CHAPTER 78 – Flock Call

Before Saphienne could cast her first spell, she would have to fully comprehend what was required. Through having listened diligently and by reasoning through the apparent implications, she drew several inferences about the practice of the Great Art, all of which were right, and none of which were sufficient.

She knew for certain that she had to memorise the sigil, and that once memorised, it would be difficult to retain. Her correct suspicion was that meditating upon the arcane symbol was key to locking it in place, having guessed that the hours she had spent meditating upon spells were intended to acclimatise her to concentrating on manifestations of magic.

She further reasoned – based on what Taerelle had shared – that merely studying the shape to the point she could perfectly reproduce it was nowhere close to committing it wholly to mind. The sigil was undeniably replete with the power of its discipline, entirely unlike the chalk reproductions that Taerelle had made — markings that the senior apprentice had described as mere notation. Her tutor had also referred to sigils being ‘vested,’ commonly meaning ‘held completely and permanently,’ which Saphienne took as related to imbuing the calligraphy with magic.

This made sense of what Gaelyn had revealed. He had expended a sigil to heal her by casting it directly from the page, causing it to vanish; he’d stated that replacing it would require transcription – copying – that would take extensive time and effort to accomplish.

These observations implied that the inked notation was a receptacle for the actual spell, and that the sigil became indelibly bound to its spell: the two were one.

Yet an immediate and inescapable question arose from that conclusion: what fundamentally was a spell?

Saphienne had proposed that spells were not actually magic, but the point where magic intersected the world; she had unknowingly reached the same conclusion as High Master Elduin, whose ‘Meditations on the Aether’ had been written two and a half millennia ago. But what did that actually mean, in terms of the phenomena that occupied the elaborate blue script upon her scroll?

There was also a contradiction in the distinction between a spell and its notation, one that puzzled Saphienne. Almon had once confirmed that spells below the First Degree, such as the one she had received, didn’t require comprehension to cast–

No: that wasn’t quite right. They had been talking about comprehending the natural phenomena spells interacted with, and the wizard had said that some or all of the necessary knowledge of the world could be incorporated into a spell by its creator, perhaps to be supplemented by its caster.

There, Saphienne reached a profound insight.

Making sense of the spell wasn’t the same as making sense of what it affected! Beginner wizardry – below the First Degree – only required she grasp the spell. This suggested that spells transcended knowledge — and her master had stressed that knowledge and truth were not, in fact, the same thing. Both he and Nelathiel had asserted that what was true was ultimately unknowable, built upon belief, with the wizard holding reasoned belief in the Great Art, and the priest keeping faith in her gods. Hadn’t Almon declared that finding self-evident, transcendental truths was the pursuit of every wizard?

Shaping these pieces to fit together, Saphienne’s conjecture was that a spell was a magical truth that transcended the knowable world while existing within it, the raw essence of the Great Art condensed into a form that could be manipulated. She first had to embrace that truth and – somehow – reproduce it within her mind, after which she could then determine how to enact it upon the world.

But… if spells were self-evident truths that transcended the world, shouldn’t it be possible to learn them by studying them in action? And if they could be imbued into calligraphy or fashioned into enchantments, could anything serve as a receptacle for a spell?

For what reason did wizards imbue spells into sigils?

Recent lessons had focused entirely on deciphering the language for magical writing used by elves, which comprised both specific pronunciations and gestures together with representations of thoughts and emotions. These, she understood, were proxies for the comprehension on which spellcasting depended… which wasn’t about the world, but about the spell itself.

“…The notation is an abstraction…” Saphienne murmured. “…It symbolises the meaning of the spell it contains… a sigil is both a map of a spell and the spell that is mapped… each sigil is a perfect map…”

Unrolled upon her lap, the hallucinatory sigil resonated with truth, eager to be real.

 

* * *

 

A ringing bell interrupted her.

Having entirely forgotten where she was, Saphienne dragged her eyes from the entrancing ink and glanced to the window of Celaena’s guest room, determining by the golden sky that she had been sitting in deep contemplation for hours. She reached out to roll up the scroll, halting when her hand refused to obey…

…What about the gestures required for spellcasting?

Again the bell rang, and she heard Celaena stomping down the hall in ill temper.

