CHAPTER 92 – To Bind, or Loose

Now all but initiated into the ancient ways, Saphienne reacted as she always did when she felt too much: she distracted herself with her intellect. She was powerless to prevent the mill of suffering from grinding on, and to throw herself between those long-stained stones would neither have made her feel better nor accomplished any useful purpose. This much, Filaurel had taught her well.

Perhaps her mentor had observed how Saphienne first learned to cope with traumas, and had reasoned that wizardry would be the ultimate, unending inquiry into which she could sink her sorrows. Were that the case, she would have to thank the librarian: pursuing the casting of her first spell was sufficient challenge to drive back the oppression she felt within the woodlands.

In this, she was far from alone; many are the artists in retreat from their sorrows.

The reading Almon had set was easily completed by Saphienne, whose hunger for meaning led her to devour the book in two short hours — far less time than Iolas and Celaena had needed. She then summarised the key insights in a further three, her notes thoroughly referenced against what she had recorded during her master’s lectures. By the end of the fifth hour, she had enough context to try again with her elusive sigil.

Despite her scepticism, she was forced to recognise that the wizard had told the truth: sigils were too alive to deconstruct. Two impressions were present in the calligraphy she pondered, one mere shape and line, the other spilling out beyond the blue ink to colour her perception with a cerulean shade more vivid than paper contained. Her proving spell was a complex idea of how the world should be, unrealised yet illustrated through imbuement into an arcane diagram. Saphienne comprehended that deciphering the notation, memorising what she learned, then separately committing the magic to memory wasn’t possible: she had to embrace every element simultaneously.

And there were actually more than two. The transcendental truth of the spell was grasped through its meaning, which was evoked through feeling and thought, which were in turn embodied through word and gesture, which were recorded through magical script, which was expressed through the visual depiction that comprised the sigil. All were distinct elements — yet all were one. To catch and hold the spell was to take in meaning, being, motion, description, and appearance; she had to behold them all with the same eye.

No wonder wizards had to be intelligent. As much as Saphienne loved Laewyn, there was simply no way she could fathom so much at once. Thessa, too, would be unable to perform this art, for though she could deconstruct what she saw while still feeling its presence, she lacked an appetite for the theoretical.

Would Faylar succeed? Saphienne wasn’t sure. Yet she could now discern the varied reasons why Almon had rejected him. Faylar had not been acting of his own will, had been too certain and unbending in how he viewed things, and had lacked the critical examination and inference to fathom this puzzle. Had — for he was making strides in all areas.

Having been sat in the spacious kitchen throughout her contemplation, she put aside her scroll and stretched before she went to fill the kettle. Her commentary on her friends wasn’t to make herself feel superior, she knew, but rather was an expression of trepidation as she delayed her attempt. Once the tea was ready, she would find her nerve–

Her hand cramped.

Saphienne winced and hurriedly set the full kettle to boil, darting back to the table where she’d left her satchel. Loosening her balled fist required the use of the spoon she’d been gifted by Alinar, and she hissed as her fingertips withdrew from her palm, grateful that she’d been diligent in filing her nails. She grimaced as she wedged her clenching hand over the padded ball she’d requested and received.

“Fuck me…”

Although sweat beaded her brow, she couldn’t stop to rest: this was when she could retrain her healing brain. To block out the throbbing would have meant forgoing the tactile sensations with which she needed to refamiliarise herself, and so she had to endure the discomfort as she fought to make her hand let go. Nine excruciating minutes later, she prevailed in lifting her smallest, spasming finger by half an inch.

Then her grip faltered, her hand went limp, and her control was lost.

“…Better.” She repeated what was become a mantra for all seasons.

Steam had filled the kitchen, and she laughed to herself as she went to steep a well-earned pot of tea. How more difficult could memorising a spell possibly be?

 

* * *

 

Much harder. Extraordinarily harder.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of their next lesson, Saphienne asked how Celaena was progressing as they walked arm-in-arm to the parlour.

