CHAPTER 65 – High Expectations

Once Almon had finished his overview of the ways in which their living conditions were improved by elven magic, he would lead Saphienne, Celaena, and Iolas further, showing them how the Great Art benefitted their culture.

He’d start by stressing that there were significant overlaps between the material and the cultural — including areas where the division between the two didn’t meaningfully exist. Amusingly to Saphienne, he’d illustrate his point using the Tome of Correspondence through which he communicated with his fellow teachers: all such enchanted tomes were physical tools that served a practical purpose, and yet the discussions within them were also living enactments of elven culture.

More subtly? The medium of conversation shaped how people spoke to one another; how people spoke to one another gave rise to conventions and norms; conventions and norms gradually became custom; custom shaped society; and society was what produced the mediums through which all conversations unfolded. To change any one part risked the whole.

Dispensing with the metaphor of the tome, the wizard would then clarify that what they were really talking about was the consensus of the woodlands. Politics, so the apprentices were to learn, was the application of cultural norms to decision-making, and the decisions reached by the consensus bound all elves.

When Almon joked to them that politics was where material circumstances and culture provoked each other into an argument? He’d only be half-joking: the consensus of the woodlands was an ongoing attempt to find harmony amidst that tension.

Yet doing so was easier said than done. How were elves to find consensus when starving? Or sick? Or when lacking the necessary education to understand what was being discussed, let alone to discern the implications of sophisticated proposals? So too, the apprentices would be asked to weigh the potential impact of deceit, including artistic deception that misrepresented the issues of the day.

Saphienne would think other thoughts, about poetry labelled subversive and history that was hidden.

Maintaining the consensus of the woodlands therefore depended upon supporting each and every elf in being all who they could be, termed their ‘natural right to flourish.’ This was necessarily balanced against what was required from them to ensure the thriving of the woodlands overall. Rights were reciprocal with responsibilities — but how, then, were dishonest conduct and unfair dealings to be identified and rectified?

That divinations were not directly admissible as evidence of wrongdoing wouldn’t be a surprise to Saphienne, given the myriad ways in which they could subtly fail. Nor would she find it hard to understand why witness testimony or physical evidence couldn’t be used to infer past events, since the problem of an evil wizard sculpting minds and matter was not merely philosophical.

But despite having gone over the reasoning in abstract… hearing that the solution reached by the consensus was trust? She’d struggle to accept that. She and Iolas would argue with their master about the danger, disturbed that wrongdoers who weren’t caught in the act were instead subjected to what was, essentially, trial by reputation.

Being told by the wizard that the only wrongdoing which went before the local consensus was that which couldn’t or wouldn’t be decided otherwise? Learning that would be of little reassurance, for he’d go on to clarify that the elders were first called upon to pass judgement — with members of the Luminary Vale aiding them when no determination could be reached. And Almon, at least, had already demonstrated poor judgement.

Yet, when raw doubt and fear were placed into the crucible of reason, what else could emerge but trust?

Almon’s argument would be that trust was the only alternative to might making right. If one rejected rule through power – as every wizard should – then everything else was simply a question of who one believed could be trusted. Any attempt to establish guilt or innocence through appeal to an objective measurement of the world ultimately reduced to trust in what one had been taught, which reduced even further — to trust in one’s teacher, or trust in one’s self.

Whether or not she’d be persuaded by the wizard, Saphienne would come to understand why Filaurel had been so frightfully concerned for her reputation.

But not all that the students were to cover was to be so fraught. After the fierce disputes on politics and justice had subsided, they could move on from the art of debate to examining magical arts.

 

* * *

 

“What have you gotten yourself into…”

Although Taerelle had stressed that she had something important for Saphienne to do, she had also made clear that it wasn’t urgent. Saphienne had decided to put off meeting her tutor for a few days, instead using the time to work on more detailed, coordinated outfit designs which she proudly showed to her friends.

