The two apprentices walked back toward the village together, Saphienne abandoning her plan to hunt for wildflowers as she outlined her boundaries for Taerelle. “If we’re to be friends, then we have to be able to trust each other. I don’t consent for you – or whoever was helping you – to augur my future, and I don’t want you scrying on me.”

Taerelle smirked at her demand. “And how would you tell if someone did? I’ve been scrying on you for days now.”

Although better in control of herself than when she was caught unprepared, Saphienne nevertheless had to work hard to conceal her renewed fear. “I see. That’s why you’re surer about me than before — you’ve decided I’m really a child?”

“A deeply unusual child.” She had been entertained. “I’ve been watching ever since I recovered from the transmutation. The only times I haven’t been observing you were while our master was teaching you, since he’d have noticed me. Keeping track of you when you were in Celaena’s home was a challenge.”

Recalling what Almon had said – that the transmutation would have enfeebled Taerelle and Rydel the day after their outing with him – comforted her. Taerelle hadn’t begun scrying until two days after Filaurel had talked with her in the kitchen, and Saphienne couldn’t think of anything she’d done since then that would look damning. The timing also explained how Taerelle knew Almon had offered Saphienne the chance to study under a new master — she had been listening in, when Saphienne told Iolas and Celaena.

Curiosity replaced her worry. “Who else knows about the letter?”

“Apart from me and you? A spirit who goes by Wormwood.” She canted her head. “Did you really believe that I could cast spells of the Second Degree?”

Saphienne stopped walking and studied the ground. “Any other week, I’d have trusted in my knowledge.”

“…That lesson is a lot to take in,” Taerelle conceded. “I didn’t sleep well for days after I learned our history. One thing to understand magic is dangerous, but to comprehend how terrifying wizards can be?”

“You weren’t the only one who lied.” Saphienne looked up into her cool gaze. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

Her senior searched her face thoughtfully. “Wondering about your capacity for manipulation and deceit.”

Completely unguarded before Taerelle, Saphienne nodded.

“…You look like a child now.” Taerelle’s smile wasn’t condescending. “This is the first time since I caught you that I think I fully believe you. Perhaps the Luminary Vale isn’t making me waste my time.”

Saphienne managed a weak smile. “A wizard’s time is never wasted without her consent.”

“What am I to make of our time together?” Taerelle asked the question rhetorically, crossing her arms as she pondered the riddle of the girl who was now her responsibility. “What am I to make of you? You frighten me, you know.”

“I know.” Saphienne glanced back the way they had travelled. “That’s why you put on a show: you wanted to feel in control of the fear.”

“Girls of fourteen aren’t meant to be so discerning…” Taerelle didn’t sound like she wholly believed that. “…But it’s your ability to read people and play them that unnerves me, probably in much the same way as Fascination frightens you. Assuming you can cast spells, you’re going to find you’re very talented with it.”

She shivered. “I don’t like that.”

“Good.” Warily, she held out her hand. “Would-be disciples of Fascination who revel in it are quickly corrected.”

Less reserved than before, Saphienne nevertheless took a moment before she accepted Taerelle’s hand and resumed walking. The older girl’s palms were faintly clammy. “What happens to them?”

“That depends on whether they can change. Someone who studied in my cohort wouldn’t, and a few years after he attained the First Degree he was stripped of his apprenticeship and barred from study by decree of the Luminary Vale.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “He was a creep. I don’t think he ever actually hurt anyone, but we all had the feeling he’d be tempted to, if he thought he could get away with it. I was glad when he left.”

“Did he start that way?”

“No.” Taerelle watched her from the corner of her eye. “He was just arrogant and awkward at first. And an accomplished bullshitter.”

“…Bullshitter?”

She chuckled. “How’s this for a first lesson: ‘bullshit’ is complete nonsense, and a capable bullshitter is adept at persuading people with compelling lies. An example would be convincing everyone that you’re just keen to take part in an educational outing–”

“I get it.” Saphienne’s lips were drawn.

They walked in silence for a hundred paces.

“Saphienne,” Taerelle began, “I’m going to choose to believe you’re not destined to become the kind of dangerous person you could grow into. And I’m going to hope that you’re not playing me like a lyre… even though I know that you almost certainly are. You said I scared you because I wanted to be in control — and that’s the sort of insight that comes to someone who needs to be in control.”

