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

Sickness was spreading through the woodlands.

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

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

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

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

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

“…Shit.”

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

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

“Please fetch the Rod of Cleansing.”

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

“Laelansa sent me a letter while ill.”

“…I don’t understand.”

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

“Shared taste?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grateful for her confidence, Saphienne promised she would.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On the world?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

What syllable are you seeking,

Vocalissimus,

In the distances of sleep?

Speak it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was the–”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn.” She shut the book. “Come in!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

No advance was made during the remainder of the day.

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

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

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

* * *

“Take a break with us.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck this.”

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

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

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

Saphienne froze just short of the door.

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

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

They were discussing spellcasting.

“Religious metaphor? Really?”

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

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

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

Saphienne’s vision blurred, and she slunk away.

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

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

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

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

For Saphienne had never once sensed what they had described.

* * *

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

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

In the realm of magic, Saphienne was blind.

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

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

* * *

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

She ceased memorising it each morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d rather just sit by the fire; Filaurel’s not here.”

She acquiesced, and went with him to the enchanted fireplace, lulled by its flickering flames as Faylar worked up the nerve to speak.

* * *

“…And then she kissed me.”

Shamefully, but unintentionally, Saphienne hadn’t been listening. She frowned as she made herself face Faylar. “Kissed you?”

“Exactly! I didn’t invite it — and I pushed her away… when the shock wore off…”

Bewildered, Saphienne did her best impression of pondering what he’d said. When he added no more to help her, she prompted him. “And then?”

“I told her it was a lot to think about,” he confessed, anxiously brushing his hair back behind his ears. “She told me she’d wait, and then she left me in the closet. I must have sat there for over an hour… and I haven’t said a word to anyone since.”

“…When was this?”

“Three days ago.” He misunderstood her motive for asking. “I didn’t want to disturb you… and going to your house…”

A deep horror scythed through her stomach.

“…I don’t know, but I don’t think I could look Celaena in the eye.”

“Laewyn wants to fuck you?”

He slid his chair away. “I didn’t say yes! I can’t say yes.”

Dizzied by the forthcoming drama, Saphienne clutched her ears. “Faylar… tell me you don’t want to?”

He cringed. “…What I want doesn’t matter. I can’t do that to Celaena.”

“Faylar! Laewyn?Really?”

“It’s not romance!” Faylar leapt up and began to pace, hugging himself defensively as a flush crept up his ears. “I can’t help how I feel physically. She’s just… very pretty, and the first person to show any interest.”

“…Laewyn.”

“Can we focus on a solution, please?”

In her stunned silence, the crackling of the fire was gentle.

Saphienne rubbed her temples. “She’s avenging herself on Celaena. She has to be.”

“…I don’t think she is.”

“You don’t think it’s some kind of game?”

“No.” He stopped, then came to crouch beside her. “I don’t know why they’re estranged, but I was encouraging her to go back to Celaena. She opened up to me about… a lot. She’s scared about how much she loves Celaena.”

“Love her? Loves her so much that she wants to–”

“I don’t wholly understand either.” He shook his head. “She said that something had happened before they argued, and it made her realise she was willing to do anything for Celaena, and that made her… she said she was losing herself. That she doesn’t even know herself, and doesn’t know what she’d be giving up if she becomes who Celaena wants.”

While Saphienne was very young and immature in matters of love, the insight that came to her as she listened was wisdom beyond her experience. “Laewyn is a fucking idiot.”

Faylar shrugged. “I’m no better.”

“No, you’re a good enough friend not to betray Celaena. Laewyn is sabotaging herself.”

“Saphienne…” His ears drooped. “…What do I do? I feel like Celaena will already feel betrayed. And if I tell Laewyn I don’t want to, I’m going to upset her very badly, and I don’t know what she’ll do–”

“Stop.” Saphienne stood up. “Do you want my advice?”

He stared up at her pitifully. “Please.”

She felt like a tremendous hypocrite, despite being entirely sincere. “Don’t try to manage your friends.”

