignorance. That which had uncoiled within Saphienne diminished, receding back into the redness that hid below her depths.

“Saphienne, I’m–”

“You didn’t know any better.” She pulled Celaena against her, committing to the embrace. “I don’t know how she feels about you.” Her heavy eyelids fell shut. “She might have forgotten you. She might hate us all. I can’t forgive you, but I won’t hate you. You were just a child.” She relaxed; her last words would be easier to say. “And, you’re my friend.”

Never would Celaena be able to admit what she meant, but as she leaned upon Saphienne she murmured two words – so strangely feathered with affection – that were close enough to suffice.

 

* * *

 

They held hands, and Saphienne remembered Kylantha.

They didn’t talk about her. Celaena, being self-centred by disposition but not by intention, had assumed Saphienne had been angry at her when she heard the half-elf’s name invoked, and the guilt she felt was too painful to address. This suited Saphienne, who had no opinions she could share, and who had been successfully distracted from what had troubled her since the night before.

In her own way, Celaena had helped.

But they were not silent. The two talked with growing ease about everything that didn’t really matter, walking with a looseness that foretold of a deeper friendship to come with more accuracy than any Divination spell. There were giggles, and laughter, and as they entered the outskirts of the village Celaena wiped the salt from Saphienne’s nose and asked after her own appearance.

“You look fine,” Saphienne promised.

“Good.” Celaena squinted, and reached out to adjust the ribbon that tied back Saphienne’s hair. “Do you think I would look good with eyeliner?”

Saphienne blinked. “Why?”

“Laewyn thinks I would.” Having fixed the way her ponytail hung, Celaena took Saphienne’s hand and resumed their stroll. “She’s been experimenting with cosmetics… only in private. She wants me to try them as well.”

“That makes sense.” Saphienne knew nothing about makeup, though she liked some of the styles that Gaeleath sometimes wore. “She probably feels too nervous to wear it alone, and you’re her…”

“Girlfriend.” Celaena blushed, her ears scarlet.

“Does this mean you’ve–”

“Saphienne!” she cringed. “You can’t just ask someone that! Whether or not we’ve gone to bed together is none of your concern.”

Smiling, Saphienne finished her sentence. “…You’ve decided it’s okay for everyone to know?”

Celaena choked.

“I wasn’t going to ask about that. Why would I care?” Her smile became a grin. “I told you before: you’re allowed a love life. Weren’t you listening?”

About to answer, Celaena was saved by a shout from behind, and the two girls spotted Iolas hurrying to catch up with them. The sight of him pre-empted further conversation about Laewyn, instead causing Saphienne and Celaena to share a surprised glance before they laughed together.

“…Yes,” Iolas sighed as he drew to a halt, “laugh at the early turner. Very mature.”

Saphienne admired the threads of gold that had appeared among his brown hair, strands grown blonde overnight from root to tip. “We’re barely halfway through spring! You look like we’re nearly in summer.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Iolas anxiously adjusted his hair, which he’d braided in a vain attempt to downplay the change. “This happens every year.”

Celaena shrugged. “Mine started turning early for autumn and winter last year. Madris says that we’re all disposed toward different seasons, according to our nature.”

“Are we?” Saphienne wondered. “Filaurel said that stress makes summer colours slower to grow in…”

Iolas snorted. “Well that can’t be true, the week we’ve had.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his outer robes as he fell in beside them. “All my family turns early for summer, and late for autumn. My sister turned as well — she was very upset. Thessa had plans for today, but she wants to dye her hair before the summer change. She was begging our mother to go to the storehouse for her when I left.”

Celaena pursed her lips. “…Why would anyone dye their hair?”

“Why?” Iolas grinned. “Of course you’d ask why — you’re much too proper for that, aren’t you?”

Saphienne went a little ahead as Almon’s home came into view. “I can see the appeal,” she admitted. “What colour is she dyeing it? And why not dye it after?”

“Partly? Vanity. She’s hiding the change.” Iolas sounded unenthused, but he contemplated his own hair. “Then again, if she left it too late she wouldn’t be able to… no one’s supposed to have dyed hair on the summer solstice. Winter’s not really a good time of year to be seen out and about, so I suppose during the summer or autumn turn is best.”

“And her colour?”

“Indigo? Some kind of purple.” He squared his shoulders as they approached the door to the classroom. “I’m sure we’ll all see soon. She won’t be easily overlooked.”

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

Terror pounded in Saphienne’s heart as she stared at the paper before her.

Upon entry, Almon had directed them to be silent and sit at their writing boards, which were spread out further apart than usual. As they had settled in he had unfurled and hung a large, strange scroll from the bookcase behind his chair, arcane symbols written upon it in three mystifying lines that the eye struggled to follow. Then he had passed them each a sheaf of papers, moving quickly, retreating to his chair and lifting an hourglass.

