The wizard led his apprentices out of his parlour and into the night, shutting and locking the door behind them with an arcane gesture. His fluorescent familiar fluttered by Saphienne and took to the treetops, there to scout around them and ensure there would be no unexpected interruptions.

“Before we begin,” Almon told them, raising his hood, “you must know that what you learn tonight isn’t to be repeated. Do not share any of what I tell you with others, and, in fact, do not even write it down.”

His warning made the three students exchange wary glances. Iolas asked “Is this secret knowledge?”

“Yes.” Their master answered plainly — forgoing any drama. “Wizards, sorcerers, priests, and their apprentices are the only ones who are told before the dawn of their second millennium. This is elder knowledge, Iolas, and not shared lightly. Neither your father nor your mother know what you will learn tonight.”

By the dim light of the half-shadowed moon, Saphienne could see Iolas parting his lips to ask another question; he instead chose to purse them as he lifted his own cowl.

Celaena copied him as she queried Almon. “And this relates to Fascination?”

“Yes, but that isn’t why the story is repressed.” Though his face was now shaded by his outer robes, Saphienne saw the contemplative glimmer in the wizard’s eyes. “Whatever you are fearfully imagining — let the thought perish.”

He turned away, his hands clasped behind his back as he began to stroll.

Unlike her friends, Saphienne left her hood down as she followed him; the woods were much darker in springtime, no snow to reflect the cloud-veiled starlight, and she peered about herself warily without moving her head. There were questions she wanted to ask, but the moment felt like the hush that had waited for her in the cave beneath the woodland shrine, and so she held the coin in her bruised palm and drew patience from the lingering throb.

When the light of his residence had receded from view, Almon began.

“Before the founding of the Luminary Vale, all that we take for granted did not exist. What primitive magic was practised in these woods would be unrecognisable to us, as would the spirits with whom we now live.” In contrast to his subject, his tone was casual, and Saphienne heard him smile. “As would our ancestors, too. They lived in primeval ignorance and savagery — though that is not to say they were unintelligent.”

He swept his hand across the nigh-impenetrable gloom around them. “The woodlands we know had not yet been conjoined. Patches were held by elves, spirits, and even dragons, and what was not held by any was contested most bitterly. Bitterest of all were our predecessors in the pursuit of the Great Art…” He stopped, and from the tilt of his hood he was staring up at the sky. “…Who were beguiled by a mysticism that lacked compassion.”

As their journey resumed he brought his arm back behind himself. “Magic was taught in cults — by cultists, to cultists. Most frequently, the object of their devotion was the eldest elf among them, by whom all others were enslaved… whether or not they believed they were slaves.” His breath fogged on the air as he exhaled. “What was practised was not Fascination as we recognise the discipline, nor was it merely such spells that compelled obedience. The cults swelled from whoever among outside elves survived subjugation, most serving through menial labour, some rare few as fresh initiates into the mysteries…”

Saphienne reflected on the myth that Nelathiel and Holly had performed: it had mentioned maddened mystics, and their enslavement of spirits, but not how those mystics had treated fellow elves.

“These cults abused the Great Art to compel servitude from all, and regarded everything within the forest – seen and unseen – as kindling for the fire of their ambition. And what was that ambition?” He laughed, hollowly. “No less than godhood. Yet unlike the lords and ladies to whom our people pay homage, they would have been jealous gods, greater tyrants than any dragon.”

Beside her, Iolas momentarily slowed. “Did they not worship gods of their own?”

“That depended upon the cult. Most elves were intensely superstitious, but those who grasped the Great Art were seldom servants of divinities.” He looked across his shoulder as Iolas caught up. “Religious or otherwise, not all members of the cults were monsters. Even some among their leaders were not so much wicked by nature as pragmatically amoral… though, arguably, that enabled even greater evils. Suffice it to say: whatever gods our antecedents did or did not worship, they were not kind.”

Unbidden, the image of the Lord of the Endless Hunt arose in Saphienne’s mind, his war scythe sharp in her recollection. Yet Nelathiel had said his weapon had not originally been used for war, which seemed at odds with what Almon implied about the primordial gods and goddesses of these cults.