Taerelle was far from foolish. “Let’s pretend you’re not wrong.”

“That’s the real reason you came along that day, isn’t it? You weren’t just unwilling to trust that our master would be reasonable: you needed to be the one in control of your own future.” The senior apprentice squeezed her hand. “He probably would have ended your apprenticeship. That doesn’t mean what you chose to do in response was the right choice, only that he’s a flawed man.”

Saphienne snorted. “Deeply flawed.”

“Like you. Very much like you.”

She swallowed hard.

“About a week after he decided to take you on,” Taerelle shared, “he was teaching us modern theories about the sympathy of semblance. It’s the least useful of all the forms of magical sympathy, so none of us were particularly enthused by the lesson, and it wasn’t long before he wandered off topic. That was the first time he mentioned you to me and Rydel.”

“That’s when he told you I collapsed his hallucination.”

“Would it surprise you to know he was laughing about it?”

Less than a week before, it would have; but his glee during the introductory lesson on Hallucination had shown he was less angry than he once had been. “I can see that.”

“We laughed, too.” Taerelle shook her head, her long braid lightly swatting Saphienne. “You caught him completely by surprise. He wasn’t happy about having to teach you, but when Peacock repeated your reason for wanting to learn the art of magic, the respect our master felt for you was undeniable.”

Yet Saphienne had lied about that, too.

“You told him something at the start…” She tried and failed to remember Saphienne’s precise words. “…Something along the lines of, ‘You detest things about me you detest about yourself.’ I’m sure you were right about that. Have you considered the possibility that you feel the same way?”

Her steps slowed.

Taerelle leant in close. “If you don’t want to be like him,” she whispered in her ear, “then you need to accept the ways in which you already are. Almon is a brilliant liar, especially to himself.”

Nelathiel and Filaurel had each suggested the same about Saphienne. Her heart fluttered.

“So I can make you sweat.” Taerelle nevertheless squeezed her hand again.

Wrestling with her resentment toward Taerelle, Saphienne still appreciated that the older girl had slowed for her. She consciously lengthened her stride as she took ahold of herself, but her grip on who she was felt tenuous. “May I ask you a question?”

“Seems fair.”

“In what way am I an unusual child?”

Fierce laughter answered her.

“Where to begin?” Taerelle mused. “How about we start with you invoking your guardian spirit with a ritual of your own devising — before you’ve even learned the fundamentals.” She had been very entertained by what she’d scried. “Let me give you some advice: you don’t need to use a ritual to call for a specific spirit who is waiting to answer you. So long as they have ready means to manifest, a willing spirit can be invoked through the sympathy of identity, such as by calling their name three times. And anything that can dry out or fade away makes for a poor and potentially dangerous circle — so don’t use spit again.”

Saphienne blushed.

“Then there’s walking with that spirit. I couldn’t get much out of her about what you two were–”

“You questioned her?” Saphienne let go of her hand.

Taerelle paused to face her. “Earlier today. I told you before: I needed a time and place where we could talk privately, but your guardian spirit makes that quite difficult. Eventually I realised that I’d have to make my own opportunity.”

Outrage grew in Saphienne’s darkening eyes. “How did you bind her? The ancient ways prohibit–”

“The ancient ways permit the binding of spirits for the purposes of education approved by the Luminary Vale.” Her tutor tapped the pocket that held her letter. “I was told to supplement your lessons from our master. I invoked her by the name she gave you, then bound her in my sanctum. She’s quite young — it wasn’t difficult. She took it far more graciously than I expected.”

“In what way is that possibly–”

“Educational?” She slyly smiled.

Growing emotionless in her fury, Saphienne slowly clenched her fists. “Release her.”

“Don’t fret: the binding expires soon. I won’t be binding her again.” She tilted her head as she contemplated Saphienne’s reaction. “You care about her welfare. That’s reassuring to know. She’s very loyal to you, as well.”

“If you’ve hurt her–”

“There’s his temper!” Taerelle resumed strolling. “Stop reacting and start thinking. She was obviously in no danger from me: all she’s been compelled to do is sit around for a few hours. If you took even a second to reflect, you would know why I wouldn’t dare mistreat a spirit of the woodlands.”

