CHAPTER 99 – Thieves Don’t Read

Fifteen days remained. The three youngest apprentices attended their final lesson before the winter solstice, aware that it might be the last on wizardry that Saphienne would ever receive.

An abjuration against sickness glittered across the doorway; Saphienne tingled from the tips of her ears to her toes as she passed through. Almon was masked where he stoked the fire, his voice muffled by the plain white cloth that complemented the wintery blues of the robes he wore. “Do any of the three of you have reason to believe you may be unwell?”

They shook their heads. Iolas retained his outer layer for once, the parlour chillier than he preferred despite the lit fireplace.

Folding his hands into his sleeves, the wizard sat on his high-backed chair, discerning the mood. “Let us address the gravity of the moment,” he began, turning to Saphienne. “Apprentice: are you ready to demonstrate your command of the Great Art?”

She had traded the blue covering given to her by Iolas for green. “Not yet.”

Was there a smile behind his mask, for how she answered? “Then I am obliged to remind you that, when you arrive for your next lesson, you will either answer in the affirmative or cease to be my apprentice.

“But,” he went on, turning to the others, “we all know this. This may well be the last day Saphienne is taught beside you. I therefore propose to deviate from my usual syllabus. Do either of you object?”

Sorrowful, both Celaena and Iolas consented.

Almon leant forward, intent on Saphienne. “I advise you to use this wisely. On what do you wish me to lecture, apprentice?”

Although she resented his pity, and rejected the assumption that she was to fail, Saphienne couldn’t forgo the chance to learn what she willed. She paused, thinking about all that vexed her in the texts she’d copied, mindful that she shouldn’t disclose how far she’d gone beyond what he’d taught, eager to make the most of the opportunity. What dare she ask, that he might let slip something useful?

“…Iolas and Celaena are proven,” Saphienne noted. “Since they’ve started the climb to the First Degree? Explain to us what a magical praxis entails.”

He hadn’t anticipated her request; his gaze drifted to the others. “…The knowledge will not be of use to them for years, and is useless without talent for magic. Are you certain?”

Saphienne crossed her arms.

“…Very well.” The wizard stood. “Iolas, Celaena: take detailed notes. You will have long forgotten this, when you need return to them.”

 

* * *

 

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

 

To hear Almon describe them, magical praxes did not have to be recorded in rhyme, nor even easily expressed. His was writ in verse because performance and pageantry accorded with his disposition. All that mattered was that the magician understood: that they had established for themselves the meaning behind the Great Art.

To hold a magical praxis was to know one’s magic, one’s world, and oneself. Therein lay the contradiction that the wizard had alluded to from the very first night, for how could anyone truly know himself? Or the world? Or the magic that transcended all things? Deciding that such could be known was the height of hubris… and the necessary foundation for wisdom.

That was why wizards studied philosophy — not for answers, but for the discipline of pursuing them. So too, a magical praxis was the method of the mystic, his posture as he roved out into the unknown. Almon went forth in the grandeur of himself, for all that he encountered was revealing of himself, and so in the Great Art he found himself as he had so poetically composed.

His Great Art was to know himself; and thus he was ever reconciled to never be sure.

Do you think that absurd?

Then reflect further on the man — in all his presentations.

Yet no magician chose his praxis. One could choose what one believed in, and thereby acknowledge what one’s choosing had made true, but who one was to make that choice? That awaited discovery from the moment one was born. Each magical praxis was the person in whom it existed.

Arelyn beheld the world as perpetually emerging to he who bore witness; to bear witness was to shape the world, and to shape the world was to bear witness. Thus he was a conjurer.

Taerelle assembled the world around herself from whatever best explained her experience; to know was to belong in the world, and to belong in the world was to know. Thus she was a diviner.

Gaeleath accepted their interbeing with the other; to be was to be indivisible, and to be indivisible was to be.

Thus they were denied by the Luminary Vale.

These and other magical praxes would gradually become clear to Saphienne as she reflected on the person, and their world, and their magic. Each figure lived accordingly, for to deny their magical praxis would be to lose their tenuous grasp of the Great Art — for every degree beyond proving spells required a magical praxis to approach.

These insights would come much, much later. For now, all that mattered about a magical praxis was this:

If she was to attain the First Degree, Saphienne needed to discover her own.