“There were solitary pursuers of the Great Art,” the wizard added, facing forward as he led them deeper, “and though not especially predisposed to wisdom, their individual morality was as varied as their personal nature. Some were fair, some were indifferent, and some were the embodiment of nightmare. To belong to a cult in these savage times was to be hardened into callousness or corrupted into villainy — yet even so, it was to be shaped and checked by other elves. But to stand entirely alone?”

He let the question linger for a few strides.

“Yes, solitude permitted a few to show benevolence; and unleashed the worst to commit atrocities that remain unfathomable…” Almon was queasy, his narrative faltering as he swallowed. “You are to be spared that understanding. Should the Luminary Vale ever welcome your mastery, you will be taught more than you ever wished to know.”

Stopping, their master turned to observe them. “What came about next was not a time of heroes or glory. Our priests would say that the gods intervened to bring unity between elf and spirit, and that the birth of our religious faith brought about a kinder world. Accepting that this is true,” he said, dismissive, “it does not change the fact that bloodshed was necessary to contest and shatter the cults. An ancient phrase attributed to the time can be translated thusly: ‘Those whom the gods most love behold what is just; those whom the gods would destroy, they incite to acts of madness and violence; those whom the gods most love, they will one day destroy.’”

Saphienne blinked.

“But who, my apprentices, can challenge one versed in the Great Art?” He peered upon each of them in turn. “Who dare hope to triumph? Even the strongest among spirits are made so through embodiment of the Great Art. When elf and spirit rose up together, tell me: who was it who led them? Who illuminated the path to freedom?”

Celaena held her arms and shivered. “The Luminary Vale.”

His smile showed beneath the shadow of his hood. “Eventually. The elves who brought their spells to the war would go on to found the Luminary Vale, but that was long after the peace was won.” Pivoting, his stride quickened. “They were disillusioned cultists, joined by sons and daughters of solitary endeavour; they set aside their differences and banded together. It was they who sought out the elves living fearfully around the cults and spirit glades, they who overthrew the weaker cults and freed their captive spirits — and they who struck bargains with more fearsome powers than any elf or spirit.”

Having been engrossed by the tale, Saphienne hadn’t paid attention to their destination, and so was surprised when Almon brought them into a familiar place: the very same glade where he had once cast illusory flowers onto the snow. Yet the flowers now within the glade were no longer hallucinations, far less resplendent in their reality, many with their petals furled against the chill. The sight was so very different to when she and Kylantha had played in the daylight…

“And so we come to the beginning of the next lesson.” Almon wandered ahead of them, picking his way over the grass before he surprised them — descending to sit on the ground with his legs crossed and the moon shining before him. “What do you suppose happened, when all the blood had been shed, and all the holy martyrs had been mourned?”

Approaching her master in the hush, Saphienne sat as well, swiftly followed by Celaena and Iolas. “They turned on each other.”

“How very cynical.” Yet he nodded. “The ancient ways were forged in the ensuing quarrel, and the first consensus of the woodlands took shape. Those who could not accommodate themselves to peace were banished, and those who remained were beholden to compromise… and not only the accord between elf and spirit.”

Iolas hunched forward. “And those who wouldn’t belong, but wouldn’t be driven out? I suppose they were killed?”

“Apparently not.” Almon’s tone was sceptical, yet he reserved his disbelief. “So much slaughter had transpired that all were sickened by the prospect of more. It was agreed that no elf would kill another elf, nor would any spirit return another to dream. Where a death was to be decreed, elf and spirit would each have to convince the other, and only for the crime of apostasy.”

Fortunately for Saphienne, the wizard could not see Iolas and Celaena’s expressions within their silhouettes… and her face was a mask.

He continued unaware. “Other remedies were employed where they could not be avoided, which we will discuss another time.”

Celaena shivered again; cool as the night air was, Saphienne knew she wasn’t cold.

“The use of magic was chief among the deliberations that concerned our ancestors, and one of the first major compromises concerned who, exactly, would have the right to teach and practise magic. It was then that the Luminary Vale was founded, charged with ensuring that what had once been would never be again.” He was drained of his colour by the low light, only the barest of blue visible in his eyes when he tilted his face upward.