The fact that her tutor was right only upset Saphienne even more.

Through an effort of will that tensed every muscle in her body, Saphienne forced herself to calm down, breathing out the anger that had surged through her. She caught up with the older girl as she let her lungs empty. “…Hyacinth is none of your concern.”

“On the contrary: she’s in much the same position as I am. She has my sympathy.” Taerelle offered her hand again. “…Why did that upset you so much?”

Saphienne declined to take it. “Binding her against her will is wrong.”

“Not so good at bullshitting now.” Taerelle wasn’t offended, and kept holding out her hand as they walked on. “I’m not asking why that should upset you: I’m asking why you reacted so strongly to hearing that. What was it about her being bound by me, that made you discard all reason?”

She reached for the coin pouch in her pocket, and clutched it in her hand as she felt through the deep currents that had overwhelmed her, reading the surface of their reddening waters and discerning the outline that lurked beneath. “…I lost a friend. She was taken away.”

“Always sad when someone we love moves to another village.” Taerelle glanced at Saphienne. “You must have been very young.”

She had been eleven years old… but she felt as though she had been younger, realising for the first time how slow she had been to mature. Isolation and neglect had made her lag behind where she should have been–

And she was still behind, Saphienne realised.

Slowly, she threaded her fingers through those of the older girl once more. “You should be a teacher. Unless you’re phenomenally good, your talents are wasted on enchantment.”

“I am phenomenally good.” Taerelle swept up her braid in her other hand as she preened. “This isn’t the same as teaching. And I’m still not allowed to teach you anything about real magic — ritual Invocation hardly counts.” She studied the sky. “I suppose there’s some overlap… weaving an enchantment is about making magic take root in gross matter, and for all you’re a rare and challenging metallic ore…”

“…I’m still unrefined.” Her lessons with Eletha came to mind. “We have one thing in common: I studied the art of jewellery.”

“That’s useful.” The way she said it implied she was considering putting Saphienne to work, but she had other priorities. “Although, we have more than one thing in common. Shall I tell you what else I scried?”

No divination was necessary for Saphienne to know what Taerelle had seen. “My mother is also none of your concern.”

“If it makes you feel better, Saphienne,” the senior apprentice said, “seeing your home life was what reassured me that you’re not all I feared. And like your spirit friend, you also have my sympathies: I can’t stand being around my family, either.”

* * *

When they reached the edge of the village Taerelle told Saphienne where she lived, and instructed her to come find her when – not if – she next got herself into trouble, which she hoped wouldn’t be for some time. She also promised not to scry on her too often, and to never have Wormwood augur her future again.

“I can’t really tutor you much until you’re a proven apprentice,” she admitted as they separated, “and I can’t tell you about the ancient ways until you’re older. Can you focus on your studies for the time being, and let sleeping dragons lie?”

Saphienne said that she could; she hoped it was true.

“Don’t tell Iolas or Celaena about this.” Taerelle briefly hummed as she tapped a finger on her own lips. “…Or Faylar or Laewyn, whom I really ought to look into…”

“Faylar wants to be a wizard one day — he’s not going to cause trouble. And Laewyn…” Saphienne groped for an explanation that would make sense. “…She’s the sort of person who just wants an easy life. She’ll want to pretend that it never happened. You can leave them both alone.”

“You’re good at reading people,” Taerelle admitted, “but you’re also good at misleading them, so I’m not going to just take your word for it. I won’t intrude too deeply.”

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Saphienne folded her arms. “Don’t you feel guilty? Invading people’s privacy?”

The senior student laughed, waving across her shoulder as she turned to leave. “Enjoy snooping on Filaurel’s correspondence, Saphienne.”

Beneath her hot flush – muttering petulantly to herself as she headed for the teahouse – Saphienne was forced to admit: in light of everything she had done, she was being a hypocrite.

What she later learned when she met with Hyacinth will wait, for now.

* * *

Two days before her next lesson with Almon, as she was leaving the library to go to her practice with Gaeleath, Saphienne was surprised when Thessa came bounding up the steps with a pair of cups, her freshly dyed, violet hair trailing behind her.

“Good morning Saphienne!” Her smile was nervous. “Can we talk?”

