“Choice,” Iolas said, quite timidly. “We haven’t really considered choice.”

Sat beside him in their classroom, Saphienne was given pause by the hesitation she read in Iolas, who seemed less unsure of his answer to their master than intimidated by whatever it portended.

“I see your father has forewarned you, Iolas.” The wizard gave the boy a bright smile; his lax posture made it unclear whether or not he approved. “What about your father, Celaena? What did he tell you?”

Saphienne watched Celaena wrestle with the question. As the moment stretched she read conflict on her face, uncertainty that grew excruciating as Almon refused to interject until his student gave him a response. For all that Celaena was more composed today – her eyes sharp, hair impeccably braided in a girlish style – she clearly was unprepared to reply, which implied she was caught between honesty to her master and devotion to her father.

At last, she closed her eyes. “He told me to never consent to having my future divined… under any circumstances, by anyone. He told me why.”

“As I expected.”

All three apprentices looked at him in surprise — Celaena most of all.

Iolas was reproachful. “Doesn’t that count as teaching her about magic?”

“Yes.” Almon deepened their surprise by casually sitting on the sill of his window, fully relaxing from the pageantry he usually adopted. “However, he would be a very poor father if he withheld that lesson. I assume your father gave you the reasoning as well?”

“No.” Iolas’ eyes showed conflict of a different kind. “He stressed to me that it was important, and asked me to trust him until I was old enough to know more. I listened.”

This was met with a slow, sincere nod of approval from Almon. “Very good.”

Acutely aware that her own father played no role in her life, Saphienne swallowed down her feelings and focused on the principle. “Are you saying it’s acceptable to teach magic when a life is…” She tried to guess the appropriate word. “…Imperilled?”

“According to the law of the Luminary Vale? No.” Almon stroked his chin, his lips faintly turned upward at one corner. “Has anyone ever been called to account before the High Masters for breaking the law in this particular circumstance? Also, no. Do I know of any wizard or sorcerer, or even knowledgeable scholar, who hasn’t quietly forewarned their loved ones about this particular danger?” He shook his head.

Celaena gave an audible sigh of relief.

“Your father,” the wizard addressed her, “told you more than Iolas’ because he – as a member of the Luminary Vale – knows the law is sensibly applied here. For the sake of appearances, neither of you should admit you were warned unless formally pressed by an elder, or a High Master — and consider this an instruction from your master.”

Yet Iolas’ eyes were narrow, scales balancing behind them. “If this is important enough to warn us, shouldn’t everyone have a right to know?”

The challenge made Almon grin, and he stood and strode to his seat, once more slipping into his role as teacher through provocation. “A good question: hold on to it while we illuminate Saphienne.” He sat, steepling his fingers, and peered across them at her. “Perhaps you are capable of illuminating yourself, child. Earlier, you were told that Divination spells usually fail in ways that are hard to notice. Without inferring anything from your peers being forewarned, tell me: what is the one circumstance in which a divination noticeably fails?”

Briefly, Saphienne wanted to object, feeling that she hadn’t learned enough to offer her conjecture… but the way he framed the challenge told her otherwise. She closed her eyes as she reviewed what she knew about Divination, paying particular attention to everything that she had disclosed to Almon. Did the answer lie in her observations of Taerelle?

“If you can’t answer, I will pass the question to Iolas.”

His prompt was enough for her to remember; she gave the wizard a resentful stare. “I didn’t need the help. What’s the point, if you’re going to give me the answer?”

Though he was mentioned by name, Iolas was utterly lost. “How did… you know what? Never mind.” He encouraged her to continue. “When does it clearly fail?”

Saphienne tilted her head to the side, disappointment still in her voice. “Divination spells fail when turned on themselves. We couldn’t see our own Second Sight spells using those same Second Sight spells.”

Iolas and Celaena both murmured in harmony as they remembered — and blushed, exchanging embarrassed glances.

Unmoved by her displeasure, Almon was not done with Saphienne. “Would you like to offer conjecture as to why?”

She found his follow-up more easy to address. “Complexity.”

“Kindly clarify, Saphienne.”

