CHAPTER 98 – A Game of Chess

I’m sorry this letter is late! Everyone is quite poorly at the moment.

 

Sickness was spreading through the woodlands.

Despite Almon cancelling a lesson due to being unwell, Saphienne had been too distracted by her proving spell to consider what that might portend — and she’d remained unconcerned until another letter arrived from Laelansa. The courier who’d delivered it had worn a mask, much like Filaurel had done while ill the year before, and it was only as Saphienne had been opening the envelope that she’d realised the correspondence was very delayed.

 

No one is dangerously sick, but we’ve all been debilitated. I’ve spent three days lying in bed waiting for it to pass; Ruddles says that older elves are taking up to five to recover. I’ve never been unwell before. Horrible stuff keeps filling my nose, like I’ve been crying, and my body was aching and my head was hurting awfully for a while.

I don’t know where I caught this. Someone said that it’s spreading on the wind, and that it’s more contagious than usual. All we can do is wear masks and keep our distance while it runs its course…

Ruddles says that she’ll heal me if my fever worsens. I know that recovering from sickness strengthens our bodies, but this is one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had.

Don’t become poorly, Saphienne: I’d hate for you to suffer like this.

 

“…Shit.”

Belatedly remembering what Filaurel had told her about infection, Saphienne dropped the letter as though it were poisonous. Not quite knowing what to do, she held her hands up as she approached the study door, elbows fumbling with handle until it opened, then hurried to the guest bathroom, where she disrobed and vigorously washed her hands and arms.

Naturally, Celaena walked by as she was hunched over the sink. “Saphienne! You should close the door when–”

“Please fetch the Rod of Cleansing.”

Her blush fading, Celaena eyed the garment piled on the floor. “Did you spill ink?”

“Laelansa sent me a letter while ill.”

“…I don’t understand.”

Saphienne took care to cleanse under her nails. “Illness spreads by shared breath, by shared taste, by shared touch, or through exposure to things that have been in proximity to the same. She wrote the letter while she was resting in bed–”

“Shared taste?”

She rolled her eyes at both Celaena and her past self, smiling. “A poetic term for sexual activity. Could you please just bring the rod?”

In due course she sanitised her clothes and the towels she had dried with, then redressed and gingerly went back into the study, using the enchanted rod on the letter, envelope, desk, door, and then every other surface she might have conceivably touched.

Throughout, Celaena stood watching. “Isn’t this a little excessive?”

“Laelansa says it’s highly transmittable — I cannot fall sick right now.”

Leaning on the spotless doorframe, the older girl squinted. “Almon told us being sick is a valid reason for deferral.”

“If I were sick at the deadline, maybe,” Saphienne conceded. “I won’t risk being bedridden before then. I only have–”

“Twenty-one days.” Celaena spoke wearily, having often heard the countdown; she folded her arms. “Have you made any progress doing… whatever you’ve been up to?”

Saphienne paused where she had been methodically waving the rod across the underside of the table. “…Yes and no.” She set the enchantment down as she rose, also crossing her arms as she leant back against the polished wood. “I’ve successfully memorised the sigil.”

Excitement lit Celaena’s face as she pushed away from the door, her smile wider than Saphienne had seen in some time. “That’s excellent! So Almon was wrong — and you’re going to be a wizard! I can’t wait to see his expression.”

Disappointing her was awkward. “…I’m not telling him until I can cast the spell.”

Celaena’s happiness was undimmed. “Why not? Memorisation is the hardest part. You should announce it when we next see him.”

She held firm. “I can’t reveal I’ve made strides without being asked how…”

What she didn’t say – couldn’t yet share with Celaena – hung over them.

He friend reluctantly conceded. “…I see. Whatever, um, novel methods you’ve been cultivating in here, they need to bear fruit before he’ll take you seriously?”

Saphienne nodded in thanks for the rationale. “Close enough.”

“Well, that won’t be long.” Celaena backed into the hall. “You’ll see! And if you manage during the night, you’d better wake me to celebrate.”

Grateful for her confidence, Saphienne promised she would.

 

* * *

 

Yet no matter how deeply she meditated upon the sigil now within herself, the means by which Saphienne was to set the spell in motion eluded her. Even when Hyacinth assisted with her contemplation, the sigil was an unmoving fixture in her firmament, glittering like a constellation above her mental library.