Having been brought her favourite beverage, and knowing that Iolas’ sister had requested it from her own allowance, Saphienne felt obliged to forego her prior commitment. They sat together on the steps to sip their tea.

“…I shouldn’t ask this.” Thessa traced the rim of her cup with her fingernail. “We don’t know each other very well… but Iolas thinks the world of you, and you’re the only person he might actually listen to…”

Seeing Saphienne’s growing concern, Thessa begged her not to tell Iolas she had come to see her; only then would she admit what had prompted their meeting.

“He’s not doing well.” The artist squinted. “I mean, he’s physically fine. And he’s not in any trouble that I know about. But he’s done nothing other than write for five days, from early in the morning until late into the night. And today he’s pacing around, working himself up over his essay.” She shook her head. “He won’t talk to me about whatever he’s struggling with. I’ve never known him to shut me out. All he’ll tell me is he doesn’t have an answer.”

Caution held Saphienne back. “We’re not supposed to confer–”

“But I’m not an apprentice wizard!” Thessa was exasperated. “Why won’t he show me what he’s working on? Why won’t he even tell me what he’s writing about?”

Saphienne chose her words carefully. “We’re not meant to share the content of our lessons with anyone, and the essay we’re to write concerns what we’ve been studying. You’re going to have to get used to him keeping some secrets from you.”

“I don’t mind if he has secrets.” She sighed. “I just don’t like that I can’t help him.”

“…Thessa, we’re not supposed to help each other with the essay.”

“Then don’t.” She set her cup on the steps as she took hold of Saphienne’s forearm with both hands, her pleading eyes very similar to her brother’s. “Can’t you just get him to take a break? He needs some perspective, and he’s not going to find any if he keeps going in circles.” She leant in with a whine. “Please? If I have to, I’m willing to bribe you.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Saphienne said, enjoying her tea. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you.” Her relief rolled down the steps like evaporating mist. “Is there anything I can do to help? Or to show my gratitude?”

“No…” Yet her mischief was waiting for her in the bottom of her cup. “…But if you need to thank me somehow, you could sneak Celaena a bottle of wine — for Laewyn.”

* * *

The second time she visited, Saphienne knocked on the front door of Iolas’ home, waiting until she was answered by a friendly woman draped in layers of floral embroidery.

“Goodness! You must be Saphienne. Are you here to see Iolas?”

Recognising the family resemblance, Saphienne grinned as she bowed to his mother. “If he’s not too busy for me…”

The woman rolled her eyes as she ushered Saphienne inside. “He’s too busy for everything right now. I’m Mathileyn — wonderful to meet you. What lovely hair you have…” Mathileyn surprised Saphienne by reaching out to trace the length of her ponytail as she passed by, delighted by the texture. “…I wish my hair sat like this. You could manage some impressive styles.”

“Um,” Saphienne awkwardly answered, “thank you?”

Realising she had been too familiar, Mathileyn blushed as she bustled through the sitting room. “Sorry! I’m treating you like you’re Thessa. But your hair really is quite something. You’re going to mesmerise all the girls and boys when you’re grown.”

Though she appreciated the compliment, Saphienne was equally embarrassed as Mathileyn showed her to the kitchen — where she saw that Iolas had claimed the entire table for his work. What papers he was not currently writing or referencing were covered over, and the extent of the ink stains on his hands suggested there were considerably more than the impressive number stacked across the surface. Behind him, the door through to the sunroom stood ajar, where she could also see his father, Athidyn, hard at work forming the basis for whatever prognostications the woodlands needed.

Mathileyn filled a kettle. “By the way — did you apprentice under Ninleyn?”

Iolas was chewing on the end of his pen. He frowned irritably at the interruption, but didn’t look up; he hadn’t yet noticed Saphienne where she stood in the doorway.

Anticipating some of what was about to happen, Saphienne folded her arms and leaned casually in the doorway to the sitting room. “I did. Is she a friend of yours?”

Iolas jerked upright at the sound of Saphienne’s voice, and then his gaze flew to the table where his writing was laid out. He panicked as he lunged for a blank sheet to cover it with, which only revealed another neat page of handwriting, and in his fumbling to cover that as well he knocked over an open bottle of dark ink — which shattered on the floor.