 

* * *

 

Yet there was another consideration, one more daunting to Saphienne than uncovering her magical praxis or even determining the secret on which spells of the First Degree depended. She dwelled on it during her journey back to the grand house, grateful that Celaena and Iolas were too dismayed for idle conversation — though touched that the older girl squeezed Saphienne’s arm very tightly.

When they arrived at the gate she parted from her friends, going off to walk the snowy woods alone.

Or, not wholly alone. The Wardens of the Wilds were surely tailing her, invisible to her perception, concealed by their rings, too light of footfall to leave prints upon the snow. For once, their presence was highly appropriate, for Saphienne was contemplating what they existed to prevent.

Studying a spell of the First Degree would be a crime.

There were no clever arguments this time; no oversights that could be exploited; no technicality by which she might be absolved. An apprentice could only study a sigil with the permission of her master. Were Saphienne to come into the possession of a spell fitting her needs, then the instant she sat and scrutinised the symbol? She would be a criminal.

Did that mean her apprenticeship was already concluded? No. While consent wouldn’t ever be obtained in advance, it could be granted retroactively — if Almon could be persuaded that she had acted out of necessity.

Alas, the only way he might forgive her would be if she did what – to her knowledge – no wizard in the history of the woodlands had ever done.

“‘Most can learn spells of the First Degree in ten years,’” she repeated to herself as she hunched against the headwind, “‘five if they’re unusually gifted.’”

Saphienne knew she was unusual, and gifted in intellect…

…Hubris: Almon was right about her flaw. She had the mad self-conviction to believe she could excel, not just where others had failed, but where millennia of magicians more accomplished than herself deemed success impossible.

And worse? Getting to that point would unavoidably involve other criminality. No Tome of Correspondence could copy a sigil…

She would have to steal a spellbook.

Beneath the shade of a fir thick with ice, Saphienne stopped to remember herself.

Had she somehow always known?

 

“You can be whatever you want to be. I won’t mind.”

“Even a thief?”

 

Why else could her thoughts have so darkly strayed, when Kylantha shared that sweet, innocent sentiment? Was this her nature, even back then?

Saphienne had always wanted what life said she couldn’t have. A caring mother; a mortal friend; magic. Would she have wanted yet more still, were these things her own?

…Was that what had befallen Lonareath? She, who had been raised in happiness and contentment; she, whom wood elves titled Death’s Consort. What else the great apostate, the witch of the moonless night, if not a thief of free will — of life?

“I’m not her,” Saphienne murmured, “nor was she whom they say.”

And even had Saphienne been wicked from birth, she could always defy herself. She was not compelled to submit to her inclinations. This time, unlike what came before, she knew there were different paths to tread, different ways to be.

…But where did those paths lead?

To nowhere she wanted to go. To no one she wanted to become. Whatever it was that drove her onward, without wizardry, she didn’t care to continue.

There were many right paths, but for Saphienne?

Only one path was left.

Once again she felt for her talisman, withdrawing it from the armour of the bark-scaled pouch made by her dearest friend. She clutched the coin as she stared up at the clouded sun, peering into the outpouring of magic she knew was there, but could not perceive.

See her, stood stark against a cold background.

Hear her:

“I am what I make of things; they are what they make of me.”

Saphienne relinquished her doubts.

Fifteen days. Proven by then, or dead.

 

* * *

 

She could involve no one.

Staring out from her bedroom at the softly falling snowflakes, Saphienne sat on the windowsill with warm tea against her lips, planning.

Even were there another, better way that a friend might show her? The moment she admitted what she was contemplating, they would be obliged to report it — and therefore guilty if she carried through with the crime. Telling someone would necessitate abandoning her ambitions.

Especially because, in her heart? She knew if she asked Celaena, or Faylar, or Iolas, they would risk helping. She couldn’t let them do that.

“Hypocrite,” she scolded herself. “How little I’ve changed…”

There was little likelihood any of them could come up with a better idea, anyway, and the would-be wizards who might assist her wouldn’t. Gaeleath had stretched to their limit of deniability to advise her, and Taerelle?

A lump rose in her throat.

…Taerelle would just give her a spell, Saphienne realised. The senior apprentice had previously evidenced her willingness for self-sacrifice on Saphienne’s behalf, and was vulnerable to manipulation.