She let her concentration diminish. “I can’t tell what to do with it.”

Hyacinth was mirroring her posture atop the stacks of the upper collection, which in turn reflected how Saphienne physically sat on the floor of Celaena’s study; stretching, the spirit stood. “It is entirely unlike my magic, or I would share.”

Frustrated, Saphienne slumped back, continuing to stare up through the skylight at the hallucinatory symbol. “You might as well. None of the treatises describe it in a way that makes sense.”

The bloomkith pondered the precipitous drop down to the improbably distant floor, then sat to dangle her legs. “I am my magic. I am that which heals, winding myself through whatever I make whole. This is why I struggle with imparting spells to priests… I do not know how to give myself to another.” She smiled in irony. “In that manner, at least.”

“Wizards describe it ambiguously, but all of them stress…” She strained to describe what she didn’t comprehend. “…Imposing the spell.”

“On the world?”

“No– or maybe yes, but not directly.” She steepled her imagined fingers, missing doing so with her body. “Galuin says one agitates the aether, while Feneath talks about interceding in the supernal descent of truth; Varith outlines unification with the world-spell, while Corytho describes aligning the inner perspective with the outer. Even Rovalia details the emergence of the spell as an event which is the culmination of internal and external joined together.”

Curious, Hyacinth gestured to the shelves below. “May I know for myself what you have studied?”

Would a spirit count as an unauthorised reader? “So long as you don’t keep the memories…”

Hyacinth spread her blossoms across the texts, her delicate search causing fragments of prose to drift in and out of Saphienne’s consciousness. “…What of Elduin?”

Saphienne snorted. “Can you understand what he was saying? No? Then gods only know what he was trying to explain. I half-wonder if he’s respected because nobody will admit they can’t follow his writing.”

The spirit giggled. “This poesy speaks to my kith…”

 

What syllable are you seeking,
Vocalissimus,
In the distances of sleep?
Speak it.

 

“Beautiful,” Saphienne agreed as the recollection lapsed, “but that was scribbled in the margins, so for all they’re incomprehensible, I doubt those are High Master Elduin’s words. Either way, I can’t see what to do.”

“Then what,” Hyacinth challenged her as she ceased browsing, “will you try?”

The would-be wizard groaned, opening her eyes to stare upon the real books in Celaena’s study. “More research? Perhaps I’ll stumble across a less terse, more illuminating passage.”

The bloomkith’s sympathy was sorrowful. “Then, to avoid boredom, I shall quit your company for now.”

Saphienne met her candour with mischief. “Farewell, my fair-weather friend.”

Hyacinth laughed as she departed. “All my winds are fair!”

“That was the–”

The yellow faded from Saphienne’s gaze as the spirit fluttered from her skin, Hyacinth breezing out the room to visit Celaena.

She exhaled her frustrations as she climbed to her feet. “…Like acorns before swine…”

 

* * *

 

Three hours of tea-fuelled reading brought her no closer to a solution, only adding to the esoterica that accrued toward as yet undecided purpose. Perhaps all that she learned served no purpose — for what use was magical lore, without magical talent?

The door bell rang; she pretended not to hear, burying herself deeper in her reading.

‘Sigil as Empty Vessel’ was a curious volume. Larimon had spent considerable effort investigating the symbols associated with spells, attempting to determine the limits of what could serve as a sigil. That everything could conceivably be enchanted had inspired his thesis, which was that anything could be magically vested. Unlike with enchantments, what mattered was not the form of the symbol, he posited, so much as its relationship to the magician, which he substantiated with his experiences as a sorcerer — having awakened to his innate capacity for spellcasting via signs that lacked significance to anyone but himself.

As best Saphienne could glean, Larimon posited that the difference between enchantment and vestment lay in embodiment versus being: an enchantment embodied one or more spells, whereas a sigil became what it described.

Was an enchantment a vessel for a spell cast into the world, she speculated, while a sigil was the spell not yet cast?

“…Cast into the world…” Saphienne mulled over her own phrasing. “That would explain the nomenclature; but how is the spell to be thrown?”

And what his chosen title, ‘Sigil as Empty Vessel’?