He stared mournfully down at the expanding puddle of night.

From the sunroom, without turning around, his father sighed. “I warned you: the most productive scholars all know when to take a break.”

Iolas slumped. “…Hello, Saphienne.”

She grinned at him. “Hello, Iolas. I’m not going to read your work.”

Mathileyn finished placing the kettle to boil on the stove, then lifted a stained but clean hand towel from nearby, dropping it upon her son’s lap as she kissed him on his forehead. She went through to the sitting room without another word.

Saphienne approached as he bent down to wipe up the mess, watching him sweep the liquid edges closer together with the towel before he pressed it down to soak up the ink. “Do you need a hand?”

“We’re not allowed to–” He realised she was just offering to help with the spill, and he managed a tired smile at himself as he stood up. “…There’s a mop and bucket in that closet, if you want to fetch them out.”

They worked together to clean the mess as best they could; by the time they were done, only a shadow clouded the tiled floor.

Saphienne patted his shoulder. “If it doesn’t wash out, maybe Celaena will let you borrow her Rod of Cleansing?”

Athidyn had come through from the sunroom to make a pot of tea, and he sipped from his overlarge cup as he surveyed the aftermath. “Probably no need. Ten years or so will see it faded. Did exactly the same thing, once upon a time,” he consoled his son. “But then, that was with paler ink...”

He headed back to work, his parting words philosophical. “Worst case? No more than a quarter-century. Everything washes out, eventually.”

Beside Saphienne, Iolas lowered his voice. “Would you mind asking for me? Celaena will tease me if I do; I didn’t quite get the hang of using it.”

She smiled at the memory. “If you like.” Her attention lingered on Athidyn as he sat back at his desk, and she lowered her voice so as not to disturb him. “How old are your parents?”

“They’re close to the same age — a little short of four centuries.” Iolas pulled out a chair for her before he sat down. “They decided to wait a little before they had Thessa. My mother says they might have another child, once she moves out.”

Feeling at home, Saphienne didn’t sit right away, but went over to the cupboard that she’d seen Athidyn open – beside the teapot – and took out two regularly sized teacups. Filling both, she brought them to the table and carefully set one down in front of Iolas before she joined him. “Is it strange that I find it hard to imagine living that long?”

“No.” Iolas was grateful for the tea, and he blew on it gently. “The first time I realised just how old everyone is… I felt lightheaded. Now and then, my parents will talk to each other in the Elfish they grew up with, and it always makes me feel…” He sipped on his tea as he reached for the right word. “…Makes me feel fleeting.”

Morose quietness clung to Iolas, clearer now to Saphienne than when they had eaten breakfast together nearly a week ago. And stress as well: even while he answered, his cyan eyes were roaming over the writing in front of him, unable to leave alone whatever tormented him on the page.

“Iolas,” she asked, leaning forward with her cup in her hands, “I’m not going to confer with you about the content — but how’s it going?”

“Awful.” He gave a single, exhausted laugh as he slid down his chair. “I’ve made no meaningful progress at all.”

Eyebrow raised, she glared pointedly at the stacks of paper beside them.

“I’ve mainly been writing to think.” He tapped his brow. “I keep going back and forth in my head. Putting one word on the page at a time forces me to continue on, and helps me order my thoughts. But the content is — honestly? It’s shit.”

She gave him another, wryer smile. “I find that hard to believe. It’s probably more profound than you think.”

“Profound?” He held his forehead. “Nowhere close. You ever heard the expression, ‘The more people say, the less they have worth listening to?’ That applies here.”

Mentioned by his mother, Saphienne remembered the time she had spent studying shoemaking with Ninleyn — and she snorted. “Maybe…” Yet she recalled all she had learned from her fourth apprenticeship, how deeply knowledgeable Ninleyn had been about her craft, and shook her head. “…But maybe not. That’s not always true. Some points take time to make, or we wouldn’t have long books worth reading.”

“Almon said to keep it short and sweet.”

“No,” she countered, “he was telling us about a bad book — he stressed that it was fine to write something of that length, so long as we held his interest. Do you think your writing is boring?”

He set down his cup and spread his arms. “Do I look like I’m entertained?”

She giggled. “You’re definitely invested in the topic. Surely that comes through?”