“Isn’t it obvious? Performing a divination on the Divination spell itself is the equivalent of trying to parse a paradox — such as ‘this sentence is false.’ The spell changes as it examines itself, which changes what’s examined, leading to an endless and irresolvable loop.” She had been thinking about the problem as she answered, and added, “I presume the Second Sight is specifically made to avoid this? Which was why it doesn’t see itself?”

“Quite excellent.” Almon leant back, lounging in his chair. “The Second Sight I cast upon you, as a teaching spell, was made to sidestep such thorny problems. That it inspired you along the same lines as High Master Elduin’s ‘Meditations on the Aether’ was very amusing.”

Realising that she had based so much on a misinterpretation made Saphienne blush hotly — then scowl, as her master laughed.

“The rest of your observations stand, however.” He pointed to Saphienne as he looked from her to Iolas. “Armed with her insight… apprentice, can you propose what may result if a divination scrutinises the future?”

Iolas judged his master’s accepting mood before he answered. “…If we’re being candid, then I should tell you that I overheard this when I was younger. A divination is less accurate when its prediction can change the event predicted.” His eyes drifted to the ceiling. “…My father complained about that to my sister. He said his work would be much easier if not for that one problem.”

“Choice,” Celaena said. “If someone chooses to act on a divination of the future, then the result of the Divination spell is less accurate than if it were a passive observation.”

Saphienne frowned. “But… predictions peer across time. Wouldn’t the fact that they’re interested mean they intend to–”

Almon snapped his fingers. “Correct! Thus far, our discussion of temporal Divination has supposed that the recipient of the divination’s answer will remain impartial to whatever they divine… or be completely unable to do anything to affect the outcome.”

Quicker than she would have liked, Saphienne saw the cause for the warning. “Which implies a divination cast on our future either fails obviously due to feedback, fails subtly like any other Divination… or becomes an unavoidable prophecy, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Celaena, sadly. “But there’s more.”

* * *

Curious about exactly how much she had learned, Almon let his student explain the complexities of predictive divinations – auguries, so they were named – while he listened impassively. Celaena rose to the occasion, though she physically remained seated as she repeated what her father had shared.

She started by setting aside the special case of auguring a person’s future. While all divinations collapsed when turned upon themselves, caught in a loop, the addition of intermediaries – time, and perhaps choice – allowed auguries to resolve even where they might affect their subject. Each successful augury was a snapshot of what the future would

hold, assuming that the context under which the augury had been performed remained constant. However, should another interested party divine the same events without being accounted for by the initial divination, the result of both auguries could prove inaccurate.

“My father says strict coordination between diviners is very important,” Iolas agreed.

Accounting for other diviners increased complexity, and the less known about them, the greater the uncertainty over their influence, and so the greater the challenge.

Their master interjected. “Pause here to consider the significance of magical secrets that a wizard hasn’t shared, and how they might affect auguries that attempt to account for that wizard’s influence. Good: I see you understand. Continue, Celaena.”

Auguries were most difficult where they concerned the actions of a living subject, which were prone to unambiguously fail due to feedback. This was tentatively attributed to the problem of choice, and the fact that the comparative sentience of the creature being augured was related to the complexity of the augury appeared to support this theory. Plants posed no challenge for augury, and animals only a little more. As for people, the more capable of reason and action an individual was, the harder for magic to successfully predict what they would do.

Except, it wasn’t impossible. In fact, even a modestly skilled diviner could augur a person’s actions… so long as they had no further contact with their subject – not even by proxy – prior to the events predicted. And assuming, of course, that they had accounted for all the influences in play, and all the routine ways that Divination spells could secretly fail.

Iolas rubbed his forehead as he tried to hold it all in mind. “I’m beginning to appreciate why my father groans about his work…”

However, the greatest evidence for choice was the relationship between the subject and the augury being performed on them.