“…When you put it like that…”

Glancing over to the front doors – where Filaurel was coming in – she lowered her voice. “Go see Celaena right now, and tell her that you backed off — because the last thing you want to do is get between your best friend and her girlfriend, no matter how fluttery Laewyn made you feel. Then tell her everything that Laewyn said about how she feels toward Celaena.”

“But that’s betraying Laewyn’s trust!”

“Who matters more to you?”

He paused; then he stood and spoke with confidence. “Celaena. Definitely Celaena. …Not just because I have a crush on her.”

“Then go talk to her,” Saphienne advised, hoping she was making the right decision, “and figure out how to solve this together. Tell her I said that before she explodes, she needs to shut up and hear everything you have to say.”

“Oh, gods, Celaena’s going to lose her temper so badly…”

She patted his shoulder as she left him by the fireplace. “…And she won’t mean a word of it. Just be the best friend she needs.”

* * *

Filaurel teased Saphienne about ignoring the closure to the public, then undermined it herself by inviting her back to the kitchen for tea. The fern mask she wore hung haphazardly off her ear as she sipped from her cup, blithely unconcerned about sickness.

When Saphienne asked why, Filaurel was candid.

“I’ve already been sick for a day, and a spirit confirmed that it’s gone.” She smiled fondly. “You know, you’re one of the only people I can share this with: the time I spent in the human kingdoms made me quite hardy. I still get ill, but I always recover very quickly.”

Hesitating, Saphienne lifted her own mask to drink her tea.

“The measures we’re taking aren’t sufficient, anyway. I told the consensus that we had to cancel the solstice festivities if we were to have a hope of curtailing the spread, but they all moaned about celebrating the new year…” Her withering expression conveyed what she thought about their deliberations. “Everyone who can stand up is going to drag themselves outdoors in a few days, and we’ll be in the situation we’ve been trying to avoid.”

“Could be worse,” Saphienne dryly commented. “Could be a human plague. But they’d take it more seriously then, wouldn’t they?”

“Having lived through a plague,” Filaurel quietly replied, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Filaurel’s seriousness shamed Saphienne. “…Sorry.”

“You weren’t to know,” her mentor brushed it off, forcing levity as she moved on. “So! What’s so important that it’s torn you away from the Great Art? Faylar told me you’ve been hard at work.”

Perched on her chair, Saphienne was queasy. “…I’ve been asking myself what I’ll do if I don’t succeed.” Her green eyes dimmed, and she dropped them to her cup. “Would I still be welcome at the library? Could I… could I be your apprentice again?”

Setting her tea down, Filaurel wordlessly took Saphienne’s drink from her unresisting hand, then enveloped her in a firm hug.

Saphienne sighed, leaning into the acceptance of that embrace. Her tears, suppressed for so long, welled up behind her eyes–

“You won’t fail.”

She felt Filaurel squeeze her tight.

“Doubts are natural, but don’t quit until Almon makes you. I know you’ll go much further than I ever did.”

Numbly, Saphienne inclined her head.

* * *

Taerelle had the countenance of death behind her grim, black mask, dressed in shadowy pyjamas and wrapped in a thick, sunset robe that was far removed in function from wizardry. As she beckoned Saphienne in she assured the girl that she was no longer infectious, and that Wormwood had helped cleanse her dwelling.

The senior apprentice was exhausted as she fell into her chair. “Make your own tea if you want it, prodigy.”

Saphienne demurred, having had plenty with Filaurel.

“…Well? What’s so important that you’re keeping me out of bed?”

Summarising her plight without revealing what prompted her conjecture was painful for Saphienne, but she went through all she had discerned about her frailties, outlining what she had overcome and what now stymied her ascent. She intended to speak with analytical detachment, but in her heart she knew she hollowly expressed her despair, spreading out her wants and fears before the woman whom she trusted to receive them, unsure of what she sought, yet desperate.

After Saphienne was done, Taerelle asked one question. “You can hold the sigil?”

She didn’t raise her head. “…But not cast it.”

On the edge of her vision, she saw Taerelle stand.