“I don’t know what I want to say.” He let his hands fall, dangling them above the floor. “I don’t actually have an answer. I can’t say for sure what– what the thing we’ve to explain actually is. It’s too complex, too much for any one person.”

Hyacinth’s words twined across her tongue like growing flowers on library steps. “My nature often asked, rare completed,” she recited, “hubris alone decides — from whence come I?”

“That was about happiness.”

“True, but wisest elders watched–”

“Stop!” He covered his ears. “Don’t say another word. We’re not conferring.”

He wasn’t going to let her help him.

“I need to do this alone.” Iolas was resolute as he stood. “Thank you for checking in on me, Saphienne, but I think you should leave me to finish this.”

His rejection made her–

No.

Saphienne held her breath; she exhaled with a single, self-aware laugh, grateful for what little control she had over herself. Iolas wasn’t rejecting her. On any other subject, he would have been grateful to talk through his problems — he was just so committed to doing what was right that he was prepared to torture himself. That was what Almon had been certain about, when he had put a fascinated Iolas in an impossible position, and the boy’s refusal to do what he felt was morally wrong had–

…That had been about power, she belatedly realised. Iolas had refused to choose, not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t trust himself to do so.

Well, whatever the causes of his present struggle, he wasn’t going to talk to her about them. Nor would he talk to his family; nor anyone else. Who would he listen to?

She swallowed the last of her tea and nodded, a plan forming as she rose. “I’d better leave you to it.”

Grateful, he gave her a warm hug.

…Then watched with confusion as she went into the sunroom.

* * *

“Excuse me,” Saphienne said as she closed over – but didn’t shut – the door back through to the kitchen. “Do you mind if I bother you?”

Athidyn wasn’t writing the second time she stopped in on him, and he practically threw down the papers he was holding with a flourish. “Not in the least! Please, give me any excuse to do something else.”

Her sides shook from holding back her mirth as she walked around his desk. Saphienne inclined her head to the religious painting hung on the wall. “Your patron goddess… I said that I might like to know more about Her doctrine.”

What began as his polite indulgence of a joke gave way to incredulity, gave way in turn to joy as he understood: she was serious. “Well! Do I hear reverence for Her in your voice? I really did think you were just being courteous.”

“I was, at the time.” Saphienne bowed. “I’m beginning to believe there’s something worthwhile in faith… and I’m not so sure certainty is wise. You can blame Nelathiel for the change.”

“Blame her? Surely you mean thank her?” He took to his feet. “But knowing Nelathiel, she’d tell me to save my thanks for our gods… would you like to sit outside?”

Aware that Iolas could hear them, she demurred. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather contemplate Her as you teach me.”

Athidyn marvelled. “You really have been listening to Nelathiel… that’s good. Very good.” He gestured with his cup to a small pile of cushions in the corner. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

She collected a few, turning their embroidered sides down before she sat atop them in the middle of the floor. Her host cleared space on his desk, reminding her of Gaeleath as he rested atop it.

“I’m not a priest,” Athidyn cautioned her. “I thought about becoming a novice, but I’m just another worshipper of Our Lady.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He flashed a rueful smile. “For the same reason there are so few priests devoted to Her: my time is better spent living Her doctrine.” He lifted an agricultural report. “I’m capable of this art. If not me, then who? If not today, then when?”

She recalled the rest of what he’d said. “Someone has to balance the scales. Is that the key to Her doctrine?”

He dropped the report and clasped his hands. “Let’s start more simply. Look at Her, and tell me what She says to you.”

Committed to her performance, Saphienne dutifully focused on the painting of the goddess — which stared back, painted such that its gaze would always follow observers around the room. Whereas Our Lord of the Endless Hunt had been depicted hungry, Our Lady of the Balanced Scales was entirely neutral in expression; instead of a war scythe, the goddess held an ordinary sickle in her left hand, turned outward as though she were ready to reap whoever was before her; in her right she carried a set of scales, upon one side of which bread and honeycomb had been placed; lastly, Saphienne noted that the second pan lay empty — yet even so, the scales remained balanced.

Her golden eyes were patient, yet insistent.

“She’s asking us to put ourselves on Her scales.”