“But,” pondered the wizard, “what of those who were on the side of the good, and recognised the necessity of magical governance, but who could not join the Luminary Vale? What of those contemporaries of the founders, descended from a long succession of solitary magicians, whose magical praxis demanded they stand alone?”

He sighed as he lowered his attention to his students. “These were the first witches. They became the greatest mistake of the Luminary Vale.”

* * *

Having waited since they were in the parlour, Saphienne finally asked her most pressing question. “What is a witch? I’ve never heard the word before. I presume that’s because this is secret knowledge?”

“Correct.” Her master folded his long sleeves together in his lap. “A witch is any magician who does not adhere to the tradition of the Luminary Vale, or approach the Great Art wisely. There are no longer any witches in the woodlands…” He hesitated. “…As far as we know.”

“So, a human wizard–”

“Is not a witch,” Almon clarified, “so long as the tradition he follows has been acknowledged by the Luminary Vale. Though his tradition may be strictly inferior to our own, any journey in pursuit of the Great Art travelled with sufficient wisdom is worthy of respect — as is the human who walks it. You should all remember this, should you ever meet such a wizard.”

Iolas was thoughtful. “And they acknowledge ours?”

“Ah, but of course.” Almon smirked, wryly amused by their innocence. “Beyond our lands, elven magic is considered especially potent, and those who know of the Luminary Vale regard us with fear and awe. No other wizards have organised themselves so — and so their grasp of the Great Art is weak in comparison to ours.”

“Human wizards aren’t as accomplished?”

“Individually?” Their master shrugged. “There are humans – and others – who have attained a greater degree than I. There are even scholars of exceptional accomplishment who would be regarded as equals by the High Masters.” His amusement deepened. “But, generally? Let me put it to you like this: humans consider attainment of merely the First Degree sufficient enough to convey the title of wizard. Which is to say nothing of their broader deficiencies in learning…”

Another time, Celaena might have scoffed, and a pale trace of derision wound through her voice. “Father said any competent elven wizard would astonish a human with their breadth of study alone.”

“Very likely true.” He inclined his head. “But we have wandered from the lesson. Witches were once accepted in the woodlands — at least those who were considered somewhat benign. Wise and beloved witches were poetically called ‘witches of the light,’ while witches who caused harm were referred to as ‘witches of the dark.’ Those whose practice fell somewhere between were ‘witches of the twilight,’ and their lineages were once by far the most common in the woodlands.”

Although she couldn’t augur its path, Saphienne could sense the direction of the story laid out before her. “The witches of the dark rose up to challenge the Luminary Vale?”

“If only it were so simple.”

* * *

Almon’s face darkened, as though a cloud had spread itself across the moon. “I have brought you here to share events from our history that unfolded almost six thousand years ago, more than two millennia after the woodlands were united.”

Now, Iolas asked the question that had been on his mind throughout. “Why is this kept a secret from most elves? And – given our ages – why are we to be trusted with the knowledge?”

“You are entrusted with this knowledge,” the wizard answered, “for several different reasons, reasons that will soon become apparent. One of them is simply because you can be trusted to keep this knowledge to yourself — you can keep a secret.” He made a point of looking at Celaena and then Saphienne as he continued “Unlike Faylar. He is unsuited to wizardry in many ways, but his compulsion to share what troubles him would be dangerous. I know you two are close to him–”

“Faylar,” Saphienne interrupted, “is more mature than you know. He’s changed since you rejected him. He would have risen to the challenge.”

Anger tightened Almon’s voice. “Nevertheless–”

Celaena spoke for both of them. “We won’t tell him.”

Saphienne knew Celaena was telling the truth; she didn’t know whether the promise was true on her part, but she had no intention to repeat the story to Faylar, and that was enough to make her nod.

“…See that you don’t.”

He returned his gaze to the stars. Then, he laid upon their shoulders what had once been set upon his.

* * *

Over six thousand years ago, when the Luminary Vale was well established, and our people first knew peace, an exceptionally gifted elf was born. She was raised in happiness and contentment, and as soon as her talents became known she was schooled from a young age by the very finest scholars. She wanted for nothing, and was beloved by all.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Hardly anyone was surprised when she showed an interest in the Great Art, but she shocked everyone by attaining the First Degree within five years. Another ten years again brought her accomplishment of the Second Degree, whereupon she was admitted to the Luminary Vale — the youngest ever to be so honoured.

