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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorrowful, both Celaena and Iolas consented.

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

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

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

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

Saphienne crossed her arms.

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

* * *

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw

Or heard or felt came not but from myself;

And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

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

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

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

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

Do you think that absurd?

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

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

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

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

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

Thus they were denied by the Luminary Vale.

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saphienne knew she was unusual, and gifted in intellect…

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

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

She would have to steal a spellbook.

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

Had she somehow always known?

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

“Even a thief?”

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

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

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

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

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

…But where did those paths lead?

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

There were many right paths, but for Saphienne?

Only one path was left.

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

See her, stood stark against a cold background.

Hear her:

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

Saphienne relinquished her doubts.

Fifteen days. Proven by then, or dead.

* * *

She could involve no one.

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

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

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

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

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

A lump rose in her throat.

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

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

“Not her.” Saphienne swallowed. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saphienne picked the most difficult, and downed her tea.

* * *

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

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

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

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

“Faylar told me you eat meat.”

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

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

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

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

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

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Saphienne!”

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

“Mother!”

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

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

Hands covering his face, Faylar muttered a profanity.

“See how he speaks to his own mother?”

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

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

Encouraged, Saphienne finally tasted–

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

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

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

“No! I just–”

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

“…Not our decision…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which side do you–”

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

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

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

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

“Safer for your health,” Faylar opined.

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

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

“Saphienne…” Alavara leant on the table, holding her gaze. “…I cannot sufficiently stress to you how tedious this is from our end. At first I was the only one – apart from Myrinel – who knew you were innocent… but now? Sundamar is the only of us who still thinks you had something to do with what happened.”

She canted her head. “Then why are you eavesdropping on me?”

“Not our decision.” Her ears drooped with her eyelids. “The elders decide when you’re no longer worth trailing after. Until then, we have to provide reports on your movements, and any conversations that we happen to catch.”

Acting as though all of this was new to her, Saphienne pursed her lips. “…If I’m on my own, then two people have to sit watching just me… but if I’m in public…”

“You get it.” Alavara shoved away, carrying the dishes to the sink. “There are far more subversive people than you out there to worry about, as well as a far greater number of idiots getting drunk and doing stupid things in the snow. I’m going to be chaperoning celebrants at one of the shrines — and if the past predicts the future, I’ll be fishing one of them out of the river before sunrise.”

Saphienne laughed along with Faylar, satisfied that she’d learned what she came for.

The winter solstice was her best opportunity.

* * *

Later, once Alavara had dressed in her mottled white furs and strapped her knife to her hip and her quiver to her thigh, Saphienne and Faylar saw her out before retreating to the couch beside the fire. Less reserved than the last time they had spent the night together, they huddled together with tea under a down-filled, woollen blanket.

“…So your mother knows I have a girlfriend?”

Faylar rolled his eyes. “I didn’t tell her. And she’s acting: she’s not sure whether you only like girls.”

“How do you know that?”

He stared up at the ceiling as he faintly blushed. “When I asked if you could spend the night, she sat me down and forced me to sit through an awkward explanation of how to be respectful and considerate in intimate situations.”

Saphienne blinked. “She thinks–”

“She doesn’t,” he insisted, “but she knows she could be wrong about us. With the year you’ve had, I don’t blame her for being cautious.” He softened as he met her gaze. “And it was worth hearing anyway. Gods know, but I might be glad I’ve heard it, soon…”

Saphienne smiled. “You’re more mature than before.”

“I feel like I have to be… a little.” He sipped his tea.

She settled back, listening to the crackling of the logs.

“…Did you prompt Celaena to ask Laewyn over tonight?”

Faylar was sharper than he used to be. “I did,” she said. “I wanted an excuse for a break, and the two of them need to settle on who they are to each other before the new year.”

“Did Celaena tell you what we–”

“No.” Saphienne shifted toward him. “But she was happier after you talked. Are you going to tell me?”

He shrank under the blanket. “If you promise not to repeat it — and not to laugh.”

Mirth tugged at her lips. “On the names of my father and mother, and on my honour: I, Saphienne of the Eastern Vale, swear to keep my silence on the–”

“Very funny.” He nudged her. “Be serious. We both know you don’t really care about your father or your mother.”

“…I care about my mother.” She felt strange, admitting that. “She tried. I’ve thought about visiting her, but I’ve been very busy, and I’m not sure…”

He winced. “…Sorry.”

She covered over the wound. “I’ll keep it to myself — and I’ll try not to laugh.”

The apprentice librarian leaned against her, staring into the flames. “You can make fun of me when we’re older. Where to start…”

* * *

Celaena hadn’t shouted at Faylar.

Once her shock had worn off? She’d laughed.

Faylar described how she’d cackled until there were tears in her eyes, and then how she’d had to sit from dizziness. He’d been very frightened for her, but the grin she gave him when she recovered was, so he swore, the happiest he’d ever seen her since they’d become close.