Not that Saphienne would have to manipulate her. Taerelle pretended at being as cool and remote as the winter through the window, yet she was as passionate as Saphienne — and the love they both felt for her cousin had transferred onto each other, albeit less prominently. All that Saphienne need do was ask in desperation, and the woman who had gone far beyond tutoring her would oblige.

“Not her.” Saphienne swallowed. “No.”

Thus she decided what she hadn’t consciously asked: whom should she steal from? There had only been two feasible choices, for there were only two sanctums she was welcome within. One, Taerelle’s; the other, Almon’s. To take from Taerelle would be – in the best scenario – risking her censure by the Luminary Vale for failure to guard her arcana.

In the worst case, she might be mistaken for a willing accomplice.

Or claim that she was, to try to spare Saphienne.

Almon was the only credible option; better yet, she’d be confining her transgressions to a single individual. To thieve from her master would also be much easier, since she had circumvented his familiar once before.

That was not say the theft would be easy. Ideally, she would abscond with his auxiliary spellbook, thereby to avoid him noticing the absence for as long as possible, but he had loaned that grimoire to Arelyn. Her only recourse was to take the book from which he prepared his daily castings…

“…It’ll be obvious,” she whispered into her cup.

Not to mention that the prized book would be warded, possibly trapped, and definitely alarmed. There was no way the wizard would miss what was transpiring — he would immediately scry for the location of his tome, and if it were obscured from him, his next step would be to divine how it was stolen, and by whom. Perhaps he might be delayed by having to visit Arelyn, but based on the preparedness shown by Taerelle, Saphienne thought it more probable that he would have the necessary Divination spells set aside in case of dire emergency.

And should she evade these snares? Almon would go to the wardens, who would report to him the comings and goings of one soon-to-be-arrested apprentice named Saphienne.

She drew in a calming breath. “These problems can be solved.”

Saphienne picked the most difficult, and downed her tea.

 

* * *

 

“Shame, that you’ve finally come for dinner at such a trying time.”

Politely smiling where she sat next to Faylar, Saphienne removed the loops of her mask from her ears and folded it into her pocket, attention on the heavy, lidded pot that his mother was bringing to the table.

“On the other hand, this is a good excuse for a seasonal speciality.”

As Alavara set down the stew and lifted the lid, Saphienne’s mouth began to water, the scent of venison drawing both of the young elves closer.

“Faylar told me you eat meat.”

“Not often,” Saphienne confessed. “Not when growing up with my mother — she never ate it. This smells delicious…”

“Every warden learns how to cook a good stew,” Faylar shared as his mother ladled the rich, savoury mixture into their bowls. “Their camp meals are left to cook away while they’re out on patrol, and they have to be nourishing enough for–”

“Listen to you!” Alavara grinned at her son. “Speaking like you’re an expert. You have a Warden of the Wilds right here.”

His blush was accompanied by a smile. “I usually am the expert, when I’m talking to friends.”

As she lifted her spoon Saphienne did her best to save him from embarrassment. “Thank you for letting me stay, and at short notice.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Alavara retreated to fetch fresh bread from the oven, the scent of garlic and butter wafting across the cosy kitchen. “You’re welcome! As much as we’ve had an interesting time together, Saphienne, I meant what I said to you outside the infirmary.”

Faylar raised an eyebrow — then nudged Saphienne, who had a spoonful of stew raised halfway to her mouth. He furtively gestured for her to put it down as he addressed his mother’s back. “…Do I want to know?”

Laughing, the warden shook her head as she removed her thick gloves. “Not every conversation we have is about you,” she teased him, “though I can see why you’d fear otherwise — Saphienne, did you hear about the chat Faylar and I had, after I ran into you for the first time?”

Cringing at the memory of their encounter, and pouting at the realisation she had to wait to eat, Saphienne sat back. “He may have mentioned a mild interrogation.”

“In my defence,” Alavara offered as she brought over the sliced loaf and joined them, “I didn’t know that you aren’t interested in boys. I feel much happier now, leaving the two of you overnight.”

Faylar had flushed such an intense crimson that his appetite was supressed. “Could you not joke like that? Please?”

Spotting an opening through which to ingratiate herself – and also enjoying the mischief – Saphienne idly offered an observation as she helped herself to a slice of bread. “I think it’s perfectly understandable; from what I’ve heard, there are plenty of girls who find your son attract–”

“Saphienne!”

