CHAPTER 94 – And Greater Still

Summer turned to autumn as so turned the leaves, and red spread through the hair of the elves who flourished in the Eastern Vale. True to her recollection from the prior year, Celaena was early to lose her blonde for auburn — for which Iolas teased her in retaliation for her remarks at spring’s end. Neither were serious in their bickering.

Saphienne was not much further behind, at least in the colour of her strands. She was so preoccupied with her proving spell – fast becoming an obsession – that she didn’t notice her change until two days had passed, at which point she stood blinking at her reflection, witness for the first time to how vivid her eyes became against the autumnal vermillion that bled through her gold. She took the time to comb and spread out her locks, admiring how they still commanded attention while suspended between seasons.

If only Laelansa were there to see… and to be seen. Would she turn early? Saphienne suspected she would hold fast to summertime, like Iolas.

Yet while the year progressed, the appearance that two apprentice wizards had fallen behind their peer roused Almon to intensifying scorn. He had adopted the habit of beginning each lesson by reminding the girls of how many days were left, and when one month remained, his cruelty mounted.

“Should you be inadequate to the demands of wizardry, your time would be better spent seeking another apprenticeship. I expect Saphienne will return to her books — what of you, Celaena? Have you given thought to what your chosen art will be? Something with straightforward calculations, perhaps.”

They suffered his dissuasion with grace, though Saphienne’s suffering was lesser than Celaena’s. While neither had demonstrated to the wizard that they could cast a spell, Saphienne’s well-established intellect remained sufficient to parry his questions on the subjects he assigned; Celaena was easier to bully. A growing proportion of mornings with their master were given over to harsh interrogation, from which Celaena had no chance of emerging unscathed.

“Celaena! You wrote that beauty, truth, and virtue hold no relation to each other. I was quite incredulous to read this, given your background in the study of natural philosophy — is there no elegance in an ascertained natural law? Is there no virtue in comprehending how it emerges? Does possessing that virtue of comprehension not reveal the beauty?”

“…I think beauty takes more than one form, and to make statements about all beauty would be reductive.”

“Good, so you concede that some beauty bears relation to truth and virtue, and thereby admit that your assertion was false. Or is your assertion that they are unrelated somehow not, in itself, an overbroad statement?”

“What I meant to say, Master–”

“–Should be in the essay, next time, since you lack the faculty to mount an adequate defence of such thoughtless work. Moving on …”

This increased the pressure on Saphienne, who knew that the moment she successfully proved herself, Celaena could rebuff him with a casting of her own. Alas, no matter how she tried – no matter her approach, no matter her motivation – the sigil always fell away when ushered within.

As for Iolas? His demeanour grew more subdued with each visit to the parlour, weighed down by compliments that Almon draped upon him when unfavourably comparing the girls to his example. To ignore how the wizard treated them was bad enough, but for his achievement to be rubbed like thistles on their skin stung Iolas just as painfully.

In retrospect, it was obvious what would happen.

 

* * *

 

The session had begun with the weekly ritual of Almon inviting Celaena and Saphienne to exhibit their mastery, before then proceeding to his ever-innovative, withering remarks as to their unsuitability for wizardry. He’d then noted that merely twenty days remained until their six-month deadline, stressing how few of his apprentices had ever taken so long, and how few of them again had went on to meaningful accomplishment.

Next the girls had endured him contrasting their delay with Iolas’ alacrity, though the wizard had gone further than usual, recounting the achievements of their predecessors who had shown early aptitude for spellcasting. His pretext for doing so had, of course, been to encourage Iolas.

This prelude concluded, his back to them as he paced over to the stairs, he elected to begin the studies of the day by posing Saphienne a profoundly difficult question on worth.

“Is knowledge intrinsically or instrumentally valuable?”

Recognising that he was intent on assailing her with the entire breadth of the dispute that preoccupied the book he’d loaned, Saphienne knew that the only way to win was to redefine their battleground. “Whether knowledge has value in itself, or due to its usefulness, depends on the form of knowledge.”

He sneered as he turned away from the steps and approached her. “Indeed? And how would you distinguish different forms of knowledge? The subject they concern? Would you say that some knowledge is frivolous?”