“Prodigy, get out of my house.”

Bereft, Saphienne looked up to behold her tutor in magnificent fury.

“How dare you, Saphienne. How dare you come here, wasting your time, to wallow in pity for yourself.” Her cool eyes were vicious as she leaned down to grip her shoulder, and she shook Saphienne with the same roughness as Wormwood had seized Celaena. “Look at yourself! A wizard permitted to teach by the Luminary Vale said that you could not retain the spell — and you proved him wrong! Then you dare to be discouraged?”

“But–”

Taerelle slapped her, quite hard.

“Fail because you can’t succeed,” Taerelle hissed. “Then you can come back. But if you fail because you’re giving up? Then I won’t want to know you.”

Anger uncoiled within Saphienne.

“…Better.” Taerelle straightened. “I can’t help you. Even if I could, I wouldn’t: a wizard who is capable of magic must cast her first spell unaided. Now is your time to fly or fall, prodigy. Prove to me that you’re everything I believe you are.”

* * *

So late the hour, who could point the way?

Heedless to the setting of the sun, Gaeleath was at work in their studio, forever a temporary structure despite their acceptance within the Eastern Vale. Saphienne studied them in their flow, seeing that they were carving sandstone into rough, round bricks in imitation of sketches arrayed around the plinth.

“You’ll be asking,” the sculptor mused, “why I’m wasting my time on work that could be done by clumsier hands.”

That they had noticed her was no surprise. “Hello, Gaeleath.”

“I’m in collaboration with Thessa — and I’ll thank you to ask no questions, that I may tell no lies.” They set down their chisel and turned. “How’s the hand?”

“A burden.” She stepped into the tent, letting the flap fall. “I don’t think I’ll be able to continue with you, like this.”

“Not with that attitude.” They smiled. “How goes your life otherwise?”

She inhaled, pointedly signalling her overture. “…Fruitlessly. I’ve been trying myself with another art.”

They measured her; their gaze dipped to her limp palm. “…Sketching. Thessa mentioned.”

Was that acknowledgement? Acceptance, that she could ask? She would have to see. “I’m struggling. I find it very hard to work with material other than stone.”

Settling against the edge of their plinth, Gaeleath coyly tilted their head. “What would be the matter?”

“I struggle to grasp the medium well enough to make my mark upon it.”

The artist in stone, wood, and a greater substance weighed the choice before them.

They broken their silence lightly. “…Would that be through lack of understanding?”

She bit her lip, then dangled her hand. “Through impediment. I know what I want to do, and have the vision of it clear in mind, but…”

“Disability?” They were definitely playing along.

“There’s no remedy for a lack of talent. Not that I can see.”

The sculptor’s ear flicked in disapproval.

Gaeleath walked with unusual ponderousness, no longer the figure of levity as they headed by Saphienne. “Stroll a little distance with me.”

She went out after them, to behind the pavilion, where the trees sheltered a forest of another kind, unfinished sculptures aglow beneath the subsiding moon.

“Young artist, what do you see here?”

She exhaled. “Work left unfinished.”

“I see differently.” They moved to a nearby piece, weathered by the year. “You are too polite to say that you see hundreds of failures. Yet I see progress spreading out, each effort pressing the others a little further on, that all should be completed in the fullness of time.”

“I don’t have time, Gaeleath.”

“Then all the more important to move on. Why persist in chiselling where stone refuses to yield?”

What were they trying to tell her? “I can’t even finish the simplest exercise…”

“And I’ve only attained one piece — or so the neighbours say.”

Their choice of words shone brighter than the moonlight. She faced the former apprentice wizard with mounting awe. “How close are you to finishing a second?”

“That could be done any moment… were there demand. Which there isn’t; nor shall there be for very long time. Until I’m called upon again, I amuse myself by answering my limits with ever-greater challenges.” They took their leave with a wave. “In sculpture, at least, harder subjects call for different skills; I imagine it’s the same for portraiture. Goodnight, Saphienne.”

