CHAPTER 6 – The Great Art

Months before Saphienne stood in the parlour and answered the wizard, she had been examined for apprenticeship by another accomplished artist.

Gaeleath had arrived at her family home early in the morning, to be met by her mother, who brought the sculptor inside and called up the stairs for Saphienne. Descending toward them, Saphienne heard a casual offer of wine despite the early hour, along with the surprise behind the polite refusal that swiftly followed. She tried not to show any irritation toward her mother as she entered the living room and sat opposite Gaeleath, choosing to pretend that her parent wasn’t there. The only one she cared to speak to was her potential tutor.

Who was something of a mystery, smiling amiably, dressed in a weathered travelling cloak that had seen better days. Gaeleath’s hair was drawn up in a simple, masculine braid, framing lips that were painted in delicate, feminine style. The artist wore an elaborate earring that drew the eye, scandalously held in place by a piercing, yet the clothes worn beneath the fraying cloak were austere and utilitarian in style. There were no clear tells as to whether Gaeleath was an effeminate man or a masculine woman, for the sculptor contrived an appearance that was coyly androgynous.

“So,” Gaeleath asked, “what is it you want to sculpt?”

Before she could answer, her mother interjected. “Her heart’s been set on sculpture for over a year! She’s very passionate.”

Gaeleath didn’t so much as glance away, only kept smiling, waiting for Saphienne to speak for herself.

The question gave her pause. “What I want to sculpt? Not why?”

The sculptor nodded.

“I don’t know.”

Accepting this, Gaeleath stood to leave. Her mother choked, turning red.

“I won’t know until I see the wood, or the stone.”

That changed things; the artist slowly sat back down. “Why do you say that?”

“I’ve made books, clothes, jewellery, and shoes. What can be accomplished depends on what you start with.” She offered a small shrug. “Attempting to force raw materials to be what they aren’t… that doesn’t make for good work, and I imagine it’s the same for sculpture.”

“More so, I’d say. Why do you want to sculpt?”

“I’m meant to be studying magic next year. I want… I want to understand myself better, before I do.”

That pleasant smile deepened, amusement showing. “I hear you’re thirteen.”

“Yes.”

“Waiting a few years will teach you plenty about yourself.”

“Not in the ways that matter,” she replied. “There are people much older than me who don’t know the things I want to know. They know more about themselves, but they don’t understand themselves. Art is important for understanding.”

“Indeed. ‘To understand art is to understand oneself; to understand art is to make art.’ Do you know the quote?”

She nodded.

“Are you well read, then?”

“I’m told so. Very well, in fact.”

This satisfied Gaeleath. “What is it you want to sculpt, Saphienne?”

She studied her new tutor’s expression quite carefully; then, she slowly smiled. “What do you suggest I start with?”

* * *

“What is it about you, that makes you worthy of the Great Art?”

In the parlour, Almon posed the question with all the formality and drama the wizard could muster, his tone severe yet pointedly emotionless.

Saphienne reflected back on her experiences with Filaurel, Gaeleath, and the rest of the elves who had tutored her in their arts. Each had done so for their own reasons, each maintaining a different style of student-teacher relationship as they educated her in the fundamentals of their discipline. Ninleyn had wanted company, Eletha to share her work, Gaeleath to help Saphienne discover herself, Jorildyn to prove his own worth by challenging her, and Filaurel… well, Filaurel had just been kind.

Although Almon seemed a little like Jorildyn in the way he antagonised her, Saphienne knew that the wizard must have another reason for taking students. Which didn’t matter, because his behaviour made her certain that he didn’t like her — and that meant she had to do more than win his approval. She had to make him take her on, against his better judgement. That would be difficult, given his pride.

Almon, she realised, didn’t want her to prove herself. He wanted to fight her off.

Which meant she had to fight back.

“That,” she said, “is a nonsense question.”

“Nonsense?” He kept up his impassive façade, but anger glinted in his eyes. “You think the question of worthiness is nonsense?”