To decide that certain knowledge was unnecessary was to declare utility the answer; she wouldn’t fall into his trap. “I don’t take a position on the relationship between the subject of knowledge and its worth — that would be premature, and lead away from answering your question. I differentiate knowledge based on whether or not it has epistemic privilege.”

His face fell. “…You have been reading beyond the syllabus, I see. Explain for Iolas and your peer what that means.”

That only Celaena was to be counted as her peer didn’t go unnoticed by Saphienne — nor by Iolas, given how he shifted uneasily in his robes of darker grey. “Epistemic privilege is the concept that certain knowledge, such as knowledge of the existence of one’s thoughts, cannot be falsified by others. Regardless of their content, what we know about experiencing them – the ‘I think’ that comes before the thought itself – has the privilege of being foundationally, inherently true.”

Almon reclined in his chair, steepling his fingers. “And how does this distinction relate to the value of knowledge?”

Another attempt to trip her. “In the framing of your question, we start from the assumption that knowledge has value, and ask what form it takes. Yet answering that question requires we be able to decide, definitively, whether knowledge can possess intrinsic worth. What is intrinsic cannot depend upon another source — yet the only knowledge we can be sure does not depend on anything else is knowledge with epistemic privilege.”

His eyes narrowed. “You make the argument that only epistemic knowledge can have inherent worth?”

“No, I make the argument that epistemic knowledge is the only form for which it is possible to pose the question. For any other forms, the question is irresolvable, unless we can say whether or not they depend on epistemic knowledge to hold value.” She pointed to his robes. “Let us assume, for argument, that there is value in knowing that you are dressed in blue. Does the value of that knowledge depend upon our certainty that it is knowledge, and so depend on our certainty in the act of knowing?

“Or,” she went on, pressing him, “is it possible that the fact you are dressed in blue does not depend upon my subjective knowing, but exists independently of me — and so its value may not depend on my knowing it? Which would you say is the case, Master?”

Now, the master of Hallucination glowered. If he confirmed his belief that truth was contingent and unknowable outside his experience of himself, then he would reduce his question to an absurdity. If only epistemic knowledge could potentially have inherent worth, then the question could only be asked of that particular form. But then, how was the utility of ‘I think’ or ‘I feel’ to be assessed, in a world where it was impossible to be certain of what resulted from thoughts and feelings?

Saphienne had, in effect, forced Almon to confront his magical praxis — him asking that question was pointless. If he was right about the world, he was wasting his time.

“You argue,” he deflected, “that whether knowledge is of intrinsic or instrumental worth is fundamentally a question of our confidence in what can be known.”

“Subjectively, it would appear so, wouldn’t it?”

“Let us then seek an objective opinion,” he declared, shifting forward as he turned his malevolent attention to the other girl. “Celaena! Supposing that Saphienne’s argument holds merit, what would be its resolution if we were to live in a world where objective truth existed?”

Poor Celaena had been baffled by their discourse, Saphienne realised, unfamiliar with the new concept and struggling to follow along. She froze in place where she was cross-legged on the floor, her pupils wide and her ears stretching higher as she floundered.

“Well? Don’t keep us in suspense, child.”

Reddening, she coughed, her voice low. “…I didn’t understand.”

The wizard rose. “Say again? Speak louder, girl.”

“I didn’t understand Saphienne’s argument.”

“No?” He stood above her. “And what part confused you?”

“I… I’m not sure about epistemic knowledge.”

“I see.” He brought his hands behind his back and strolled toward his bookcases, performing carefree ease. “So you doubt that some knowledge could have epistemic privilege? I assume that you wonder about how such could be, given that the Great Art makes possible spells that can divine what people experience? Do tell: what about the concept do you specifically find unconvincing?”

Shamefaced, Celaena stared at the floor. “…I don’t understand what it means.”

“Ah.” He stopped, facing away. “I suppose I have been expecting too much of you, haven’t I? Unlike Saphienne, you have yet to show any capacity for independent discovery.”

Celaena’s hands clasped together beneath her sleeves.