Her confidence had only slightly diminished when Celaena suggested minor alterations to the way their clothes would hang. Then Laewyn had made a small request, wanting more lavish fabrics than Saphienne had originally envisioned. Then Iolas had oh-so-helpfully suggested the outfits incorporate embroidery — and then Faylar had enthusiastically agreed, proposing that the group should get together to decide on a pattern.

As she now stared at the sketches littering her bed, Saphienne realised she was going to be very busy until the festival, and she ought to find out what Taerelle needed. Hopefully it wouldn’t be much… and perhaps whatever it was would be an excuse to scale back on the garments.

Dressed in pale grey robes, the junior apprentice set out to visit her senior, enjoying the rainy day as she walked through the southwestern edge of the village where Taerelle supposedly lived. Near the outskirts she asked for directions and was pointed to a recently planted grove – less than a century old – where only one enchanted tree had been converted into a home.

She wondered what her tutor’s family would be like. Taerelle had said that she couldn’t stand being around them, which Saphienne imagined would make practising magic quite vexing. The prospect of casting spells around Lynnariel made Saphienne uneasy — loathe to endure her encouragement.

Yet when she arrived at the indicated house she saw it was a little smaller than her family home, and far less welcoming, the door and windowsills having been painted dim and mildly forbidding grey. Yet the doorstep was dry despite the weather, and stuck to the frame was a note in a neat hand.

“Saphienne,” she read aloud, “I am in the back; come around.”

Another augury? Annoyed, she went around the tree.

The back garden was overgrown but not untended, a frequently trod path running from the kitchen to a separate building — which Saphienne first mistook for a hillock. Then she saw wispy smoke rising above the grassy mound, and that an open door was cut into its side. The faint scent of burning hung on the damp air.

So loud was the rain and thick were the walls that Saphienne didn’t hear the commotion within until she stood in the entrance.

Taerelle was dressed in the black of her inner robes, but they hung loose behind her where she had thrown them off above her belt, draped like a skirt over her legs with only silver cloth wound tight about her chest for modesty. She was leaner and stronger than Saphienne had noticed, her skin glistening with sweat, and her braid whipped around as she swung the hammer she held with tremendous force — beating the glowing metal upon her anvil as she sang a song of crafting.

Yet how she sung captivated Saphienne. She did not whisper; there was nothing low or lulling in her voice. Taerelle practically shrieked the end of each verse, counting time with her hammer blows, unfettered as she bent what she worked to her will.

Saphienne swallowed, waited by the door, all but fascinated.

When Taerelle had folded the metal three times, she dropped her hammer to lean against the anvil and thrust what she had shaped back into the weak flame of the forge beside her. As she turned around she spotted Saphienne, but she only smiled, and waved her inside as she moved across the wide floor to a workbench, there lifting a pitcher of cool water she drank with relish.

“If you’re busy,” Saphienne offered, “I can come back later–”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Taerelle wiped her lips with her wrist. “You’ve kept me waiting four days — and I’m only practicing.”

Not consciously aware of all she was feeling, but aware she was on edge, Saphienne approached hesitantly, her eyes going to the stone walls. “This isn’t like any workshop I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s because it isn’t just a workshop,” Taerelle smirked, gesturing to where the girl stood.

Saphienne glanced down; strange symbols were scribbled underfoot in chalk. She started in fright and leapt away quickly, realising too late that she had wandered into a binding circle–

The senior apprentice roared with laughter, setting down her water as she doubled over. By the time she had recovered enough composure to straighten up, Saphienne had turned completely scarlet, which only made Taerelle howl again, wiping her eyes by the time she was spent.

“You–” The older girl guffawed. “You’re adorably ignorant.”

The junior apprentice folded her arms. “Stop laughing at me.”

“Lighten up.” Taerelle’s mirth subsided into giggling. “You’d be laughing just as much. Seeing you panic is also reassuring — you’re not as aloof as you try to portray.”

No dignity left to salvage, Saphienne tried to change the subject. “So, this is your sanctum?”

“Part of it. A wizard’s sanctum is just the private retreat where she works her magic,” Taerelle clarified, lifting a prepared towel. “My entire house is my sanctum. This is just where I practice those spells and other arts that could be dangerous if they went awry.”