Within two centuries she had grasped all that the High Masters could teach her, and her prowess with magic had grown to the point that she could stand beside them, considered by many to be a High Master in all but name. Yet she did not seek to join them; and so she departed from those illuminating halls to enter seclusion as an initiate into the priesthood, where the depth of her faith in the gods brought her to prominence for a second time. She was capable at reading the hearts of elves and the whims of spirits, and her wisdom in speaking to both won her the affection of many.

Yet in thirty years she had learned every dance and song, and her curiosity led her to depart the sacred glades and go wildling through the woods. There she happened upon an ancient witch of the light, and became her apprentice, studying with her for seven years — though we know not what she studied.

You see, she had already surpassed the witch in her study of magic.

All we know is that, when she parted from that witch, she left the woodlands behind, and went out into the wider world for over a century. The woman who returned to the woodlands was not the same as the one who had departed. She had attained understanding of the Great Art beyond even the High Masters, astonishing all with feats that bordered upon the sublime. In one year, she accomplished more for the cultivation of the woodlands than all the other wizards and sorcerers of the Luminary Vale combined.

Invited, she declined to join the High Masters. Few found it troubling.

But then, she began to speak against the ancient ways.

Her message sounded reasonable. She spoke thoughtfully, superficially full of care and love for one and all. Yet the implications were dire: she proposed that all suffering was our responsibility to address; that elves ought become the world’s stewards; that our new ways should be made preeminent beyond the edge of our woodlands. With sophistry that invoked the gods, she even taught that we should welcome the curse of mortality — and reign over an empire of despair.

Yet even in their relative infancy, our elders were not deceived, and so the consensus of the woodlands was not misled. Her persuasion ultimately failed, and her blasphemy was rejected. She appeared gracious in defeat, accepting of her error, and departed to go wildling through the woods once again, to better contemplate her mistakes.

* * *

Iolas had been absorbed throughout, and spoke up when Almon fell silent. “She lied about being remorseful?”

“Whether or not it began as a lie,” the wizard answered, “her later actions made it so.”

Celaena was also contemplating what was to come. “She met with other witches?”

“Few knew it, but she had become a witch — and not of the light. She gathered together witches of the night with unclean spirits, binding them in covenant against the woodlands, and seduced witches of better wisdom to fall from grace.” His sadness carried upon the stirring wind, perhaps shared by sylvan spirits. “When they were ready, they set about accomplishing her vision through more than words.”

All of them realised what he meant, Saphienne feeling as though the world had grown thin before the piercing revelation.

“Gods…” Iolas let the words run out of him. “…They fascinated the woodlands…”

“But Iolas,” Almon said, his sarcasm too sickly to be believable, “can’t you see? It was for their own good. They didn’t know what they really wanted. The Luminary Vale had become insular and self-serving across the age – had lost its true purpose – and the elders were all conspiring to shackle the future in the chains of the past. When the people couldn’t change their minds, what else was to be done, but change their minds for them?”

Saphienne wondered about the account, but she didn’t doubt their master’s absolute sincerity. “Not everyone was fascinated — or we wouldn’t be hearing this story.”

“Most of the Luminary Vale resisted, as did much of the priesthood, along with many elders from the earliest days.” He let his eyes fall shut. “All of you are intelligent enough to know what followed. What you cannot conceive is the scale of the destruction, since the disciplines had progressed significantly from the early days. In the terror that was loosed, dragons re-entered the woodlands, and fire swept through much of the western forest… leaving only ashes.”

Iolas had his fingers upon his brow, his voice strained. “…How many died?”

“Half.”

Saphienne blinked, and then again. “Half? Half of what?”

Celaena stood up and walked some distance away; Iolas softly swore.

Almon met Saphienne’s gaze with an emotion she had never seen from him before, one that made his answer all the worse when she realised: it was compassion. “Everyone, Saphienne. Half of all those who lived.”

* * *

The conclusion of the story was appropriately mythic.