“Whereas she engaged in additional study, you haven’t demonstrated any appetite for going beyond what has been taught. I expect lack of ability is to blame, given your slow progress.” He traced the spines before him. “Although, that raises a question: is it worth teaching you, when your utility as a wizard is of diminishing likelihood?”

Iolas had been rereading his notes to distract himself, but hearing his master insult his friend’s worth made him set down his pen. “Master–”

“As a hypothetical,” Almon pressed on, taking from the shelf a slender volume, “let us try a simpler question. You have spent the week on the fundamentals of axiology, so you should be capable of making a serviceable argument.” He pivoted to Celaena. “Is there any inherent value in teaching wizardry to someone who has none of the necessary qualities?”

Her voice had fallen to a whisper. “I’m going to be a wizard.”

“That would be an argument based on instrumentality — and even if you had proven yourself, that wasn’t what I asked.” He waved the book he held. “If you are not to be a wizard, then what inherent worth do you have as my student? What value is there in teaching someone who cannot do?”

Saphienne couldn’t restrain herself. “If knowledge has worth–”

“Do be quiet, Saphienne,” he dismissed her. “Celaena has had quite enough assistance from you. An apprentice wizard must stand on her own two feet, not live in the shadow of those with talent — however marginal.”

The daughter of another wizard closed her eyes.

“Well, Celaena? Can you formulate a position?” He folded his arms. “Or do you need Saphienne to summarise the assigned reading? You did complete it, didn’t you?”

Her flush had intensified. “Yes.”

“Then show what you are worth — if you’re worth anything at all.”

Saphienne saw Celaena’s lips tremble.

“…What I’m worth?”

With horror, Saphienne–

The burst of indigo that accompanied the syllable Celaena spoke – “Motion” – was the clap of thunder before the outpouring of her rage, the book held by the wizard pulled from his hand to soar across to her as she exploded up to catch it.

“Fuck off! You horrible, horrible man! What am I worth? What are you worth?! Who gives a damn who you are, without the Luminary Vale insisting everyone takes you seriously? Why else does anyone care what you have to say? No one likes you — no one holds you in esteem! You only matter because you’re a wizard, and you’re only ‘respected’ by your ‘peers’ because you can teach–” she snorted, tears glistening in her eyes “–which is fucking ironic, because you’re the worst teacher I’ve ever had! You treat everyone like they’re here to amuse you! But you’re the joke! We keep secrets from you because you’ll lose your temper — and because from the moment you met Saphienne you were awful to her! You’re a cruel, conceited, hypocritical fantasist, convinced you’re superior, even though a child outwitted you! You bring out the worst in everyone — and for what?” She demanded an answer of more than the wizard. “So you can matter? So you can pretend? So you can make your sad, lonely life worth living?”

Taking aim, she hurled the book through his window, the crashing glass startling her audience as she shouted:

“Fuck your apprenticeship — and go fuck yourself!”

 

* * *

 

The only sound within the classroom was Celaena’s ragged panting.

Almon had withdrawn a step, speechless, his open mouth and wild eyes betraying his total stupefaction. He stared for what felt to Saphienne like an agonising eternity, then dragged his head around to look out his shattered window, its shards fallen outside his suddenly too small room.

Birdsong carried in from the woods.

He faced Celaena. “…How long?”

As though wrenching herself free from a fascination, she began to gather up her belongings, anger in every movement.

“How long have you been–”

“A week after Iolas.” Collected, and resolute, she strode to the exit.

The wizard glided after her. “Hold. Explain to me–”

“Get fucked.”

She slammed the door behind her.

Foretelling her future, Saphienne deposited the loaned book – ‘On the Origin of Worth’ – on the floor as she, too, made ready to depart.

“…You.” Almon watched her. “She hid it because of–”

“Allow me,” she interrupted as she took to her feet, “to endorse every word Celaena said, and to further add that, for someone so keen to impart wisdom in magic, you’re the most unwise person I’ve ever learned from when it comes to everything else. Goodbye, Almon; it has been my displeasure.”

“Go, then.” His cheeks burned hot, his eyes glinting coldly. “We have our answer.”