“Don’t your family disturb you?”

Taerelle’s cold eyes narrowed. “When I meet them, but I don’t see–” Then they were illuminated by realisation, and she patted the towel on her shoulders as she explained. “You think I live with my family? Never again. This place is mine.”

Now Saphienne was intrigued. “But you’re barely in your forties… how do you have a house to yourself?”

“I made the case that it would be beneficial to my studies,” Taerelle shrugged, “and our master agreed. He wrote a letter of recommendation when I made the request. My family also supported it,” she sneered, “for all they pretended otherwise.”

Prying into her family life seemed unwise. “You said that you had–”

“Why do you keep looking away?”

She hadn’t intended to; the question inexplicably flustered her. “I…”

“Oh!” Taerelle giggled again, and she tossed the towel aside as she reached down to raise her robes back into their proper place. “I forgot what it’s like, being your age.”

Saphienne blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Best that you figure that out yourself.” Yet whatever she had read in Saphienne, she was endeared to her, and beckoned her closer once she was redressed. “Let me show you what you’ll be doing.”

There was to be no argument, Saphienne understood. She detoured to walk over the scuffed remnants of the old circle while Taerelle grinned approvingly.

Unrolled on the workbench was a diagram of a rod, clearly magical in design. The arcane notation was unreadable to Saphienne, but the measurements indicated the rod would be about a foot in length, crowned with some form of crystal. She could see that the interior was not to be solid metal, but rather layers differentiated by shading, the innermost matched to the hue of the crystal. “What kind of rod is this?”

“Wand,” Taerelle corrected her. “Do you know the difference?”

Saphienne didn’t.

“A rod is enchanted to perform a single function. Like, for example, nearly ending your apprenticeship.”

She rolled her eyes. “Very funny. What about wands?”

“The enchantment can be changed.” Taerelle ran her finger over the depiction. “A wizard or sorcerer can imbue a wand with a spell, and cast the spell from the wand until it is depleted. Some recharge over time… I’m not sure I’ll be able to figure that out for these, before they’re due.”

“You’re making more than one? Who requested them?”

“Our master.” Taerelle lifted the diagram. “He needs three rods, and has set me the challenge of making them as wands. Rods would be easy… which isn’t to say that the work is simple.” She rolled up the sheet. “If I can make them self-charging? He’ll be impressed. But to have a chance of doing that, I have to offload some of the work onto you.”

The anticipation of working with Taerelle excited Saphienne. “Doesn’t this count as teaching me magic?”

“No, because you’ll only be designing and making the fittings.” Taerelle tapped Saphienne’s head with the roll of paper. “You said you have experience making jewellery? These are to be works of art — each with different fittings. After much back and forth with our master, he has approved me utilising your skills.”

“You didn’t tell him–”

“Of course not.” Taerelle tutted. “He thinks I want your esteem, in the event you succeed in becoming a wizard. Which is not wholly a lie.”

Saphienne appreciated her bluntness. “What are the fittings to be?”

“Flowers. Three different flowers that do not bloom in summer.”

“Which?”

Taerelle smiled and pushed the diagram into her hand. “Whichever you choose. But make them pretty ones, and their symbolism happy, and only set the fittings on the outside of the wands. Once I approve your designs, I’ll let you use my forge.”

There, Saphienne hesitated. “…It might take me a while. I’m not very capable with craft magic.”

“Who taught you?”

“Gaeleath taught me to work stone and wood, but it was Eletha who–”

“Eletha?” Taerelle didn’t hide that she was impressed. “Well, aren’t you continually full of surprises. She very rarely takes on students — she turned me away. But you say you’re not good with craft magic?”

“Gaeleath thinks I just need more time.”

The senior apprentice strode across the workshop, moving to a shelf near the forge from which she lifted an ingot of unworked iron. Taerelle tossed it beside the metal she had been working, then pumped the bellows with her foot, the flames growing. “To the anvil.”