“Consent,” Celaena insisted, “has a very great impact on whether an augury will succeed. A diviner who willingly augurs their own future actions is more likely to get an accurate answer than a third party who otherwise casts the spell in exactly the same way — even if that third party is completely removed from influencing their future. More noteworthy, though, is that this also applies if someone invites an augury to be performed on their behalf. Consent to a successful augury appears to prevent feedback, and does so by revoking the possibility of choice–”

Almon interrupted. “So it is theorised. Remember what I told you about truth: none of this is known to be true, only contingently conjectured. It is equally possible that we have no choice in our futures, and these observations are better explained by other means.”

“Does that mean,” Iolas asked, “refusing consent to auguries makes it much harder to predict our futures?”

“In short, yes.” The wizard studied his apprentices, smiling thinly. “I foresee several questions, now that you know this.”

Having been waiting, Saphienne began with what she thought was the most obvious issue. “If auguries about people’s actions are prone to failing outright or becoming unavoidable prophecy, then how can any event be usefully augured, when it involves people?”

“By auguring the outcome, rather than the means by which it occurs.”

The implication was profound: auguries couldn’t easily tell how to achieve an outcome, or even who would achieve it, only what an outcome might be. “And the more the augury focuses on a course of action, or the role of an individual, the harder it becomes… which means that auguries are best focused only on observations… such as changes in irrigation for crop yields...”

Iolas shrugged at Almon. “She’s met my father.”

“Evidently.” The wizard rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, gesticulating as he elaborated. “This is where I’ll introduce a subject you have been anticipating — on the understanding that I will answer no further questions on it at this moment. Auguries are not possible with Divination spells of the First Degree. From the Second Degree, auguries can be attempted — and the greater the degree of a spell, the higher the complexity for which the spell can successfully account.”

Saphienne was intrigued. “Then, from what degree–”

The wizard silenced her with a withering glare.

“…My apologies, Master. You clearly have a good reason for holding back.” Even though her tone was perfectly mild, everyone present knew she was being insincere.

Celaena took Almon’s side. “Saphienne, this is already very complicated… at least for the rest of us.”

Sympathy stopped her from folding her arms, but Saphienne’s frustration was equally clear to her friends. “…Then, let me summarise what I understand. By avoiding examining the future actions of any individuals, and focusing instead on changes and outcomes, the future of material circumstances can be augured. The more the diviner – or whoever receives the result – can influence the outcome, the more complex the situation, and the more powerful the Divination spell required. Similarly, for the divination to be accurate, the diviner has to beware subtle failures caused by poor understanding and context, as well as account for everyone who might influence the outcome — since two diviners unknowingly influencing the same events might invalidate each other’s auguries.”

Iolas nodded. “With you so far. Go on.”

“The better the surrounding influences to an event are understood by the diviner, the more accurate the augury, which is why magical secrets are very valuable to wizards, since it makes it harder to account for their influence without their cooperation.” She turned her summary to prophesies of individuals. “Meanwhile, auguries on people’s actions are much more difficult than other divinations. Unless the diviner avoids intervening in the outcome, or is significantly skilled in the Great Art, then their attempts are highly likely to fail outright. However, auguries are much more likely to succeed where invited by the subject — at the cost of rendering them binding.”

Taking a deep breath, Saphienne brought everything together. “…My conjecture is that wizards and sorcerers are harder to directly augur than people who have little to no capacity for magic, and the more sophisticated their grasp of the Great Art, the more complex the Divination spell required to predict their actions.”

At that, Iolas flinched. “Gods, that’s– that’s why the Luminary Vale turns a blind eye to warning us, isn’t it? So that future wizards don’t unknowingly give up that advantage, and bind their futures.” He looked stricken.

Their master pushed back his chair, taking to his feet and smoothing down his robes. “Well reasoned. And as for why the knowledge isn’t shared freely,” he admitted, clasping his hands behind his back as he stood over his apprentices, “let me ask you: how do you intend to serve the woodlands with magic?”

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None of them answered. Saphienne would later guess that Iolas was perturbed by the implications of power, while Celaena likely had never contemplated what she would do with magic once she pleased her father.

In the moment, however, Saphienne felt as though a net were thrown around her — or rather, that the net that had always laid upon her shoulders were suddenly tightened. Wizards were afforded leeway to question the ancient ways; Filaurel had urged Saphienne not to speak aloud her apostasy; Divination could pry into all kinds of private matters, were a wizard inclined – or required – to do so.