Athidyn glanced over his shoulder — at the closed-over door. “…Iolas warned me you’re quick.” He brought his attention back to Saphienne. “Let’s say you’re right. Why is She asking that?”

Several answers were possible. “To balance what we have received; to weigh our worth against what has been given; to judge what matters to us; to prevent the scales from tipping over; and to place ourselves in Her care.”

“And what if She isn’t asking you to put yourself on Her scales?”

Saphienne blinked. “…She’s asking for something else?”

“Perhaps. What might that be?”

Now she found herself intrigued. “…I don’t know. I’m not sure what would balance against–” She closed her eyes. “I see.”

“What do you see?”

The afterimage of the painting amid the brightness of the room. “She’s asking us what can balance against Her bounty… or how the world balances against our life. She’s asking how we weigh everything.”

Athidyn applauded her. “You’re very good at beholding icons. Even though this isn’t actually Her, I think the painting captures some of Her essence.”

Saphienne’s mind was on Nelathiel’s patron as she regarded him. “She has a lot of similarities to Our Lord of the Endless Hunt.”

“I can see that.” He adjusted his gold-threaded hair so that it lay over one shoulder. “She does not pursue us as He does. While He demands we chase what matters or be chased, She only harvests those who are willing to place themselves at hazard.”

That felt foreboding. “What kind of hazard?”

“Moral hazard.”

Now Saphienne considered that her plan was going too well — that she wouldn’t just share thoughts about wisdom for Iolas, but was at risk of forming new ones. “What,” she asked, “is moral hazard?”

“Technically? When one person in a relationship – any kind of relationship – has the unilateral power to take a risk that will benefit themself, but which may have consequences only the other person will suffer.” He was unsatisfied with the definition. “I think it’s better phrased: when you have the impunity to take or keep for yourself what someone else will be forced to replace.”

She thought about wizardry, and how wizards were treated. “Isn’t that just the danger of power? That it can be abused?”

“Power without consequence – without balance – gives rise to moral hazard.”

She studied the scales. “And She only accepts those who will risk moral hazard… because we decide what we’re willing to place on Her scales. We could put nothing there. Or we could tip them in our own favour.”

“We could.”

Yet the sickle was ready to reap. “Does She punish us for falling to moral hazard?”

Her question made Athidyn squirm where he perched. “…That is a very controversial question. The theology of Her doctrine is divided along two different branches, the larger of which insists that She only concerns Herself with asking what is just, and so does not punish… while the smaller…”

The branch he favoured was no mystery to her. “You prefer to think She invites us to be just, that we must balance the scales. There are those who think She balances them?”

He stood. “Wait here.”

Saphienne glimpsed Iolas as his father went into the house — still in the kitchen, and making too great an effort at pretending he hadn’t been listening.

When Athidyn returned he was carrying a slim volume. “I’m probably not supposed to own this,” he admitted. “Only priests of Our Lady of the Balanced Scales, elders, and members of the Luminary Vale are usually permitted copies. But I was given it by an elder, who told me to trust my judgement.”

“What is it?”

“A collection of poems.” He flicked to a certain page. “Very old poems. This is a faithful translation into contemporary Elfish that mimics the original.”

That poetry would be restricted bewildered Saphienne. “Who wrote them?”

“A former High Master of the Luminary Vale. Their name is unrecorded.” He skimmed the verse. “I believe this would be considered subversive, had it been penned by anyone else.”

Now she leant forward, much like Our Lord of the Endless Hunt.

“One poem of note begins with mysticism: ‘To see a world in a grain of sand, and a haven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.’ Quite a beautiful sentiment.” Yet he was full of trepidation. “The rest of this poem… it’s believed by some to come from Our Lady. It continues, ‘A robin red breast in a cage puts all the heavens in a rage.’ Most of the other verses are variations upon that theme — mistreatment of the natural world angering the gods.”

“Most?”

“The ending has an… uncomfortable emphasis.” He turned the book around, revealing the final stanzas to Saphienne…

Who read with mounting awe.

Every morn and every night

Some are born to sweet delight;

Some are born to sweet delight,

Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie

When we see not through the eye

Which was born in a night to perish in a night

While the elves slept in trees of light.

Gods appear and gods are light

To those poor elves who dwell in night

But do a human form display

To those who dwell in realms of day.

End of Chapter 60