“The great apostate – witch of the moonless night, she who we title Death’s Consort – fled from the woodlands when her dwindling vassals conspired against her. As soon as order was restored and the truth reasserted, eight of the surviving twelve High Masters set out to find her, and bring her back to face the reckoning she had earned.” The wizard didn’t need to illustrate the story with hallucinations, the import of his words drama enough. “They tracked her beyond the edge of the known lands. When at last they set upon her, the ensuing confrontation was felt by every magician alive. Poems from the time attest to what all believed: that their battle had brought the end of days.”

He reached into his pocket. “You know the world did not expire, yet the price was greater than any could augur. Only one of the eight High Masters returned to tell that the deed was done — that death had claimed the great apostate. Her executioner then renounced the study of the Great Art, and sought enduring rest.” A sliver of black appeared in his hand. “The names of the eight were inscribed upon the second founding tree of the Luminary Vale…”

He held out the ominous paper. “…And the deeds of Death’s Consort were permanently struck from history, as was her name. To write or speak it is forbidden, save for the purpose of conveying it to those who keep this story. We alone remember.”

Iolas took the offering, while Celaena approached to read with him across his shoulder before retreating again. He handed it to Saphienne, who gazed long into the deeper, enchanted darkness written there upon it:

Lonareath

The script evaporated the moment she committed it to memory, the paper becoming dust that drifted through her fingers.

* * *

In the aftermath, Iolas hung his head. “I get it. I get why all of this is a secret.”

“Explain it to me, apprentice.”

He rubbed his temples. “Elders have to know so they know what to watch out for; so too wizards, sorcerers, and priests. But for everyone else… the sorrow is too immense, and the fear…” He himself was afraid when he raised his head. “Ancient tales are one thing, but to have recorded history show what magic can do, and how defenceless people are: that’s just too much. What if it happened again?”

Saphienne rose with careful poise. “That’s not all of it.” She gave Almon a very faint bow, compelled to acknowledge that he hadn’t been lying earlier that night. “If the Luminary Vale was able to stop this, then it could also accomplish it. A wizard who can free a mind can also ensnare it, can’t they? And those spirits in the story… you said they were unclean–”

“So they were declared,” Almon observed. “Whether they had once been spirits of the woodlands… who can say for sure? Would it even matter if they weren’t?” He studied her. “How could any person who knows this tale ever trust a spirit… or a priest, a sorcerer, or a wizard? Not unless–”

“They had magic of their own.” Saphienne lifted her hand up to the moonlight, studying the face of the coin on her palm. “Or had at least chosen to pursue it, and knew what that meant… because of these lessons. Failing that, a thousand years living in blissful ignorance is a long enough time to build up trust, I should expect.”

Striding to him quickly, Celaena soon loomed over her master. “The lesson on Invocation was really about trust between elves and spirits; this lesson on Fascination is really about trust between elves… between elves, and wizards.”

“Impress me, Celaena. What does all this imply?”

Placing her hands upon her hips, she looked up at the sky. “…I don’t see Peacock.”

“Very good.” He climbed to his feet with a heaviness that befit his girth. “He is circling the clearing for now, but I expect you were thinking about his nature, and how useful it would be for what I am entrusted to ensure.”

Saphienne burst out laughing. “He spied on us! The littleshit. He sounded so offended…” She shook her head as she, too, neared Almon. “You spied on me. Before I started my apprenticeship with you. Looking up my family history, interviewing people who know me? These were just the things you admitted to us. The only reason I was allowed to apply–”

“Tolduin recommended you.”

For the last time that night, Saphienne blinked. “…I’ve only ever spoken to him once. And he didn’t meet me until after–”

“Nevertheless, Filaurel proposed you, and Tolduin wrote to me on your behalf, emphasising your positive traits and qualifying your substantial weaknesses as a candidate.” Almon folded his arms. “I resented his interference. I had reached the same conclusion; for all that I have little time for Filaurel, I was prepared to offer you the opportunity to make your case.” He scowled. “But then I was obliged to.”

Iolas was suddenly beside her, his calming hand on her shoulder. “And the rest of us: you spied on us as well? Checked to see we might have the right… temperament?”