Almon scrutinised their faces dispassionately. “A wizard,” he declared, “who belongs to the Luminary Vale must serve the woodlands. I am your teacher — but I stand ready to do whatever is necessary to secure safety and abundance for elvenkind. Were I to become aware of a potential danger, of whatever nature, I would be obliged to inform my peers, and to use my magic to ascertain the extent of the danger.”

Iolas spoke. “We’re to be like the Wardens of the Wilds?”

Though her expression was neutral, Saphienne was grateful Iolas had been the one to voice her thoughts.

“Only to the minimal extent necessary.” Almon smirked. “Ah, but how does one judge what is necessary? Tell me: can you fathom, now, why the teaching of magic is carefully regulated? Why the Luminary Vale oversees all magical education within the woodlands? Why so much emphasis in your education is placed on learning wisdom?”

Celaena was unperturbed. “The power to help is also the power to harm…”

“All of you,” Almon asserted, “are seeking power. All of you, if you are successful, will have power over others. If that makes you uncomfortable?” He pointed to the door. “Go find another art. So long as you remain apprentices in wizardry, you accept that you may become responsible enough to be entrusted with power by the woodlands.”

Iolas’ voice was quiet. “What if we don’t?”

“Should that become clear, I’ll end your apprenticeship.” Almon turned away, pacing toward the shelves. “Thereafter, depending upon how far you managed, you will be watched with appropriate scrutiny by the Luminary Vale. So long as you are able to accept that you are unworthy, you will not be accosted.”

Daring herself to speak, Saphienne wetted her lips. “What about otherwise? What happens to people who aren’t content to stop, when they’re told to go no further?”

“It depends upon the danger they pose to themselves and others.” Almon showed no especial concern at her question, and he lay a single hand on the back of his chair, fingers whitening against the lacquered wood. “You have a tutor in sculpture — Gaeleath? They are not presently studying wizardry, but may one day resume their studies. Nothing about their behaviour gives the Luminary Vale pause, for all that they are not yet judged ready to continue.”

The effort it took not to show her emotions made Saphienne’s toes curl within her shoes. Gaeleath had lied to her. And, she realised, they had effectively forewarned her, declaring that they were a liar, and that all good lies were based on a truth.

Why wasn’t Gaeleath allowed to become a wizard?

Her master couldn’t see her reaction. “When Gaeleath first arrived here, we met, and I was satisfied that their presence posed no danger to the village, and that they would refrain from teaching magic. I have no reason to pry further. Nevertheless, I expect another wizard – much more remote than I, a total stranger to them – routinely checks on their activities.”

Iolas spoke up again. “Through divinations? Can a wizard divine the past?”

“Yes, and with far more ease.” Sensing an opportunity to move on, Almon wheeled back to them. “In a similar way to peering across time, so too divinations can be performed over distance. This is where the disciplines of Divination and Translocation intersect, utilising the same magical principles. Are you familiar with them, Celaena?”

Having not expected the question, Celaena had been adding to her notes; she took the time to finish what she was writing before she set her pen to one side. “I’ve heard of ‘sympathy,’ but I don’t know what it means.”

The wizard inclined his head. “I expect that your father warned you about certain practices, however.”

“He told me to burn the trimmings from my hair if it was ever cut,” she replied, more relaxed than during her first admission, “and to clean up any spilled blood.”

“Overly cautious, but only to be expected, given his position.” Almon fished in his pocket, and his smile took on a cruel edge as he drew out a metal box. “That said, shall we demonstrate why he was right?”

* * *

Within the box were three small vials, blank labels attached, each containing a golden needle. Almon gave them to his apprentices with reverence. “Write your name in a clear hand.”

Saphienne felt queasy. “We’re giving you samples of our blood?”

“They will be destroyed when we are concluded.”

That the vials were labelled made Saphienne suspect he was lying; her imagination conjured images of a great vault in the Luminary Vale, filled with thousands of vials, meticulously ordered, routinely employed. “This is related to using magic at a distance — did Gaeleath give the Luminary Vale a sample of their blood?”