“I think no art is a ‘great’ art. Magic is worthless.” She heard a gasp from the other children standing beside her, but plunged on. “Worthless, because all art is worthless. Art has no inherent value at all. The worthiness of art derives entirely from the artist and their audience.”

Stooping down, she lifted the page of calligraphy with which she had secured her right to be judged. “Show me the inherent value in this. Show me where it is worth anything, but for what it provokes when it is written, or read.” Taking it in both hands, she tore the page in two, and could feel the other calligrapher, Iolas, wince as she did. “Grind it into dust, and show me a single shred of value, a single speck of worth.”

She let the pieces fall from her hands. “So, don’t ask why I’m worthy of magic. You can ask why I’m a worthwhile person… but then, isn’t that the point? You’re deciding what I’m worth. Whether I’m deserving of your time, your effort. It’s not about magic at all. Magic is only as meaningful as the wizard who works it. I know my own worth, and so I know what magic’s worth to me. What’s it worth to you, Master Almon?”

Then, to emphasise her defiance, she folded her arms.

The moment stretched as they all stared at her.

Slamming the back of the chair with his hands, Almon stood taller. “Annoyingly well put,” he conceded. “Arrogantly, insolently, but brilliantly well put. It makes me no more inclined to teach you, girl, but I can’t deny — you have the sense of self required to work magic.”

Lifting his arm, he gestured as though inviting the empty air to take him by the hand, and then his arm shifted downward, as it would have done had something alighted upon the back of his wrist. “Come.” He turned and stalked toward the door, which opened ahead of him to reveal the snowy night beyond. “All of you, come! Follow me.”

* * *

The four young elves walked together some distance behind Almon, the eldest hanging back a few paces further as he mulled over his defeat. It was clear from the way he carried himself that Iolas didn’t believe he should be there, and yet he still wanted to be, so he held himself apart and kept quiet.

Faylar, meanwhile, could hardly contain his whispered questions. “Where do you think we’re going? And why’s he holding his wrist up like that?”

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Celaena seemed unsure, but answered anyway. “He might have a familiar — a magical creature, to help with his spells? It could be invisible to us, but he was speaking to someone earlier, and it may be roosting on his arm now. As for where we’re going… I don’t know.”

Saphienne spoke up. “There’s a glade a little further on. I think we’re going there.”

That made Faylar smile. “I remember it. We used to play in it, when we were little. But why is he taking us there?”

“He must need the space,” Saphienne guessed.

Celaena nodded. “Saphienne is right. He must have a magical trial planned.”

The younger girl looked at the elder, recognising that she was now being taken seriously by her. Saphienne thought about being prickly, responding with sarcasm, but the night was cold and dark and the suggestion of further trials made her nervous. Instead, she returned her acknowledgement. “You know more about magic than we do. What sort of trial?”

“I don’t know.” The moonlight through the trees slid across Celaena’s face, and her anxiousness was momentarily clear. “I know a few things about wizards and sorcerers, but nothing about actual magic.”

“Weren’t you studying the philosophy of magic?”

The girl flushed. “I might have exaggerated a little. Didn’t you?” She looked Saphienne over from the corner of her eye. “Well, maybe you didn’t.”

They continued the rest of the way in silent anticipation, brushing soundlessly across the surface of the snow. Saphienne had wondered whether Almon would be heavy enough to leave impressions there, but the glittering drifts were undisturbed by his footfalls. Idly, distracting herself from her worries of what lay ahead, she wondered how much heavier than elves humans would have to be, that they would leave their footprints.

When they reached the clearing they paused, finding that the snow lay untouched where it had fallen late in the evening, unblemished and now set aglow by the light of the full moon. The wizard proceeded on to the very centre of the glade, where he turned and waited for them to attend him.

Faylar squared his shoulders. “Let’s find out who’s got it, then.”

They arrived together, as a group.

* * *