“Your father proposed you after you told him you were curious about magic; once I was satisfied that you could be suited to wizardry, I told him to suggest that you apply.” His smile toward Celaena was embarrassed. “Obviously, apprentice, your father proposed you prior to your moving here, and so would you have been granted an opportunity to state your case regardless of my doubts — but I found no cause for concern.”

“And so,” Iolas demanded, “all of this is for… what? Making sure that nobody irresponsible get ahold of magic? Keeping trust alive by pretending–”

“The purpose,” Almon talked over him, “is to minimise the risk that anything remotely like that will ever happen again.” He snapped his fingers, and the blue light of a minor Hallucination spell shimmered between — depicting a single, resplendent rose with impossibly blue petals. “Will you not see how delicate, how fragile the woodlands are? All it takes is one person, the wrong person, in precisely the wrong place at the wrong time, and all of this…”

The bloom withered and died.

“Whether or not the flowers are real,” he concluded, spell glittering as he dismissed it, “what sustains them is ultimately – in a very literal sense – our belief in their beauty. All that you hold dear prospers because of the world that has been built for you, and like any garden, that world must be maintained.”

“And weeded?” Saphienne whispered.

Still fixed on Iolas, the wizard spoke absently. “Precisely so.”

Celaena stepped in front of Iolas, demanding her master’s attention. “After everything we’ve experienced today, and in the days before… how do we know this story is true? How do you know?”

There, Almon’s eyes dulled. Shrinking away, he pushed back his hood, and rubbed at his face with both hands. “…I was coming to that. Putting it off, I should admit.”

His change in demeanour unsettled Saphienne, who held her tongue.

Yet he addressed her anyway. “Saphienne — repeat for the others your conjecture on magical resonance.”

* * *

Unsure how it applied to their situation, Saphienne summarised what she knew: spells leaked into their environment like sound, more potent spells being louder, and the world resonated with that sound like a stringed instrument beside a beating drum. Now that she knew about magical sympathy she expanded on her earlier thoughts, proposing that the deeper the sympathy between a spell and its surroundings grew – such as over time – the more pronounced its resonance became.

Their master had recovered himself by the time she was done. “You are mostly correct… except you have mistaken the part for the whole. The term is magical resonance, rather than spell resonance. Would you care to amend?”

Saphienne clicked the pieces together. “Magical phenomena leak their manifestation of magic into their environment like sound, more potent phenomena being louder, and the world resonates in response; magical sympathy is the conduit through which magic can flow in the world, and so magical resonance is a side effect caused by magic overflowing from the subject onto whatever it is connected to by magical sympathy. Whichever connection is strongest will be most easily affected, and so exhibit the magical resonance first… which is usually resonance of space, followed by time?”

“Well reasoned.” He addressed them all. “Putting aside this knowledge of resonance… do any of you believe in ghosts?”

Being asked that question by a wizard, in the middle of the night, in a lonely clearing, made the flesh of all three apprentices rise in goosebumps.

Celaena nevertheless dismissed the idea. “Father says ghosts are superstition. The dead are gone, and nothing meaningful is left behind.”

“From a certain perspective,” Almon agreed, “your father is correct. When a candle burns out, we do not ask where the candle has gone — to where the soul of the candle has happily departed. We see that the candle has burned up its wax,” he continued, rolling up his sleeves, “and turned wax into light and heat.”

Grimly, Iolas spoke what was on their minds. “But?”

“But, in a sense, what the candle put out into the world remains. The light, the heat — they remain in the environment, affecting and effecting everything in ways invisible to the senses. One might draw solace from knowing that we shape the world around us – and the people within it – in ways we cannot comprehend.” He dryly chuckled. “This hardly satisfies those condemned to death. Humans have many fanciful notions about the endurance of the self... which, unfortunately, magic encourages.”

Moving a little distance away, the wizard swept his gaze across the clearing as though peering into the past. “Magical phenomena leave an impression on the world as magical resonance, and the more potent the phenomena, the more obvious the corresponding resonance becomes. For this reason, a wizard can leave noticeable resonance in his travels, for he is alive with magic — and often more alive in moments of intense passion.”

Iolas took a step back. “…Like death?”