Amused, Almon stopped before her. “Nervous about being spied upon? How terribly fascinating your secrets must be, child.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Celaena’s fleeting glance.

“I expect they did,” the wizard answered. “…When asked; facilitating due scrutiny would simplify the process for everyone, and do much to establish trust. They would not have been compelled, however, unless they committed a serious wrong — grave enough to prohibit them from being your tutor.”

“Can I refuse?”

Sighing, Almon crossed his arms. “No. Must you always be difficult?” When she didn’t take up the task, he wearily drew up to his full height, pointing with one hand to the ceiling and the other to the floor. “Before our gods, and on my investment in upholding the ancient ways, I affirm that the sample of blood you provide will be burned when our lessons are concluded.”

Saphienne had every reason to believe the ancient ways would allow him to lie… but his impatience with her felt credible. Reluctantly, she signed her name.

“Good. Now: each of you, grip your index finger on your left hand, and massage the blood down toward the tip. Once you are ready, open the vial, withdraw the needle, and pierce your fingertip. Coat the needle with a drop of your blood, then return it into the vial without touching anything else.”

The prick of the needle barely registered as pain compared to what Saphienne had experienced in the days prior. Beside her, she heard Iolas hiss after he worked up the courage to jab himself, and Celaena needed three attempts – and light scorn from Almon – before she found the mettle to puncture her skin.

When the vials were sealed, Almon collected them, and then gave his apprentices a curt instruction as he headed upstairs. “Wait here.”

Iolas sucked on his fingertip; his eyes alighted on the blood that beaded on Saphienne’s finger. “Aren’t you going to–”

She held it up. “It clots quickly.” Sure enough, what had begun as scarlet was already a dull crimson crust, though Saphienne noticed it glittered where it caught the light from the window. Taerelle had said her blood was distinctive… was that, like her hair, a possible indication of half-elf heritage?

Celaena yelped as a shimmer of white light flickered in her eyes.

“What the–” Iolas was almost on his feet when the same light appeared in his.

Sighing, Saphienne shut her own, assuming a meditative pose; the beginnings of the Second Sight rippled across her vision a moment later.

Faint blue motes of light outlined their master as he descended the stairs, accompanied by three orange-green stars carried in his palm. He tossed them casually at each student in turn, Saphienne catching her vial and studying the magic from behind her closed lids before she opened them.

“You could have warned us,” Celaena pouted.

“That,” Almon smiled as he reclaimed his chair, “would not have been as educational for you. There was also the small chance you might have resisted, if you had anticipated it was coming.”

Interested, Saphienne looked up from the spell that she presumed was preserving her blood sample. “How does resisting a spell work?”

“Another time,” he waved her off. “Suffice it to say: you’re unlikely to resist any spells cast on you for the time being, but spells cast over distance are more easily resisted.”

Iolas held his vial up to the light, squinting to see beyond the spell. “…You cast the Second Sight on us using our blood. Is our blood part of us?”

“Physically? No.” The wizard raised his finger. “Ah, but metaphysically? Absent magical intervention, your blood remains a potent proxy for you until it degrades or your body replaces it — as does any physical part of your being.”

In retrospect, several comments from her most recent visit to the clearing made sense to Saphienne. “This spell… the abjuration is keeping out contaminants, and the transmutation is preventing our blood from decaying?”

“The spell is somewhat more sophisticated than that, but you have the gist.”

Celaena put her vial down. “What about hair?”

“Shed naturally, it loses its connection almost immediately. So too for skin, sweat, and other residue from the body.” Almon lowered his finger to tap on his armrest. “But anything that is removed before its time remains viable for longer, including hair and nail clippings, though they cease to work as proxies within an hour.”

Iolas asked “How long does blood last?”

“It depends upon the quantity. Absent external contamination…” Almon paused to glower, pointedly, at Saphienne. “…A pinprick’s worth might linger for an hour as well, while a cup would endure for several.” For the first time in a while, Almon squirmed, somewhat embarrassed, but pressed on. “…Though you are both some years away, for the benefit of Saphienne and Celaena, I’ll mention that menses are naturally shed, and so of little concern.”