The older girl sagged against her fellow apprentice. “…Does talking about how impossible it feels count as conferring?”

Her candour made Saphienne grin. “No, but it does reassure me.”

“You too?” Celaena was both relieved and perturbed. “If you’re feeling it’s this hard, what chance do the rest of us have?”

Saphienne rolled her eyes. “I’m not convinced intelligence is an advantage, only that spellcasting requires adequate mental capacity to attempt. I feel there are other qualities needed. Yesterday, I was thinking about why Faylar was refused…”

“I’ve thought the same…” And her blush admitted she felt guilty. “…But he’s come far since then; you and Filaurel have been good for him. Are you going to go back to studying together?”

Worry over what had been lost had made Saphienne put off returning to her routine. “After I talk to Gaeleath.”

“Faylar misses spending time with you.”

“So you’ve spoken with him.” She hummed as she reviewed the timing. “After you spoke with Laewyn?”

Celaena slowed her pace. “…Yes. I wanted to hear his perspective on her; or on us; or maybe just on me.”

Saphienne pressed closer. “You never told me how it went. I don’t mean to pry–”

“We,” Celaena sighed, “are on a break.”

“…What does that mean?”

“That’s what I asked Faylar.” She studied the way ahead. “He thinks she’s not ending our relationship — that she just needs time to get over how upset the wardens made her. I didn’t share what I’d said.”

Nor could Saphienne comment on his misunderstanding, not when the Wardens of the Wilds were undoubtedly nearby. “Could he be right?”

“I haven’t a fucking clue.” Serenely depressed, Celaena stamped on the grass, reminding Saphienne of the way Faylar had once kicked at snow. “She did accept why I acted that way, and she hugged me when I– when I became inarticulate.”

“You’re allowed to have cried; I won’t think any less of you.”

Her glance preceded a nudge. “I don’t want to lose composure right before we see our master. Faylar said she needs time alone: we’ll see.”

Then Celaena straightened, rolling her shoulders as she resumed her usual stride. “And you? What did Nelathiel want?”

Mulling over the predicament she found herself in, Saphienne was inclined to lie, thereby to avoid burdening Celaena. Yet that impulse to manage her friend was corrosive to their friendship, and so she made a conscious effort not to withhold more than obliged. “You recall I had my menses? Because of them, Nelathiel had to share certain parts of the ancient ways.”

Puzzled, Celaena scrutinised Saphienne. “Why would… what does that have to do with the ancient ways?”

She let her silence speak.

“…How much did you learn?”

“More than she wanted to tell.” More than Saphienne wished she knew. “Gods know that I’m a massive hypocrite for saying this, but don’t rush into finding out before your time.”

Celaena didn’t have the necessary facts to infer like Saphienne, but she understood why she was being warned off. “What you know is weighing on you?”

“All I’ll say is…” Saphienne stopped in the grove. “…When Iolas learned, I found him sitting by himself near the teahouse. He had no desire for company at first. As soon as Nelathiel was done? I went straight to visit him.” She squeezed her arm. “When it’s your turn to contemplate the ancient ways, I don’t recommend you dwell on them alone. You’ll be welcome to spend your day with me.”

Pondering Saphienne, Celaena shook her head. “…You’re different. You’ve been different — even before you spoke to Nelathiel. What in the world has changed you?”

Giving a pithy answer would be deflecting. “I decided I didn’t like how I was living. I’m trying to be better: less distant, maybe more approachable.” She couldn’t help the self-awareness that tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Easier than the Great Art… but not by much.”

 

* * *

 

The girls were first to arrive. Peacock hopped down the stairs to see them, then announced their presence to his master without his previous pageantry. The wizard gave no response – which was response enough – and Peacock shrugged before he fluttered onto the high-backed chair to watch them.