Their advice was important, but opaque. “…Thank you, Gaeleath. Goodnight.”

* * *

Peacock wasn’t there when she entered the parlour, and rather than call for him she surveyed the books she hadn’t copied. Could Gaeleath have been urging her to do what she’d already done? Or was there the chance that she’d missed–

“Now why in the world did you do that?”

Almon’s voice carried from upstairs…

“Mainly? To make you react like that.”

…As did Jorildyn’s, whose quip was met by merry chuckling from her master. Astonished to hear the wizard and the tailor bantering, Saphienne climbed the steps up to the sitting room…

“Saphienne! Come observe the game!”

…Where Almon and Jorildyn were either side of the four-layered chessboard, Peacock whistling to her from atop the armchair where sat his master with cup of wine in hand; both men were rosy-cheeked.

Her presence sobered her master. “Saphienne? If you’re here to return the loaned book, you can leave it downstairs.”

“Almon,” Jorildyn tutted, “don’t be rude.”

The wizard glowered. “She’s my apprentice! I’ll address her however I please.”

His adversary was uncowed. “That’s been working well for you, so I’ve heard.”

Peacock cackled as Almon folded his arms.

Saphienne bowed. “I didn’t mean to intrude–”

“Easier to earn forgiveness than gain permission,” the wizard sniffed, sipping his wine. “I suppose he taught you that.”

Jorildyn sighed; he proceeded to drain his cup in one swallow, then rose. “…Well, the evening’s done now. Not your fault, Saphienne — he’s always like this, when we have an audience.”

The hallucinatory bird chirped with indignity. “I’m an audience!”

Jorildyn scoffed — then amazed Saphienne by revealing they’d been introduced. “You don’t count, Peacock.”

As his familiar grumbled, Almon muttered a goodnight to them both, occupying himself with scrutinising the game in progress while retrieving a mostly empty bottle of wine to refill his cup.

Saphienne let Jorildyn steer her down the stairs, leaving the book that was the excuse for her presence on the high-backed chair before they went out. The icy wind carried flecks of snow as they trekked to the village.

“…So you’re the one who beats him at chess?”

Jorildyn rubbed at his smarting cheeks. “Most times. He’s better than me, knows all the stratagems, but he can’t help himself — he always has to try for a perfect game, making no mistakes or concessions. His weakness is he’s a defensive player.”

“How is that a weakness?”

“He can’t improvise.” He grinned at the girl. “You’d think it’d be the other way around, wouldn’t you? Chess is where we switch. I’m the creative one, and Almon? He doesn’t know what to do when I play moves that I shouldn’t.”

Saphienne slowed, puzzling it out. “…You aren’t calling him by his title; you’re very familiar with each other; and you’re only person in the village who isn’t intimidated by him…”

“Familiar, she says.”

Saphienne blinked. “…You’re related?”

“Brothers.” Jorildyn thrust his hands in his pockets, cold for want of the coat he’d neglected to bring. “I’m the elder; I followed him out here when he was appointed.”

Saphienne shut her eyes. “…I should have known. That’s why you’re always voted to chair meetings of the consensus… and why he always backs down…”

“I don’t interfere with his teaching,” Jorildyn confessed, “but otherwise? When people have trouble, they try their luck against a higher authority than the Luminary Vale — the tailor.” He laughed freely in his drunkenness. “Don’t repeat that joke in front of him. It annoys him…”

Her steps had ceased while he jested. “…I won’t…”

“Well,” he concluded their exchange with a shiver, “you’re not far from here, are you? I’d best hurry home before this snow comes down in earnest. Good to see you again, Saphienne.”

“…And you.” Saphienne watched him jog away as the flakes thickened, reading her own trajectory into his receding silhouette.

She resolved then to do what she shouldn’t; to make a move that made no sense; to act as her master – or even the High Master who toyed with her life – would never anticipate; to pursue what was surely folly; to try a gambit that, in the end, was less certain to be doomed.

If she couldn’t succeed with a proving spell?

Then Saphienne would cast a spell of the First Degree.

End of Chapter 98