A knock at the door made her flinch, and the sigil faded from mind as her concentration faltered.

“Damn.” She shut the book. “Come in!”

Celaena entered with Iolas — who wore a mask of yellow cloth as he greeted Saphienne.

Mildly alarmed, she retreated around the table. “Are you sick?”

“I hope not…” He stayed by the door. “…I was going to have Hyacinth check, but Celaena says she’s gone out to visit her sisters.”

“He’s not showing any symptoms,” the older girl placated Saphienne. “Thessa, Mathileyn, and Athidyn are all sick, and they told him to be somewhere else.”

Although somewhat impeded by his mask, Saphienne could tell Iolas was apologetic. “Do you mind if I stay in one of the guest rooms? If it helps, I brought these…”

Saphienne studied the blue and indigo strips he held up. “…Let me run the Rod of Cleansing over them. Will you please stay in your room until Hyacinth checks you?”

“Don’t mind her,” Celaena interjected, “she’s terrified of losing time.”

Iolas set the masks on the table beside the rod, glancing at the cover of the book Saphienne had left on the table. “…‘Fundamentals of Curves’? You’re studying the philosophy of numbers?”

“Yes,” Saphienne lied, her demeanour cool. “Please don’t touch it.”

Mirth showed in his gaze as he backed away. “How’s that helping?”

“…It’s unclear.” That much was true. “I’ve memorised the sigil. Or I had it memorised: I lost it when you knocked.”

Celaena busied herself waving the enchanted rod over the gifted masks. “I’ve assured her that’s the hardest part.”

“So you say,” said Saphienne, a little testily, “but I haven’t any clue how I’m meant to cast my spell.”

Exchanging a knowing look that vexed Saphienne, the two proven apprentices made no comment, Celaena lifting the indigo mask and slipping its straps around her ears.

“Keep your secrets; just leave me to it.”

“…Sorry,” Iolas mumbled as they left. “Wish I could help.”

Saphienne moved to shut the door behind them; she lingered with it ajar. “Answer this: did you have to bring me blue mask?”

Iolas chuckled. “Sick of the colour? I didn’t want to mix up our masks…”

“You won’t see it while wearing it,” Celaena consoled her.

Shaking her head, Saphienne closed the door, then went to sanitise her mask, and the table, and the area where Iolas had hovered.

…Which probably was a little excessive, she admitted when she was done. Yet thoroughness was ever in her nature.

 

* * *

 

No advance was made during the remainder of the day.

Hyacinth returned and announced a small consolation: Iolas was not infected, which allowed the three apprentices to dispense with distancing. Celaena gave him the bedroom next to Saphienne’s, and explained the study being out of bounds as a concession to the younger girl’s overdeveloped concerns about illness.

She needn’t have bothered; Iolas was polite enough to respect Saphienne’s privacy.

Saphienne slept fitfully, and went back to her reading before dawn. Twenty days remained.

 

* * *

 

“Take a break with us.”

Saphienne wanted to snap at Iolas, but she swallowed the impulse. “I know you’re trying to help, but relaxation isn’t possible — I’d be fretting the whole time.”

His smirk was a little superior, which was out of character for him. “We’ll be in Celaena’s sitting room if you change your mind.” He left the door open.

She resumed her research. ‘Of Delusion’ was intriguing, exploring the intricacies of spellcraft through the metaphor of associations set within the mind and yet malleable to the influence of Fascination. Vestaele approached the same territory as Larimon from a radically different direction, unconcerned with sigils but applying the same principles of symbolic association to the practice of composing, deconstructing, and casting spells. To her, the theory of all-magic-as-unique posited by Rovalia held a grain of truth, in that no two sorcerers or wizards understood the signs of a spell in precisely the same way — and the difference accounted for the signature in their casting.

Could a magician alter a spell by changing the subtle connotations that its symbols evoked to them? Practically, no. Vestaele asserted that this was demonstrated by the fact that Fascination spells could not compel a magician to–

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Fuck this.”

Saphienne returned the book to the shelf, and went down the hall.

A wintry draft made her pull her outer robes tighter about her shoulders as she neared the sitting room, which was odd, as Celaena had been keeping the windows closed to keep the heat in.