Celaena flushed; Saphienne simply nodded.

Iolas, meanwhile, was puzzled. “What are–”

Coughing loudly, Celaena burned redder as she whispered to him. “Later

… I’ll tell you later.”

Indifferent, Saphienne reached for fresh paper and ink. “Possessing someone’s blood grants a sympathetic connection to them, then?”

“The terminology,” her master answered, grateful to change topics, “is that the blood is connected to its originator by magical sympathy — that your blood is sympathetically connected to you. Let us forgo questioning what you have surmised about magical sympathy,” he decided, leaning forward, “and I will explain the principles at play…”

* * *

For the better part of an hour, the apprentices wrote while their master walked them through the myriad manifestations of magical sympathy in the world, and how careful experimentation had developed the theory by which it was tentatively understood. He emphasised throughout that the underlying causes were debated by several different theories, none of which they would be studying that day.

He began by asking a question: what made his chair his chair? Suppose it were to fall over and suffer damage, requiring that the back be replaced. Would it still be the same chair? Would the broken pieces still be part of the chair? And what if he were, over the course of several years, to slowly replace every distinct piece of the chair with new parts?

What, then, if he reassembled the old parts into another chair?

The philosophical debate that followed was central to understanding the principle of sympathy. He told them that everything was connected to everything else through magic, but the strength of each connection corresponded to their proximity in certain dimensions.

“Three dimensions are of particular note.” Almon named them with a flourish, gesturing as though presenting one to each student, beginning with Celaena. “Time, space, and identity.”

At that, Celaena furrowed her brow toward Saphienne. “Identity is a dimension?”

To explain, Almon had them consider his pair of chairs again — slowly assembled via substitution, and rebuilt from discarded parts. Suppose the second chair was put back together by a mischievous student, who had collected each element of the first chair when it was discarded. Which chair, in the end, was Almon’s chair? The one he had used, or the one he currently used? They were clearly different chairs now, but had once been intermingled, and that intermingling also intermingled their identity. One might argue they were both his chairs, but one was more his chair than the other.

Importantly, were someone to divine the location of his chair, the spell would have to account for what was meant by that identity. This demanded that the wizard who made the spell, and the wizard who cast it, would each have to ask: what’s in a name?

Saphienne finished writing. “So, according to magic… which is it?”

“Whichever one,” Almon explained, “the wizard responsible for creating or casting the spell had the greatest degree of sympathy for — that is, whichever they had the stronger sympathetic connection to.”

Sympathy was conveyed through proximity. The longer a particular chair served as Almon’s chair, the more it was, in a very meaningful sense, his chair; so too, the chair he presently or recently occupied through physical contact was his chair; and, ultimately, the chair most proximate to the identity of Almon’s chair in the mind of a wizard or sorcerer mattered just as much. These perspectives, taken together, led to the key insight that enabled spells to function across space and time.

“In essence? The dimensions of sympathy are interchangeable.”

Hearing that, Saphienne set down her pen and stared at Almon. “So if I am where a person once was, that can substitute for being where they are now? And if I am in contact with something that was once part of a person–”

“Yes.” The wizard was scanning over the books on his shelves, and he lifted one down as he continued. “That is not to say they are all of equal intensity, or that the sympathetic connection will be strong enough to serve as a conduit for a spell, but the theory holds that a wizard of sufficient power can stand where you once stood and reach you with his magic.”

From that perspective, her apparent sympathetic connection to her mother made a certain amount of visceral sense. “What about family? There’s a connection?”

“All three dimensions of sympathy apply, with an additional, less readily useful dimension termed semblance.”

If identity was a subjective dimension, dependant on perspective, then semblance was its objective counterpart, dependant on the material world. Semblance was the alignment of appearance and substance that made one thing resemble another. Two elves had a semblance to each other in proportion to how closely they were matched in physical being — which was, in more practical terms, how closely they were related to one another. Two books had semblance if they shared the same contents, and much stronger semblance if they also shared the same materials and cover… but absent other sympathies, semblance was too weak to be useful on its own.