That made her halt, slowly lowering her foot back to the floor. “You know, Almon: with any other teacher, from anywhere in the woodlands, I would have been a wizard.” She glanced across her shoulder. “Celaena would have, as well. Were it possible to believe you’re a decent and reasonable person who wants the best for people, we would have come to you when we were in trouble.” She turned around. “But it’s never your fault, is it? The deficiencies must lie with others.”

“Don’t try to pass the blame for–”

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“‘I was the world in which I walked,’” she recited his words with contempt, “‘and what I saw or heard or felt came not but from myself; and there I found myself more truly and more strange.’ That’s your magical praxis, isn’t it?”

The wizard did not say.

“Yourself: from there, and nowhere else.” She bowed. “My congratulations upon the occasion of your defeat of yourself. I trust you are well satisfied, for there is no one else who possibly could be.”

And then, Iolas laughed.

“Gods,” he breathed as he collected his pen and ink and paper, leaving his notes where they lay on the writing board, “this really has been educational.”

Alarm showed on Almon’s face. “Apprentice, if you are considering–”

“He can fuck off,” Iolas grinned at Saphienne as he collected his outer robes. “How about calligraphy? Master Folwin will take me back, and he’ll be happy to share his art with you, too, even if it’s just while you figure out what’s right for you.”

Never had she loved him more. “Iolas, you don’t need to–”

“I don’t want to stay.” He shook his head as he joined her. “This has been miserable.”

The wizard squared his shoulders. “Don’t be foolish. You have talent–”

“Shall we?” Iolas offered his arm.

Saphienne took it. “Let’s.”

Unamused, Almon called after them. “When you return to your senses–”

But Iolas politely shut the door on their former master, and they went out into the sunshine together, leaving the wizard to his own company.

 

* * *

 

First counting to a thousand paces, Saphienne leaned against Iolas to whisper in his ear. “You’re taking a huge risk.”

“No, I’m not.” Iolas let go of her arm and slipped his own around her shoulders, squeezing her against him. “Either he realises he’s at fault and apologises, or I don’t want to spend another day under him. I’m fine with either outcome.”

Her smile was sentimental, nostalgic for the night they met. “You never really wanted to be a wizard.”

“Not for its own sake. And not to make myself happy.” He reciprocated with an exhausted smile that was, despite all he had expended to reach it, freed. “There are other ways to help, and you said it yourself: I don’t need magic to matter to people. Neither do you.”

“…It wasn’t about that, for me.” And she didn’t know what she would do without it, but her grief could wait until she was apart from her friend.

“Sorry, Saphienne.”

“…I’d tell you not to be,” she thought aloud, “but I’m not so sure, anymore, that your sympathy is undeserved. I don’t know how much of the way I am – I’ve been – was really my decision, not until recently; and I don’t know whether to blame myself or the woodlands.”

“We’re children…” His smile was wry. “…You especially. And even if we were grown, we could always blame our parents…”

She rolled her eyes. “Athidyn and Mathileyn are lovely. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Tell you a secret?”

“If you want.”

“I used to hate the way they pried into everything I did.” His tone was fond. “And I was bored by everything they liked… but they gave me something that I don’t think Almon will ever have, even with his mastery of the Great Art.”

Her tilting head was contemplative. “…Go on, I can’t guess.”

“Enough.” He laughed to himself. “They gave me enough.”

 

* * *

 

Another poem writ by my father, with which I once sat:

 

This is thy hour, O self, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best:
Night, sleep, death, and the stars.

 

He had composed it at midnight, but I did not comprehend his midnight until I beheld that it was no hour — and much later that, though I have his semblance, and was made in his likeness, his not-hour was not mine.

 

* * *

 

Yellow and green swooped close above their heads, and Peacock beat his wings to carry himself up to the boughs. He called down, “Your master commands you: return to him and explain–”

Iolas flicked his fingers in an obscene gesture. “Not my master, not my problem.”

They went on toward the grand house, to where Celaena had surely fled.

Minutes later, the familiar fluttered onto the ground before them. “Master Almon requests that you return to him–”

“Who?”

Peacock squinted. “You know who he is.”

“No,” Iolas clarified as he nodded to Saphienne, “who of us is this message for?”

The figment deflated, his long tail feathers fanning out on the grass. “His message is for you, Iolas.”

“Then tell him I decline.”