“This is to be a test of all you have learned about the Great Art,” their master had said. “You may not confer, and the questions have been tailored to your particular strengths and weaknesses. Follow the instructions exactly. You have ninety minutes,” he had declared, turning over the glass, “in which to answer as much as you can. Your apprenticeships depend upon a passing grade.”

Alarmed, Celaena had almost risen to her feet. “But, you gave us no–”

“Do you think a wizard is always forewarned of peril?” Almon had been unsympathetic. “You were told the importance of study. If you are not prepared, then you are simply unsuited to wizardry — no matter who may believe otherwise.” He had addressed them all with sadistic glee. “If you wish to debate the ethics of this, by all means: you may use the remaining time as you choose.”

As one, they had set to work.

The first page of the examination paper had held a single line in workmanlike script:

 

This page left intentionally blank.

 

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The next had instructed Saphienne not to write on the provided material, to number and write her name at the top of each sheet of paper she used, to write out each question before beginning her answer, and to read all instructions before proceeding. That the direction not to write on the examination paper came after the first, unnecessary page hadn’t been lost on Saphienne, who appreciated the irony.

Resolving to read all the questions through before she attempted any, Saphienne had readied her pens, cleaning purple ink from her preferred nib as she looked over the first question.

 

With specific reference to the work of Shanaera, detail the noteworthy characteristics of ley lines, summarise their effect on the resonance of spells cast upon their intersection, and propose a theoretical underpinning for this effect.

 

She had nearly dropped her pen.

With mounting tension, she had scanned the second question.

 

Diagram the resonance of any one spell you have scrutinised within the past seven days, marking the key features by which the spell’s discipline(s) might be reasonably inferred.

 

Her gaze had risen to the wizard — who had been watching her with amusement. “You never taught us–”

“Everything you witnessed was educational.” He folded his arms. “You saw more than either Celaena or Iolas, and so more is expected from you.”

Angered, but aware of the hissing of the hourglass, she had returned to the questions.

 

Expound upon the flaws in High Master Elduin’s ‘Meditations on the Aether,’ and offer two alternative explanations that do not share the same flaws.

 

“Each of you have ten questions to answer,” Almon had said, “and subsequent questions rise in difficulty. You must successfully answer any five to proceed in your apprenticeship.”

Celaena had given a sharp gasp of dismay; Iolas had cursed.

Unnerved, Saphienne had pointed to the scroll. “This is some kind of trick.”

“Indeed.” The wizard had nodded at the strange markings. “The answers to all your questions are written here, if you can decipher it.”

At that, Iolas had put down his pen. “A different kind of test? Is this a lesson on wasting our time pondering the unknowable — or about the necessity of proceeding as best we can when–”

“If you fail to answer enough questions correctly,” Almon had decreed, “your apprenticeship will end. If you have the talent to read the answers, copy them out; but even if you cannot, then whether you fly or fall, you must attempt to justify your worth as an apprentice by answering them.”

“This is–”

“About eighty-five minutes left, I think? What say you, Peacock?”

The bird by the window had concurred.

And so, without any other choice, Saphienne had read the remaining seven questions, the last of which took up an entire page and incorporated what she imagined were the glyphs with which spells were symbolised. She had wondered, then, if there was some relation between them and what was on the scroll — but they were entirely distinct. Nor had she been able to find any other clue in the questions, or even her surroundings, that presented a key to reading the script; nor had she found any other instructions hidden anywhere she could see.

Perhaps, she had thought, the scroll really was a trap of some kind. She had abruptly turned her back to it, ignoring the wizard’s laughter as she had taken out her coin, clutched it hard, and set to work on the first question.

Now, only a handful of minutes remained, and she had answered barely six questions, none of which she felt confident in. A small pile of frenzied writing was in front of her, and the side of her hand was stained by ink where she had smudged the page in her haste, too short on time for fine calligraphy. She hoped what she’d written was legible enough, that it would be enough… and feared that she knew better.

Celaena was quietly weeping.

Saphienne had failed. There was no denying it. Whatever the test was, whether entirely as it appeared or replete with deeper meanings, it had eluded her, and she couldn’t escape the conclusion that would surely follow. Unless Almon had lied– no, this was unlike his usual pageantry. While his delight in her torment was entirely his own, the crushing imposition of the examination felt like the demand of the Luminary Vale.

Perhaps she had brought this on herself. Perhaps High Master Lenitha had a twisted sense of humour, and had intervened to put Saphienne in her place — to slam shut the door to wizardry ahead of her.

No, that was fanciful thinking… wasn’t it? But even if Saphienne hadn’t brought about her own doom, that she immediately imagined such a wild scenario was only further evidence that she didn’t have the temperament to be a wizard. She was too immature, too conceited, too unwilling to face the reality that she was powerless in life, and so unable to grasp her full potential. Anything else was the fantasy of a child.

The coin ached in her hand.