Saphienne shook her head. Suppose that her disability would be an impediment: the fact that the elven tradition of magic was one of many suggested that there were other notations, and so there were likely other ways to perform the same truth. She would have to translate the symbolism of left-handed gesticulations into some other form, though how she could accomplish that was presently beyond her.

For now, she had to hope her first spell didn’t require her left hand. She very much doubted Almon would–

“Saphienne?”

She scowled at the door as she finished putting the sigil away. Why couldn’t Celaena just leave her in peace? “I’m fine.”

“…Iolas and Thessa are outside. They’re very worried.”

So what if they were worried? They weren’t the one who–

Saphienne felt Faylar nudging her; she swallowed.

“…I don’t know whether I should see anyone…”

The handle turned. “Can I come in?”

“Weren’t you lis–” Saphienne clenched her teeth. “…Celaena, I’m not in the best of moods right now.”

But the older girl opened the door and entered anyway, coming to stand over Saphienne where she sat cross-legged on the floor next to the large bed. “You can be angry with me all you want,” Celaena said, “but I don’t think being alone will make you feel better. Would you like a hug?”

Saphienne didn’t raise her head. “It’ll take more than a hug to–”

Above her, Celaena just waited.

The urge to snap at her friend was difficult to restrain. “…I don’t want to lash out at everyone.”

Sitting down beside Saphienne, Celaena slid her arm behind Saphienne’s stiff back and leaned in. “I’d rather you lash out at me than sit by yourself. Iolas probably feels the same way — and Thessa doesn’t seem easily offended.”

“I don’t want pity.”

Her fellow apprentice held to her. “Me neither. I don’t pity you.”

“Liar.”

“I don’t.” Celaena rested her weight on Saphienne. “I’m sad for you – I’m furious for you – but I don’t pity you. You’re not yourself right now, but you’re not someone I’d ever feel pity for. I can’t look down on you.”

No longer resisting the hug, Saphienne finally met her gaze. “…I wish everyone in the village saw me like you do. I’ve always been pitiful to them.”

Celaena kissed her forehead. “Fuck them: we’re going to be wizards. No one will pity us when we’re wizards.” What blue had been in her eyes was indistinguishable from grey in the dying day. “No one will look down on us, and no one will ignore us, and no one will dare disrespect us when we’re wizards.”

Then her friend did something Saphienne didn’t expect, reaching down to squeeze her lifeless hand. “Whoever did this? They wouldn’t fucking dare try it against a wizard. No one treats a wizard like that. And the fact that you lived has to scare them.”

“Why?”

“Because even if justice doesn’t come soon,” Celaena promised, eyes blazing, “you’re going to have power over them — and so am I. We’re going to make their lives fucking miserable, Saphienne. However we can, we’re going to make them suffer for what they did.”

Part of Saphienne came alive as she heard Celaena’s prediction, filling her mind with fantasies of vengeance, righteous and cruel.

But Saphienne closed her eyes. “That doesn’t seem wise… I don’t think we’ll be allowed to be wizards, if we think that way.”

“Why not?” Celaena retorted, sardonic. “They allowed Almon.”

She laughed, then, darkly and with glee. “…He’s not very forgiving. Do you think he’ll get to them before we do?”

“They better hope he does.”

Yet even though Iolas was stood on the doorstep to the grand house, Saphienne felt him sitting on her opposite side from Celaena, equally wrathful, but more tempered. She knew what Athidyn had taught him. “…It has to be just.”

“They fucking deserve what’s coming to them, Saphienne.”

“No, it has to balance.” Saphienne clutched her arm. “No worse than what they did. They weren’t all the same. Syndelle wasn’t–”

Saphienne saw the shock in Celaena’s face, and flushed.

“…Syndelle.” Daughter to a wizard, quick with calculations, Celaena was reconstructing events as Saphienne helplessly watched. “Tirisa put her up to it, and Lensa was the one who wanted it to happen.” Horror twisted into hatred, her ire gathering around her like black feathers. “Who were the other two?”

“Celaena–”

“Never mind.” She had often played with all the girls when she was younger. “Alynelle and Elisa: they’re always trying to impress Lensa and Tirisa.” She pulled away from Saphienne, clasping her hands in her lap. “Saphienne? You better tell me if I’m wrong.”