Eyes widening, Saphienne backed toward the door. “I have a prior commitment–”

“Not anymore.” Her tutor pointed in firm command. “Anvil. Ready your voice.”

As she reluctantly stood where prescribed, Saphienne felt that she might as well have been bound by a circle on the floor.

 

* * *

 

“What was that?”

“…I’m singing it like I was taught–”

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“Where are your feelings? Craft magic is all about emotion — you only sound like you want to die.”

“Eletha sang it quietly–”

“You and I are not quiet. Try again.” … “No, louder.” … “I said louder!”

“Stop shouting at–”

“There’s some emotion! Put that into your voice.”

“But the song isn’t–”

“It’s your song. Own it. Sing it how you want it to be sung.”

“I don’t want to sing–”

“Perform or perish, prodigy.”

“Fuck off!” … “Fine.”

“…See? Much better.”

 

* * *

 

Quite apart from making the clothing and the wands, Saphienne had another task that she had to attend to — one she was dreading.

“There’s to be a meeting of the local consensus,” Filaurel had told her, back when the librarian had been asked to chaperone, “and usually I’m responsible for taking down the minutes. But this meeting will finalise the agenda for the summer festival, and I’m on the planning committee this year. They kindly made me their delegate.”

Saphienne had guessed the issue. “Why can’t you write the minutes?”

“I’m forbidden from taking minutes when I’m proposing a motion to the consensus. You want me to chaperone? Then you’ll spend the evening recording the events of the meeting in my place.”

Her request hadn’t seemed particularly difficult, and so Saphienne had agreed without complaint. Yet Filaurel had recommended she borrow two texts from the library that she’d never had occasion to read: ‘The Rules of Order for Reaching Consensus,’ and ‘Addendums to the Rules of Order as Agreed by the Eastern Vale.’

The rules of order turned out to be a very thick, dry book.

But the addendums took up four volumes.

“Really,” Saphienne whispered, “what have you gotten yourself into…”

She was sat in the teahouse, curled up on a comfy chair in a corner of the upper floor with her notes on her lap and the texts on the table before her. Alinar had been curious what she was studying, then had nearly dropped a book when he recognised its content, his expression conveying intense sympathy for her plight.

Still, with his teahouse quiet due to rain and thunder, he was refilling her cup with unrequested tea at regular intervals; and this time he brought her biscuits along with his bleak humour. “There but for the grace of the gods go we…”

“Alinar,” Saphienne asked, “why don’t we just use magic for the minutes?”

His extended sigh was telling. “It takes a meeting of the full consensus of the woodlands to agree changes to the rules of order, and the way all meetings are to be minuted–”

“Is specified by the rules.” She sipped her tea. “Believe me: I know.”

“Every time it gets discussed, there’s huge arguments about changing it. The main complaints are that it’s quicker to read through a written record than listen, and that any magical tampering with the minutes will be more obvious if they aren’t held in an enchantment.”

“Fine,” she conceded, “but why do the addendums reference the rules of order by section and line number — without quoting them?”

“No clue.” The elf adjusted his apron. “I guess they’re four books already, so if you included the references–”

Saphienne hung her head. “I should never have agreed to this.”

He chuckled. “I only attend when obliged to. Call me lazy if you like,” he said as he walked away, “but I’m happy to leave this to the likes of you wizards.”

“You’re welcome,” she muttered.

What really annoyed her? She didn’t have to read through the rules of order to take the minutes. The meeting would be run by an elected chair, and the assistant to the chair – not the secretary – was responsible for keeping them. But Filaurel had known she wouldn’t be able to do it unless she fully understood what was going on, and so when the librarian had pointed her to them–

“Saphienne?”

She looked up from cross-referencing, feeling as though she were cross-eyed.

Laewyn was standing at the top of the stairs, resplendent in a white sundress beneath a gauzy orange mantle that was ill-suited to the storm outside. “I didn’t see you! How long have you been up here?”

The pile of notes beside her gave weight to her mournful answer. “Too long.”