“… Not like that for me. I don’t push it: I let the magic take it.”

Saphienne froze just short of the door.

“What do you mean… take it?” Celaena was puzzled. “To me, its like an ocean lapping around me. I submerge the sigil, and the water takes on its colour. Not literally.”

“I think I know what you’re saying.” Iolas hummed. “I feel like I’m within a wind, which grows fiercer whenever a spell is cast. When I offer up my sigil, I’m inviting the magic to blow through it, like a flute.”

They were discussing spellcasting.

“Religious metaphor? Really?”

“…Not intentionally. I did go to the shrines often, when I was younger.”

“Do you think there’s any meaning to these differences?”

“Perhaps,” Iolas pondered. “We might have to understand them, later, for the First Degree. For now, it’s enough to feel the magic and surrender the sigil.”

Saphienne’s vision blurred, and she slunk away.

She was not deceived: they had deliberately let her overhear. Iolas was doing for her what she had done for him, when she spoke with his father on the subject of wisdom. Celaena was his willing accomplice. Neither of them were technically breaking any rule – she was sure they hadn’t explicitly agreed to help her – and the trespass was entirely her own, for she could have plugged her ears the moment she guessed the subject.

Yet that was not the only reason her eyes were burning.

Saphienne sealed herself in her bedroom and sat down to meditate, vainly opening wide her perception to what was around her in the desperate search for what she knew she wouldn’t find.

An a hour hence, she would desist, falling into fathomless depression.

For Saphienne had never once sensed what they had described.

 

* * *

 

Dark followed day followed dark followed day in tedious procession, the avalanche of words from the library burying Saphienne far from the sunshine. The more she hurled herself against the unyielding works, the greater she understood that her situation was irrecoverable.

She simply missed what wizards and sorcerers had: the ability to perceive, not merely the sigils before them, but the vast potential on which spells depended to become real. That was what Almon had alluded to, when he’d asked what the children had seen in the snowy clearing on that first, less bleak night. He’d been laying the foundation of what they would need to cast a spell — encouraging them to see the world before them, to be joined by the aether, or world-spell, or whatever fiction they would come to favour.

In the realm of magic, Saphienne was blind.

As for Iolas and Celaena? They noticed the change in her demeanour, and they grew more distant. Neither of them mentioned her efforts at wizardry, sadness shed on her from their dimmer grey robes whenever they passed by.

She was defeated… and for the first time in a while, she felt lonely.

 

* * *

 

Do you blame her, that she quit her reading and went out? Seventeen days remained, but to Saphienne there might as well have been none. In the end, she had concluded that Almon was correct: her connection to magic was so weak that she could only perceive it when concentrated as a spell. Whatever miracle she had performed to set her sigil within her sky, there it was condemned to sit, useless and taunting.

She ceased memorising it each morning.

The façade of the library was bittersweet to her, frosted over so early in the evening, lamps shining like a beacon in readiness for the unusually late snows. Here she had always wanted to dwell when she was a child, and now she was condemned to make tending books – or another craft much like it – her chosen art. She was to be a second Filaurel.

If only she had been more careful about what she wished for…

A sign was affixed to the door, announcing that the library was closed for the week to inhibit the transmission of sickness. She went in anyway, masked in blue, knowing that an exception would be made for her.

“Winter hair now? Gods, how long has it been?”

Saphienne blinked at Faylar, then lifted the tail of her banded hair to examine its whiteness. She had been so preoccupied that she hadn’t noticed the change. “…I didn’t realise how much time had passed.”

Faylar’s much shorter hair had turned just as stark, and he too wore a mask of blue, albeit paler. “Makes me nostalgic for when we met. I can’t believe it’s been so long… or that it’s barely been any time at all.”

She wandered over to the desk she shared with Filaurel — wondering if that was still true today, or whether it now belonged to her mentor and Faylar. “I didn’t mean to stay away. I should have come by before–”

“I knew you’d be busy.” His conspiratorial grin protruded beyond his mask.

She didn’t have the heart to smile back, but her mask hid her misery.

“…Since you’re here,” he began, his fragile cheer slipping into worry that wasn’t centred on her, “can we talk? I’ve got a problem.”

Distraction was a welcome prospect. “Our meeting room?”