…Had she wanted Celaena to know?

She must have done. Part of her must have wanted that. She hadn’t consciously chosen, unlike when she manipulated Iolas, but part of her had wanted Celaena to share her outrage, had needed solace through affirmation.

And were she to deny it, Celaena would see through her lie.

“…Only Hyacinth knows.” She levered herself up against the bed. “She will never tell anyone else. And you’re not going to tell anyone, either.”

Celaena stood. “I can keep a secret.”

“They can’t know I’ve told you.” Saphienne trembled. “They mustn’t–”

“I don’t want them to.” Celaena folded her arms, her gauzy festival raiment dim in the lengthening shadows. “I won’t tell Almon, because you’ve asked me not to.” She smiled sweetly, malevolently, and yet not at all as evilly as Lensa had done. “And I won’t let them know… because I don’t want them to see me coming.”

“Don’t do anything–”

“I won’t — not any time soon; I’m not stupid.” She snorted. “Aren’t wizards meant to be patient?”

The bell in the hallway rang once more.

Celaena and Saphienne looked from the hallway to each other, and then both laughed through their blushes, their mood punctured by remembering Iolas and Thessa had been waiting the whole while.

“…They can come in,” Saphienne allowed. “But warn them — tell them I said I’m a prickly bitch tonight. And give me time to get changed before you bring them up.”

 

* * *

 

Changing into her robes made Saphienne feel less adrift, especially when she realised that the long sleeves of their outer layer allowed her to hide the dysfunction of her left hand from onlookers. While intellectually aware that she was really hiding it from herself, and that there would come a moment when she had to contend with what had happened, what had been done to her, she willed herself to defer that battle.

She was adept at sealing away her pain.

Yet, as she finished dressing and dimmed the lamp, she found herself stopping by the door to admire the hallucination overhead, wondering whether the enchantment was true to the constellations. Would someone surveying the heavens behold the same? Wherever Kylantha was, would her dearest friend see what she saw?

Assuming Kylantha was alive. No, she had to be alive.

Detached from her immediate problems, Saphienne was struck by the conviction that she had been wrong about life in one subtle but important way: she hadn’t appreciated the full diversity of evil. She had called Sundamar evil – and he was – in full confidence that the wrong that he did represented the greatest of what was contemptible. She had believed that evil was his callousness, or was ignorance, or was really an unwise expression of the bone-deep pain that she knew too intimately.

In her naivety, she had been blind to the monstrous viciousness of people like Lensa.

While someone driven by unrepentant sadism would kill a child, Sundamar was not that particular embodiment of evil: he had a conscience to bury. The way he had responded to Saphienne told her that, no matter how great her fears, Kylantha hadn’t been left in a situation with no credible chance of survival. There was a chance that she still lived.

Irrational though her choice was, Saphienne needed hope. Kylantha had to be alive out there, somewhere, gazing up at the real sky. Whether or not she was prospering in a human society that abhorred parentless children, she couldn’t be dead. Wasn’t she always setting out on her own path? If any little girl could have persevered, Kylantha would have.

Wryly, Saphienne asked herself what Kylantha would think of her hand…

And then her heart sank.

Saphienne didn’t know. How could she? What had happened to her was unimaginable only a few days ago, all the more so when she had been younger. The Kylantha she had last known was a child of nine, too young to have perspective on adult suffering, for all that such suffering had been visited upon her. Across the years to come, the older Saphienne became? Even if Kylantha lived… Saphienne would lose touch with…

“…Keep going.”

That was her sole conviction — the one untarnishable, unbreakable truth that had been passed to her by the mortal girl whom she loved more than anyone.

“…Don’t let anything stop you.”

Against all the world’s evil, Kylantha was alive — and so was Saphienne.

 

* * *

 

Settled in the private sitting room adjacent to Celaena’s bedroom, which had become the place Celaena’s friends usually congregated when visiting, Saphienne arranged herself on the end of the couch furthest from the door. She seldom favoured that spot, preferring to leave it to Celaena or Faylar or Laewyn, but she wanted to appear dignified when her visitors arrived, and perching on the windowsill wouldn’t make the right impression.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Iolas and Thessa had to see she was composed.

