CHAPTER 9 – Emerging Shapes

On the night of her first confrontation with the wizard Almon, Saphienne was physically tired, having spent the day working with stone. And yet, as she walked back through the outskirts of the village, she felt wide awake, her thoughts thrumming in her mind like a stringed instrument that had been plucked for the first time. All the snowy world around her was hushed in anticipation, ready for her music, as though she were the conductor of a symphony, that the slightest wave of her hands might cause explosions of sound.

Had she been successful? Was she to be Almon’s apprentice? She couldn’t be sure, but the fact he had instructed her to return to him on her fourteenth birthday suggested she hadn’t failed outright. Whether or not there were to be further examinations, he hadn’t refused her entirely — and that was cause enough to feel victorious, especially given how fraught their first meeting had been.

So she flicked her fingers as she went looking for Filaurel, feeling the notes between them that no one else could hear.

As she neared the library and saw that the lamp by the door had not yet been dimmed, she smiled, dancing up the steps to suddenly teeter at the top, caught by her fatigue. Saphienne paused to compose herself, and as she did the river of worry that she had skipped along rose up in a flood. What if she had failed? What if the wizard had told her to seek out Filaurel so that the librarian would be forced to deliver the blow? What if he had seen through Saphienne’s answer to his final question?

If, if, if: so many questions swirled around her as she steadied herself. The only way to answer them was to ask Filaurel.

Who was leaning against her desk as Saphienne entered, having heard her approach. “Well?” she asked, hugging herself to quiet her anticipation.

Saphienne took a deep breath. “I don’t know. He didn’t give me a direct answer.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me to give you his regards, and that you would know what to do with me.”

The librarian threw up her hands. “That’s not even an answer!”

“I told you so.” Saphienne sagged, and closed the door with a yawn.

Sizing her up, Filaurel lowered her hands and shook her head. “I’ll stoke the fire. Come and sit, and tell me everything. What did you think of Almon?”

As she followed her mentor and sat by the fireplace, Saphienne shook her head. “We don’t like each other. I think he’s very rude, conceited, and cruel.”

“He’s certainly full of himself,” Filaurel agreed as she lifted the poker, using it to stab at the charred logs. “I’ve never known him to be rude. Nor cruel, though I can imagine him cruel… more from intuition than experience.”

“He’s very different from you. Is that why he dislikes you?”

This surprised the librarian, who then half-smiled as she reflected on their past encounters. “Of course he does, doesn’t he? I hadn’t quite noticed. I suppose it makes sense, now that I think about it.”

“How could you not know?”

“I presumed he was just preoccupied. It’s never a simple thing, to know for sure what someone thinks, or how they feel.” Filaurel set the poker down, warming her hands by the fire. “Now that you say it though, yes, I should have noticed before.”

Saphienne stared at her, then looked to the low, glowing fire. “He’s awful.”

“Almon,” Filaurel sighed, “has a tremendous ego. Tremendously fragile, it would seem, because I can only think of one way I might have caused him offense. And if I’m right,” she said, shaking her head, “then he’s incredibly petty.”

“What did you do?”

Filaurel laughed, once, quietly. “Talked with him. When we first met… I was trying to be friendly. I was trying to make a good impression. So I talked to him,” she sighed again, “at length and with enthusiasm, about a topic we had in common.”

“Which was?”

“Magic, Saphienne. We talked about magic. We talked about wizards, and how they go about their business.”

Several questions tried to force their way through Saphienne’s mouth at the same time, and her lips moved soundlessly. Finally, she chose one to voice, holding the others back. “You’re a wizard?”

“What?” Filaurel shot her a laughing smile. “Me? No. Never. I don’t have the talent, not even slightly. I can’t even work craft magic. Believe me, I’ve tried — I tried for years, before I gave up and accepted I’d be scrivening the slow way.”

Saphienne sat forward, leaning on her knuckles, the curiosity in her eyes burning brighter than the reflected fire. “But, how do you know about magic?”

“I spent a very long time around wizards,” the librarian admitted, her gaze becoming distant. “A very long time. I got to know their ways quite well. And I learned a considerable amount about magic, but it was all useless knowledge… to me, at least.” She shook the memories away, giving Saphienne a forced smile. “So, when I met Almon, I talked about what I knew, in what I thought was a friendly way. He grew more terse the longer we talked, to the point I believed I was boring him. Now, I see it was otherwise.”