They sat to meditate while they waited on Iolas. After thirty minutes, Saphienne was disturbed by twinges in her hand, reluctantly abandoning her concentration to instead knead her palm and wrestle with its twitching.

Soon, the ache subsided. Given that Iolas was overdue, she was uneager to resume meditating only to be interrupted again. Her mind wandered…

…And her gaze settled on Peacock.

During the solstice festival, Saphienne had probed the limits of figments, establishing why children could perceive Peacock unprompted. Apparently, the very young were too unworldly to not expect wonders like the bird amid such dazzling celebrations. This suggested to her that the latent attention he drew upon to maintain himself was a conduit through which he might be spotted, which implied that what began as unconscious awareness could be made conscious.

Deliberately, she shut her eyes and disbelieved the figment cast by Almon.

When she opened them again, it no longer existed.

Saphienne found the lack of fanfare very interesting. When she had first nearly lost the hallucination, accidentally, the portrayed creature had been urgently animated to insist on itself. Either the coldness that the wizard now felt toward her extended to how she was treated by his familiar, or she had gone unnoticed this time. Assuming – for the sake of conjecture – that the latter was the case: why?

Maybe because she hadn’t been giving the figment her full attention.

When Almon had first revealed the spell to his apprentices, Iolas had been told that the illusory bird had seen his calligraphy — but had only been able to see him faintly. Taking this statement at face value proposed that the greater her cognizance of the figment, the more obvious she was to it.

She would have to test that theory another time. For the moment, Saphienne stared hard at the point in the room where she knew Peacock was perched, then settled back into the meditation she had abandoned.

Fundamental to meditation was one task: noticing when she was distracted. Developing concentration was really cultivating the ability to detect her attention straying from whatever she focused on. Being that she was fixed on the top of the chair, her rationale was that the spell leeching her attentiveness to imagine Peacock would be a subtle – but perceptible – distraction. If she could detect that influence, and then intentionally let herself be engrossed…

Hazily pictured, and then suddenly real, Peacock canted his head and whistled at Saphienne in suspicion. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

She smiled and answered with complete sincerity. “I’m admiring your feathers.”

His beak opened in a pleased grin, and Peacock posed for her with wings spread wide — bathing in the willing belief that gave him life.

 

* * *

 

Iolas wished everyone a good morning as he hung up his outer robes, and he assumed his place beyond Celaena while their master descended the curving stairs.

Almon was mild as he questioned him. “You ordinarily attend earlier. What pressing business detained you this morning?”

Saphienne saw him quell his embarrassment before he replied. “My studies required that I stay up late, and I chose to sleep longer so I would be refreshed for today.”

Amused, their master leant against his chair to tease his apprentice. “Indeed? And what about your diligence demanded you remain awake? Were you perhaps ponderously thorough in completing your assigned reading?”

Pulling the book from her satchel, Saphienne thumped it on the floor. “No — he was first to finish.”

Iolas inclined his head to her in gratitude before he explained. “I made unanticipated progress with the spell you’ve set me, Master, and my enthusiasm to go further made sleep impossible to contemplate.”

Celaena raised her eyebrows.

Yet the wizard gave Iolas an open grin. “Ah, now that’s quite understandable — I can guess what your success was. Gone, now?”

“Lost with sleep.” He was slightly dispirited. “I haven’t tried again, I didn’t want to be any la– to arrive any later in the day than strictly necessary.”

Almon bowed theatrically. “My commendations on your valiant attempt at insisting on the importance of your endeavours, young apprentice!” He chuckled as he took his seat, then regarded Iolas with greater earnestness as he lounged below Peacock. “You should be more confident that they are important. Your judgement that it was better to sleep later when there was no compelling reason for prompt attendance is also sound.”

His approval heartened Iolas. “Thank you.”

“This also broaches an important topic that I intended to address.” Their master gestured to the three of them. “You have now been given the necessary introduction to your studies to allow you to accomplish your proving. Casting your first spell should take no longer than six months from your first lesson — seventy days from today.”