“Semblance is only of practical benefit when applied in conjunction with another dimension of sympathy.”

Iolas considered the day before. “Say that I visited the lake yesterday, and today my sister was there. Would us being related, and her being in a location I had recently been to, make it easier for me to divine her location?”

“Yes,” Almon confirmed. “And, on the subject of spatial sympathy, a good diviner makes an effort to maintain their sympathetic connections to local points of interest, including those frequently visited by others, for precisely this reason. The more time you spend in a place, and the more recently you have been there, the greater your sympathetic connection to it. You could, in fact, remotely scry the lake, were your sympathy to it particularly strong.”

Earlier parts of the lesson were still on Saphienne’s mind. “How well a diviner knows their subject… we talked about that in terms of a divination’s complexity, but is it also a kind of sympathy? Can knowing something or someone well provide as much of a sympathetic connection as having a strong semblance?”

“Conceivably, but it is more conventionally understood as sympathy of identity. The better a subject is understood, the more clearly that subject is identified for the purposes of the spell. Nevertheless, to match the ready sympathy of semblance to one’s family member, it would have to be intimate knowledge.”

Iolas wondered about that. “You mentioned how books that have the same contents have semblance… doesn’t knowing someone very well make you a bit like them, too? Maybe identity and semblance are the same thing, when it comes to people.”

* * *

They concluded with an extremely long, tedious lecture on the histories of both disciplines, after which their master made a point of conjuring fire into each of the vials, eradicating the gathered blood and causing the orange-green spells to collapse.

He subsequently fetched down two small, matched hourglasses from his sanctum, setting them on the floor and casting a wispy, indigo spell of Translocation upon both. He upended one, causing its sand to flow down into the lower bulb — and the sand in its twin to rise upward, mirroring it.

“Meditate until the glass is half-empty — or half-full, if you prefer that perspective.”

Saphienne found it harder to meditate than usual. Was that the holy brew’s lingering effects? Perhaps it was just her preoccupation with all the blood she had shed, and how such a large amount could supposedly be contaminated by a smaller, fresher measure. They hadn’t yet covered that topic… nor how blood from Saphienne’s mother could theoretically make a Divination spell point toward Saphienne. She imagined the sympathy of space – her physical proximity – was likely the cause.

Afterward, as the three apprentices left the classroom, Iolas noticed she was thoughtful. “You’re quieter than before.”

Celaena glanced up at the clouds, holding out her hand to check for the beginnings of rain. “She’s probably figuring out something we’ve not been taught yet — am I right, Saphienne?”

Weakly, Saphienne smiled. “No, I was just thinking about semblance… and about what we heard about truth… and what you said about identity, Iolas.”

Iolas patted her back as he teased her. “The usual, then — light topics.”

“It is a lot to take in,” Celaena conceded, accepting that the afternoon would remain dry as she faced her friends. “To think we’re all connected… and always will be, even if we can’t tell? There’s something… I don’t know. Don’t you find it inspiring, in a way?”

“More intimidating,” Iolas said.

Saphienne studied the miniscule scab on her finger. “I just wonder which sympathy is most important. Is it where we are? Where we were — or where we’ll be? Then again… what about who – or what – we are? What matters most?”

Celaena and Iolas shared a confused glance; Celaena took Saphienne’s arm. “You mean, for magic? Our master said it depends on proximity.”

“If you mean for life,” Iolas chuckled, “then I’ve no idea — maybe the gods know?”

Inside, without knowing why, Saphienne felt sad.

Yet she smiled and laughed it off. “Maybe They do. Someone should ask Them.”

“More holy brew, then?”

Celaena’s eyes widened as she looked between them. “Tell me you haven’t?! Saphienne! You’re only fourteen!”

Her laugh became more genuine. “What’s that in bird years? Anyway, I’m not the only one…”

Iolas blushed, and Celaena was scandalised, and the three went on through the grove together, content to enjoy whatever sympathy – magical or otherwise – was deepening between them.

End of Chapter 52