Alavara nearly choked with laughter. “Really? Well, I suppose one is plenty. But whichever young lady might it be?”

“Mother!”

So Faylar hadn’t told his mother why Saphienne was staying over — or rather, hadn’t shared her convenient excuse. Saphienne gave Alavara a glare of transparently false seriousness. “A valiant effort, good warden, but you can’t make me talk.”

Faylar’s mother looked from the girl to her son, eyes twinkling. “I don’t need to: he’ll break under questioning. Thank you for assisting us with our investigations.”

Hands covering his face, Faylar muttered a profanity.

“See how he speaks to his own mother?”

Saphienne couldn’t help but giggle. “You don’t care.”

“And he doesn’t mean it,” Alavara agreed. “Try the stew?”

Encouraged, Saphienne finally tasted–

…Faylar broke the reverent silence. “I think she likes it?”

Saphienne blinked as she appraised the revelation before her. “…This is one of the best meals I’ve ever had…”

Alavara scowled. “Really? You’re surprised it’s good? Did you expect otherwise?”

“No! I just–”

Mother and son laughed together at their guest, who cringed again, and began happily devouring all that she could.

 

* * *

 

However, when the meal was concluding Saphienne was forced to broach what she was there to confirm. “At the risk of sounding sympathetic to them… should we take some of the leftovers to your friends outside?”

Alavara glanced at the dark window, already frosted over. “…It is quite cold tonight, isn’t it?” Her smile was ambiguous before she faced Saphienne. “Kind of you think of others, but there’s no need. No one else is watching you.”

Saphienne let herself frown, folding her arms. “Forgive me if I’m sceptical.”

The warden scoffed as she stretched. “You haven’t been up to anything suspicious since we’ve started following closely. Not that you would — or would risk it, if you were guilty. Added, we’re short of hands due to illness.” She shrugged as she patted her stomach, contemplatively eyeing the half-full pot. “Ask Faylar, if you don’t believe me. Frankly? You’re a low priority, and the odds of you doing anything criminal while visiting a warden are nil: you’re too intelligent.”

Faylar had been quietly chewing, and he was reproachful as he swallowed. “You shouldn’t be following Saphienne around at all–”

“…Not our decision…”

“–And my mother’s telling the truth.” He inclined his head to Saphienne. “She’s been complaining about the illness all week.”

Intrigued, Saphienne relaxed her arms in apparent concession to Alavara. “…I hadn’t considered how that would be affecting you.”

“Only reason I’m going out on patrol tonight.” She thought better of a third portion, and covered over the stew. “Any other occasion? I would arrange to stay longer — be a good host for you.”

“She means keep an eye on us,” Faylar translated. “Nothing to do with the wardens, she’s just nosy by nature.”

That gave Saphienne chance to press a little further, careful not to arouse suspicion as she sighed and mimicked her mentor. “…This whole situation is ridiculous. If we were serious about stopping the spread, then there’d be a general curfew, not just closure of public buildings.”

Alavara grew animate. “Don’t get me started! With respect to the collective wisdom of our local consensus, this is the problem with compromise: either the illness isn’t really that bad, and we can all catch it and move on, or it’s sufficiently straining that we should be locking every door and closing every window to contain it.”

“Which side do you–”

“Officially,” Alavara interrupted, “I don’t have an opinion on decisions already reached through our consensus. I may have been at the meeting, arguing that it’s enough of an impediment to the public health to warrant temporary restrictions, but now we’re in accord I abide by what was settled.” She stood, tossing down the napkin that had lain on her lap. “But, privately? The week after the winter solstice is going to be abysmal.”

Perfect. “Will the celebration be as busy for you as the summer solstice?”

“Usually, nowhere close,” the warden grumbled. “This year? Half of us are out sick, and the rest exhausted from running double-distance. Our only hope is that the troublemakers are in a similar state.”

Now to wager that her calculations were correct. “Would it be better for you if I stayed home that night?”

“Safer for your health,” Faylar opined.

Alavara indulged the offer as she collected their bowls. “Bless you for that. If you want to make our lives easy, spend the night at a public event.”

Saphienne had been correct, but she feigned ignorance. “…Why? Won’t that make it harder to listen in–”