Saphienne caught what he was doing. Almon had originally claimed that most elves who were capable succeeded within six months, but that some needed longer, with one year being the cutoff for assessment. Iolas was evidencing progress, and so the wizard had no qualms about setting a tight deadline in the hope that Saphienne and Celaena would fail.

“Accordingly,” he went on, “I will begin in future by asking whether you are ready to demonstrate mastery of the spell you have received. Understand that this is prescribed ritual: I do not anticipate success for a further month at minimum.”

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Celaena shared the conclusion Saphienne had reached. “Not even from Iolas?”

The wizard was notably curt with her. “No.”

Although Celaena tried not to react, Saphienne could tell she was upset by the way he had dimmed.

Greater rapport was in his words as Almon expanded for the eldest apprentice. “Without meaning to dissuade you, Iolas, your swift progress to the penultimate step does not presage imminent accomplishment. Six more weeks would be typical.”

Dismayed, Iolas pursed his lips.

His teacher attempted to console him. “Pursuit of the Great Art is not linear — truthfully, some proven apprentices who are delayed in casting spells of the First Degree are quicker to attain the Second Degree.”

Iolas, however, was disapproving of the way his master had treated Celaena. He looked across to her as he adopted stiff politesse toward the wizard. “Please consider my expectations to be duly tempered, Master.”

Almon narrowed his eyes as his affability drained away. “…As you wish.”

Irked, the wizard rose and collected from Saphienne the text he had loaned to his apprentices the week prior, replacing it on his shelves before he browsed for another volume, wearing his unhappiness as vividly as his sapphire robes.

His back remained turned to them as he began his oration. “You are not yet proven ready for magical theory; during this interregnum, I have substantial freedom in choosing which subjects we will cover. Considering the predilections of my audience, I think we will start with a topic that will engage Iolas…”

He selected a larger volume, resentment simmering as he paced to loom over Saphienne and Celaena.

“…Moral philosophy. Specifically, today we shall examine several theories which attempt to formalise the social contract — essential learning for any wizard who intends to uphold the consensus of the woodlands.”

Indifferent to his reproach and resigned to his boundless pettiness, Saphienne took out her writing kit.

 

* * *

 

“… Hence we avoid the endless war of all against all by contracting with each other in service to maintaining mutual peace and prosperity. Participation in our social contract is valid only to the extent that it is upheld by its participants, who must each discharge their responsibilities to receive the rights it conveys. From this shared endeavour proceeds the basis of the order on which we have built our consensus.

“The consensus that emerges between free individuals, while superior in effect to every alternative, is not the only possible form that a social contract may take. Examining the territories governed by mortals, another contract reveals itself, one that is imposed on the many by the few, with consent obtained through violence.

“However, what distinguishes this social contract from our own is not the issue of consent and how it is obtained. An individual born into the consensus of the woodlands is obliged to conform to our social contract from birth, and while consent is explicitly obtained upon physical maturity, to claim this is very different from the implicit consent given by mortals to their dynastic rulers would be disingenuous. For all that their social contracts are dictated from above, ours is equally enforced from all around.

“Freedom is therefore not found in the choice to abide by or withdraw from a social contract, but by its universal adoption. Free societies are those in which all individuals, whether implicitly or explicitly, are bound equally. Tyranny occurs when one individual or group determines the constraints that will be placed on others, without themselves being subject to those restraints.

“A tyrant is exempt from the social contract they enforce, for good or ill.

“The tragedy of mortal societies is that their social contracts can all be reduced to the same formulation: the law must bind the many, but not protect them, and protect the few, but never bind them …”

 

* * *

 

Studying under Almon would prove far less enjoyable for all three students now that he held two of them in contempt. Gone was the back-and-forth that stimulated discussion, replaced with dry summary, sharp interrogation, and perfunctory answers to any query not raised by Iolas — who was unfalteringly polite.