Celaena had hugged him, and demanded her best friend tell her all the rest — the worries and fears with which Laewyn had burdened him. Then she’d begun to swear, more in sorrow than anger, and she’d bidden him wait while she went to commune with Hyacinth on the matter.

Thereafter, she and Faylar had spoken candidly about the deficiencies of Laewyn, for Saphienne had been correct: the girl was unconsciously trying to sabotage her relationship with Celaena so as not to live in dread of inevitable failure. From the perspective of Laewyn – who unbeknownst to Faylar really was prepared to do anything for Celaena, even be an accomplice to a serious crime – she could never be good enough for whatever she set her heart upon.

Very gently, Celaena had broken the news to Faylar that, sadly, apart from ruining her romance? Laewyn probably only wanted him for his body.

They’d both laughed, then.

In the end, Faylar had apologised for letting Laewyn kiss him, and for considering her proposal before he’d come to his senses. Celaena had subsequently astounded herself, and Faylar, by acknowledging that she didn’t actually care if Laewyn slept with him, now she was certain that what motivated her wasn’t Celaena’s insufficiencies.

They’d agreed that Celaena would talk to Laewyn, with Hyacinth, and try to coax her into seeing how wrong she was. If she loved Celaena as much as she believed, then she needn’t be afraid.

* * *

As the fire burned low, Saphienne yawned. “If they reconcile, does this mean you’re going to be sleeping with Laewyn?”

Faylar was drowsy in the heat. “…Maybe, if it doesn’t hurt anyone… but I’ll make her wait a while, until we’re all sure… I don’t want to lose my friends…”

They stayed leaning together as the shadows lengthened.

“…Faylar?”

“Hm?”

“…I never thought to tell you. I’ve not forgiven you, but it’s because I never had to forgive you, because I never held it against you.”

“…Held what?”

“You were at my door. I remember. You were there, before Celaena and Laelansa.”

His breathing stopped.

“If you’d known, you’d have saved me. It wasn’t your fault.”

A smothered sob in the silence.

Faylar turned to Saphienne very slowly, and in an act of tremendous intimacy, he tenderly kissed the point of her ear. “I love you.”

She smiled behind her closed eyes. “I love you, too. Still won’t sleep with you.”

“…Ass. Want to sleep with me, instead?”

Rolling over, she snuggled into his chest.

Fourteen days remained.

* * *

Long past sunset on the next day, Saphienne had solutions for all obstacles bar one.

She wasn’t happy

with them, and her conscience demanded that she confess to Almon as soon as she could afterward. A single element, detestable to her, gnawed at her principles so ferociously that she’d spent several hours trying to identify any alternative, ultimately concluding that the prejudices she would necessarily play upon were not hers — for all that she would temporarily reinforce them.

She wished she had Laelansa’s faith, that she might pray for forgiveness.

Yet the hazard of the watchful wardens persisted, intractable, and it was to this last barrier that she bent her faculties as she went out to wander the village, her elven sight keen enough to pierce the dark of the new moon by the starlight shining on the snow.

Even if the wardens were stretched thin, assuming she could lose them in the celebrating crowd and then slip away unnoticed was a leap too far. All it would take would be one vigilant observer, and she would be undone.

She mulled her fortunes over, steering herself away from the library.

The asymmetry — that was the problem. If she had some means by which to detect them in their concealment, or a matching enchantment to hide herself, then she would have all she needed; yet there was no way to acquire such assurances.

Were she already proven she would employ the Second Sight, but that was pure fantasy. Saphienne may as well have imagined rendering herself invisible. Then again, she wasn’t sure which degree a gross perceptual veil fell under. Taerelle had cast one upon herself, which implied it was a spell of the First Degree…

Unless Wormwood had bestowed it upon her.

Saphienne paused, staring up at the silhouette of the moon.

Why had Wormwood helped? Implicitly, she had first assumed that the spirit was in a similar relationship with Taerelle as was Hyacinth with herself — but this could not be, for the ancient bloomkith was a familiar to another magician.

Was it that the spirit felt as fondly for Hyacinth as Taerelle did for Saphienne? She doubted that. According to Hyacinth, the bitter bloomkith loved her master most of all, more so than she loved herself. Whoever her master was, the elf was surely an elder — and powerful, to be able to demand that the spirit’s sisters not reveal her identity.

That only begged another, more disquieting question: why would Wormwood answer the call of Taerelle? And if she was as antisocial as Hyacinth claimed, why had the younger spirit been tutored by–

The cold around Saphienne was as nothing compared to the black ice in her bones.

* * *

Chalk, requested from the storehouses.

A sickle, loaned from the crafting hall.

Tall, dead stalks of faded yellow made silver again in the night, beneath which sprouted fresh green sprigs in snow, crawling close to the ground as they bided time until spring would come.

A window, left open in a foyer that had not stayed sealed.

A room of blackened stone, into which Saphienne stole, full of trepidation.

* * *

“Wormwood, Wormwood, Wormwood.”