Almon ignored him, raising his hands. “Considering for a moment that almost every elf has some latent magical talent, even if only for our craft magic… and then, with the right eyes…”

The invocation Almon performed shone like white gold, blanketing the clearing as evenly as the snow that had awaited them on their previous visit — and parting the veil between what was and what had once been.

Iolas cried out in horror; Celaena gave a soft moan.

Saphienne beheld the translucent figures that crowded the glade, men and women and children now gathered there. They watched the wizard and his apprentice in detachment, their otherworldliness only deepened by the archaic, unadorned clothing they wore. What was hardest upon Saphienne was their hair, which was braided in styles still present in her day, coloured as like winter by the spell which had roused them. None of them talked, not even to each other, though some of the children fidgeted restlessly, and the smallest crawled about in eternal wonderment.

“There are places like this throughout the woodlands…” Almon was grieving. “Even after their bones were taken westward and interred, their resonance echoes where they were slain… For a long time, nothing would grow here; though that was caused by the destruction of the spirits.”

Celaena’s voice was thick. “We played here.”

“As have generations before you.” Almon smiled then, bittersweetly. “What greater victory can there be, than for innocents to play within the ruins of great suffering? What more appropriate way to commemorate all that we have overcome, than through the laughter of those born after?” He walked through the spectres. “These are not the people who once were; you see only their shadows left behind. Where they appear to act, to speak, to reason? Our pursuit of the Great Art tells us that this is merely the illusion of a person, constrained by what once lived, unable to grow.”

Yet he hesitated. “Still…” He bowed deeply to the spectral crowd. “…In memory of the lost, and for the sliver of a chance that we may be wrong, these wraiths are invoked only with respect. Their dwelling places are tended with the utmost care. And may it soothe you to know: your play brought them some comfort, as does the play of all children of elves. So they have told our priests.”

Their master ceased to concentrate, and the passing invocation carried the dead away.

* * *

All three children were speechless as they went back to the wizard’s home. Almon filled the void, instructing his apprentices to return to him in a week for their next lesson. He had lied when he said their studies would continue throughout the whole month, thereby averting any questions about the week to themselves.

Yet they were not to be idle; each of them was to write an essay – without conferring – that explained what they believed about how magic should be used. What was wisdom, to them? They would be judged upon their answer, which was to be of whatever length they believed necessary to explain their understanding.

“One of your predecessors wrote a book in reply.” The wizard chuckled as he addressed them from his doorstep. “Absolute drivel. It went on for far too long, and was highly allegorical — even employing parable! Should you undertake such an effort, I ask that you at least keep me entertained while I’m reading. Failing that? Short and sweet is best.”

And then, with forced cheer, he bid his apprentices a good night.

* * *

Saphienne stood with Celaena and Iolas as the lamps inside the parlour dimmed. They hadn’t spoken in quite some time.

A forlorn sigh preceded Iolas sagging. “…I don’t want to go home.”

Never had Saphienne felt so close to him. “Neither do I.”

Fortunately, Celaena lived alone. “I have guest rooms… you can spend the night.”

They began their usual walk.

“…Does this…” Iolas wrestled with his own honesty. “…Does this count as conferring? Will he think we have if we–”

“Iolas,” Saphienne said, slipping her hand into his, “either our master trusts us or he doesn’t — and nothing we do matters if he doesn’t. We won’t talk about wisdom.” She giggled, bleakly overcome by the absurdity. “…I’m not even sure what that is…”

“Me neither,” Celaena admitted, and she held and patted Iolas’ other arm. “But Almon does trust us. And he isn’t an evil wizard…” Her voice cooled. “…Or he’s trying not to be. Maybe they all are. And maybe–”

Iolas broke down crying, and Saphienne held him until he found his voice.

“Don’t you see?” His words were full with the dread of surmise. “We’ll never have normal lives… how can we? How can we, with what we know? And with magic… when we have that kind of power–”

He sniffed, suddenly and hollowly calm.

“…I can’t be completely honest with Thessa ever again.”

Saphienne held him tighter. What else could she do?

“Iolas, just give it time…”

She did what she had already resolved; she lied to comfort him.

End of Chapter 56