…Except, as the minutes stretched, there was no sign of Celaena or her guests.

When a quarter of an hour had gone by Saphienne dramatically tossed her head back against the cushions – which felt nice to sink into – and rose, leaving the room at a slow yet stately pace.

She heard the argument echoing in the foyer as she came closer.

“… You’re not going to change my mind. You can visit Saphienne, but she’s not coming in with you.”

“Celaena–”

“No, Faylar: you’re not playing peacemaker. This is between me and her.”

Were Saphienne less fed up, she might have done what she saw Iolas and Thessa doing in the middle of the dark tiles as she peered over the railing — pretended that she couldn’t hear. Instead she sighed as she stared at where Celaena was blocking the entrance in dispute with Faylar, and she steeled herself.

“Celaena?” Saphienne called down from the third floor, putting as much gentleness into her request as she could manage. “I know you’re not talking to Laewyn, but I’m still her friend, and she cares about me: would you please let her visit? Just this once?”

Faylar craned through the doorway, and his relief in seeing her was matched by his exasperated gratefulness. “Saphienne! Thank you!”

Celaena had spun around, her arms folded, and her silent glower told Saphienne that she was hotly resentful of being pressed, but that she knew she was being immature, and so resigned to concede. She didn’t look back as she walked toward the stairs. “…Iolas, Thessa, let’s go upstairs. Other people can follow us.”

Endeared by Celaena’s pettiness, Saphienne hurried back to her seat with a smile.

However, her attempt to maintain composure proved futile when Iolas surged through the door to the sitting room and skidded onto his knees in front of her, desperate to embrace her, mindful of her frailty, overcome with emotion. So loquacious in his essay-writing, he struggled for words. “Are you…”

She teared up. “…I’m a fucking mess, Iolas.”

 

* * *

 

To her surprise, Faylar was the only one who didn’t cry — though he pressed up against her when he sat on the couch, and he gripped her good hand so hard that she almost wanted to make a tasteless joke.

There were endless hugs with Iolas and Thessa, often both at once, and when Laewyn slunk into the room she started sobbing at the sight, breaking down so completely that Saphienne saw Celaena’s pang of guilt and heartache. Their host made an excuse about fetching tea as Saphienne held Laewyn, but Thessa stopped her leaving, handing her one of two large wicker baskets she and her brother had brought along.

Before long, Saphienne was sitting in the middle of the couch, Laewyn to her left, Faylar to her right, with Iolas sat on the floor before her, Thessa fussing at her hair in thoughtless imitation of Mathileyn.

“You don’t remember anything?” Iolas couldn’t let it go. “Nothing at all?”

Lying was safer for them. “Fuck-all. Whoever they were, they broke my skull. I don’t even remember how I got to my bedroom…”

Faylar shivered, saying nothing.

Thessa stopped stroking her hair. “Iolas said you’d bled all over… you’re healed now, though?”

“Mostly.” Feeling sorry for herself, and dreading what was about to unfold, Saphienne leaned back into her touch, closing her eyes. “Everything that could be put back together has been.”

She’d hoped that at least Iolas had been informed, but the tension surrounding her told Saphienne that none of them knew.

“…What do you mean?” Faylar sounded sick.

Prising her right hand from him, she lifted the sleeve that hid her left, then raised her arm so that they would see the consequences; she didn’t look. “I can’t move it. I can’t even feel it. Gaelyn thinks my brain–”

Further explanation was drowned out by Laewyn wailing.

 

* * *

 

“I’ll kill them.”

No one disagreed with Faylar, not even Iolas.

“Whoever did this to you… I’ll hunt them down and–”

“Faylar…” Saphienne rolled her eyes where she lay on Laewyn’s lap. “…Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re only sixteen. There’s probably a lot of adults ahead of you — including your mother.”

He’d been pacing angrily, and he stopped beside the empty armchair. Laewyn flinched as he abruptly punched its back. “…I haven’t seen her. Sundamar was the one who told me you were hurt.”

Iolas stirred where he sprawled, listless, on the floor. “Almon–” He remembered his manners. “Our master sent word to the Wardens of the Wilds — they were all over your grove when I showed up. I nearly ran into someone.”

Saphienne hadn’t seen or heard them. “They have enchanted rings…”