The reason for Almon’s dislike became clear. “He felt threatened.”

Filaurel nodded, then laughed, more loudly, and felt the heat in her own cheeks. “What a fool. Him or me: I’m not sure which. Almon is entirely full of himself, and the only established wizard in some miles. And there I was, talking casually to him about the great mysteries he prides himself on knowing. Me, a mere librarian, without a drop of magical talent…”

Saphienne could picture it, could see Master Almon beginning indulgently, happy for the chance to show off his learning, growing cooler and stiffer the more knowledge Filaurel showed in turn, quietly aggrieved by the hand of friendship she offered him. How could she dare diminish his mastery? Who was this woman, this simple book minder, so thoughtlessly undermining his status? Didn’t she know how important he was?

The librarian caught Saphienne’s gaze. “He was very formal when I spoke to him about you. I thought he was avoiding favouritism. He made it hard for you, then?”

Nodding, Saphienne lay back against her chair’s cushions. “He tried to refuse me outright, said I was too young. I nearly gave up.”

Taking the seat next to her, Filaurel reached over and held her hand, quite tightly. “Share the story. What happened tonight?”

And so Saphienne told her what had happened, recounting from the moment she first entered his parlour until he left her in the field, sharing every word the wizard had said. Her recollection was vivid, the experience having been so recent and so intense that she summarised accurately and with growing anger as she relived the injustice.

She was squeezing Filaurel’s hand back by the time she was done. “…Telling me ‘Ask Filaurel what’s next. She’ll know what to do with you. And give her my regards when you see her.’ Then he left the clearing, and I came straight here to see you.”

Filaurel didn’t look angry, but she did look sad. “What a pri– ah, what a rude man.”

“You can call him precious,” Saphienne replied, having misunderstood. “He’s incredibly precious about his magic.”

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Filaurel grinned, but didn’t explain what had changed her mood. “Well, yes. But one thing you glossed over: what was it you said to him? About your reason, for wanting to study magic?”

Saphienne lowered her gaze.

* * *

When Saphienne had first begun studying under Gaeleath, she had been amused to find herself practicing calligraphy again, using chalk to carefully write out passages of text that the sculptor would then inscribe. The purpose, she was told, was to familiarise her with the precise yet powerful touch required for sculpture — beginning in an area where she could fairly judge her own work.

“Why stone?” she asked. “Why not wood?”

Gaeleath only smiled more enigmatically. “You’re not the sort to work with wood. We’ll begin with your best medium, and then we’ll explore wood once you’ve found your feet.”

As a teaching method, it was effective. When Saphienne took over the chisels and tried to match what she had been shown, she immediately found it difficult, but the obviousness of her mistakes meant she could see where she was going wrong. She needed the sculptor’s input less and less with each passing day, and was able to build up her strength gradually; less delicate work would have exhausted her more quickly. This in turn allowed Gaeleath to pursue other projects while she practiced, which led to the two working side by side, the tent filled only with the sounds of their tools striking stone.

On the afternoon of the seventh day, forearms aching, Saphienne lay her implements down and turned to watch Gaeleath, scrutinizing the block of sandstone that occupied the artist’s current efforts. Every day, Gaeleath picked out a new piece of stone to work, half-shaping it with tools, roughing out the impressions of hands, of legs, of heads, creating the implication of posed figures, though never progressing to distinct features. The back of the tent was already crowded with unfinished pieces.

Gaeleath sensed her watching. “I can feel your question coming on.”

“Will you finish this one?”

“I’ll finish them all,” the sculptor answered, “in the fullness of time.”

“Are you holding back for my sake? So I can see the basics?”

There, Gaeleath looked at her. “You think all that I do is for your benefit?”

“That’s not an answer, and no, I don’t.”

“Then I’ll answer in kind: no. I work as takes my fancy. The sandstone,” the sculptor explained, “is because I have you working in the same material, but the pace of my work is set by my heart alone. Clever girl that you are, you’ll understand soon.” Gaeleath returned to the piece, smiling serenely with each tap.