She waited; her call went unanswered.

Six more times she repeated the name, and six more times she was ignored.

Saphienne steadied her nerves. She thought then of Ruddles, and what she had shared about her sisters. If the spirit Saphienne now invoked was at least as old as Mother Marigold…

Raising her arms, coin in palm, she studied the cutting widely ringed by chalk.

“Mother Absinthe,” she implored, “I conjure thee to answer: comest thou unto this circle, wound in bond of peace. Mother Absinthe, I adjure thee by thy love for thy master: comest thou into this circle, wound ere I beseeched. Mother Absinthe, I invoke thee by right, and with rite ancient: comest thou forth within this circle, wound that thou shouldst reach.”

Saphienne folded her arms, aware how few days remained, and that the time was her own.

Then, in that lonely and forbidden chamber, upon the witching hour?

Thence cometh Wormwood from the dark, cometh scything bitter cold, cometh the primeval to grind her flowers and gird herself in woody silver towering; thence and therefore her eyes do blazeth a baleful, sallow green.

“Cease.”

Ah, but Saphienne was never afraid in that way. “No.”

Snapping, Wormwood lumbered forward in a form more woodkin than bloomkith. “Thou hast no right, to hither me this night. Thou hast claim not, upon this circle wrought. Thou art–”

“Of interest to your master.”

Pausing, glowering, reckoning. “…What sayest thou?”

Saphienne stepped into the circle. “You just erred. Now I know for sure.”

The fell growth raised her limb to fester with burrs. “Arrogant child! Ought I slit thee from thy throat to thy gizzard–”

She laughed. “Thou art tolling a bell that hath no tongue: an empty threat.”

Cracking as they plunged, the branches drove down on Saphienne–

Who stared up into their descending mass, unblinking as they halted against her unflinching face.

Wormwood called back her briars. “…Thou art no craven.”

“I did not fear to die,” Saphienne replied, “nor shall I fear the same again.”

Gnarled and eerie greenery crackled as the bloomkith mirrored her stance, looming over the girl. “What sayest thou, Saphienne?”

“I know who your master is.” She began to walk widdershins around the spirit. “I know she has been manipulating me for a very long time. Possibly, from before I was born.”

Unintimidated, the spirit tracked her fully with a spineless, twisting head.

“Hyacinth was empowered to do what she did by your teaching. So too was Taerelle encouraged to take up her role as my mentor — thanks to your assistance.” She thought back to the chessboard played by her master, with its three rings of pieces surrounding a central board, governed by rules she didn’t know. “Your master moved you to act, as she did Celaena’s father, as she did whoever appointed Almon to the Eastern Vale.”

“Thou seest spectres in the gloaming.”

“I think not.” She stopped beside the spirit, preoccupied by her left hand. “Your master is a diviner of surpassing skill — how else could you have scried for Taerelle, but that you incorporated the sigils bequeathed by your master? She foresaw some or all of what is playing out, and she has a vested interest in seeing how it ends.”

Wormwood abided.

“Why would a High Master of the Luminary Vale permit me to do what I have done?”

Wormwood endured.

“What purpose does she have for me, I wonder?”

Wormwood was made stone.

“…Lenitha is very capable indeed,” Saphienne acknowledged, continuing back to stand before the familiar. “So capable that she’s already won. I don’t know her design, but it doesn’t matter.”

And the bloomkith creaked. “No?”

“I’m going to be a wizard.” She no longer felt fire in the copper disc she clutched, for it was within her breast. “I don’t care why she wants to help me. All that matters is that she does. And you’re going to see her will done.”

A mocking rattle preceded her answer. “Thou wouldst true adjure me? Be that thine aim?”

She tossed the coin to the floor, retreating back beyond the circle.

“Answer I to one alone, and thou art not she.”

The sickle was steady in her hand as she collected it, heavy as she turned and lifted it into place, sharp where it bit her neck.

“…What game dost thou–”

“Wormwood.” Saphienne was serene. “You’re going to help me, or I am going to slit myself from throat to gizzard.”

The bloomkith rattled again. “Now who maketh empty threats?”

Proven, or dead.

* * *

Drenched in blood, she sat up as the spirit withdrew her healing touch.

“Stay thy hand…” Wormwood groaned. “…What dost thou want?”

Her throat was freshly mended, and raw. “Will you defy the Luminary Vale for me?”

“No; nor dare my master.”

“Then help me evade the wardens tomorrow night.”

“…That is all?”

“They are too many, and I can’t track them.”

Wormwood showed her jagged smile. “Ay? Hast thou reckoned them, in thy vale?”

Saphienne paused. “…How many are there?”

“‘Tis a secret number.” The spirit grinned in malevolence as she spread her roots through the clotting puddle on the floor. “Like the river, swelled by summer flood or cry of need, yet low lieth its banks… for seldom spilled is blood.”

“How many?”

“Twelve.” Wormwood supped. “Only twelve.”

End of Chapter 99