Together we have leapt from the ground, and together we rise rapidly toward the moment of weightlessness before our descent begins.

  Did you think it all artifice? Did you imagine the talk of Divination – and of sympathy – was only to fill the air? That the philosophical debate on right and wrong and unknowable truth, of trust, was extraneous to what was unfolding, rather than crucial?

  Many have done so. I cannot fault them. Who could have supposed that she was, indeed, cursed? Certainly not the girl herself.

  You may be tempted to assume you know how her story ends — that, with secret knowledge now bared, and through cleverness, you can predict what came to pass for Saphienne.

  Even now, I repeat what I told you before:

  What makes her story tragic is more than you imagine.

  * * *

  When the spell cast by the High Master concluded, Saphienne remained sitting on the gravel as the ancient elder rose.

  Lenitha spoke softly. “I must consult with Elduin.” She began weaving a spell as she walked off through the flowerbeds, white and indigo indicating she employed a divinatory translocation to speak with her fellow High Master.

  Stood beyond the edge of the circle, Almon, Vestaele, Lylae, and Illimun remained respectfully quiet as they awaited the determination.

  This suited Saphienne, who had been left with too much to think about.

  * * *

  Lenitha hadn’t possessed the answers Saphienne wanted.

  “I do not know,” the High Master said, folding her long sleeves back so that she could warm her hands on the idea of the fire in the envisioned library. “The prophecy was relayed to me long ago, by a friend who no longer participates in the Luminary Vale. I have observed it unfold across millennia.”

  “There has to be more–”

  “Perhaps.” Lenitha was dispassionate. “Yet the magician responsible for setting it in motion is dead, and left no records behind. All that I know about your wyrd comes from observing you and your predecessor, together with carefully judged interventions.”

  That irked Saphienne. “Then tell me something you do know: when you say ‘wyrd,’ to what are you referring?”

  Was there a hint of a blush? “…An old concept, no longer commonly taught. Your wyrd is your personal fate. Most in the present day consider the idea of a wyrd to be poetic nonsense — and they are not wrong to think so, within the world they occupy. You have read Elduin’s thesis?”

  How the work was relevant escaped Saphienne. “I have.”

  “Then understand that your wyrd is what was that is, what is that will be, and what will be that shall have become what was.” Her gaze drifted to Saphienne. “Would you believe he had never heard the term, yet he captured its essence perfectly? Your wyrd is that which has come to pass, that which is in the process of happening, and that which is owed.”

  And Saphienne had inherited her wyrd from her ancestor, Kythalaen. “Does everyone have a wyrd?”

  “So I believe. Yours is noteworthy.”

  “Cursed, you mean.” She was too overwhelmed to be bitter. “What can you tell me about curses?”

  “More than I have time to share.” Lenitha shook her head. “I will spare you false hope: not even the greatest High Master can fathom how the curse was woven, and to my knowledge no one but she who laid it upon your line could lift it.”

  “Will you teach–”

  “No. You will learn about curses and prophetic divination during your studies, and your personal interest will surely carry you further.”

  Saphienne stood, her anger shown in the icy ferns tracing the library windows. “You’ve already been heavily involved in my education. Why decline now?”

  Giggling, Lenitha slipped from her chair to balance on the balls of her feet. “Precedent has taught me that giving fourteen-year-old girls an understanding of curses would be unwise; and I won’t interfere any more after today.”

  “I’m to believe that?”

  “You should: it’s true.” She paced toward the front doors. “Four omens have now come to pass, and the last is yours alone to decide. I have done as much as I dare–”

  “No.” The doors ahead of the High Master slammed shut. “No, we’re not done. You’re not leaving until you explain what you’ve been doing to me.”

  Lenitha paused; her smile held an edge as she turned. “…All I need do is relinquish my spell, and our conversation would be concluded. Were that not the case,” she wondered, hand alighting upon the desk near the entrance as she stepped toward Saphienne, “are you foolish enough to think you could hold me?”

  “Foolish enough to try.” Saphienne returned her gaze.

  For a long moment, Lenitha studied her; then the High Master laughed and bowed low. “You are fearless! Kythalaen had courage, but she was scared in ways you are not.” When she straightened, Lenitha levered herself up onto the desk, sitting with her sleeves draped on her lap. “You could have asked me, Saphienne; I only preferred to sit on the steps.”

  Aware that she was letting her emotions rule her, Saphienne relented, crossing her arms defensively. “…Fine. What have you–”

  “When the attempt was made,” Lenitha began, “to prevent the omens from transpiring for Kythalaen, I did not understand how powerful the curse upon her was: I did not understand that it was her wyrd. To deny a wyrd only delays it, and a wyrd delayed comes to pass with greater strength.”

  Saphienne blinked. “…You did the opposite. You hastened the omens for me.”

  “Some of them.” She peered across the low shelves of the children’s section. “Your mother was anticipated as Kythalaen’s descendant — initially, it was thought that Kythalaen’s wyrd had passed to her, for she fulfilled the first omen. Yet for all she is similar to you, careful augury revealed she was more fortunate. From this, I intuited that she would conceive a daughter, and plans were made far in advance of your conception.”

  Unspeakable, unfathomable, undeniable terror made the scene of the library collapse around Saphienne, who beheld–

  “Saphienne.” Lenitha was holding her shoulder. “Calm.”

  She did, steps sliding into place beneath their feet.

  “Among many preparations, a promising apprentice wizard was positioned to become your mentor,” Lenitha confirmed, “working on the assumption that you would pursue wizardry to fulfil the second omen. Then, not long after you were born? Taerelle’s aunt conceived, and she deliberately chose a name for the child that unknowingly imitated your ancestor. That was when I was sure of your wyrd, and of your first omen’s form.”

  Kylantha. “Deliberately, yet unknowingly?”

  “In the time of my youth names had meaning, and it was believed that name could affect wyrd.” She withdrew her touch. “Accordingly, Kythalaen was given a name to counter the curse. ‘Ky’ means ‘to lie down’ or ‘to settle’ in place. ‘Tha’ means ‘belonging to’ in early Elfish…” Lenitha grinned. “…And was commonly used as a suffix.”

  Saphienne swallowed, unsteady. “Phelorna is too young to have known Kythalaen, but she knows the practice, and the ancient meanings.”

  Lenitha’s mirth died. “She does; her chosen art was to be a storyteller and linguist. The middle syllable she gave to her daughter means ‘beloved of,’ for she wished your friend to become so loved by the Eastern Vale that she would be allowed to stay. Sadly, neither name had their intended effect.”

  * * *

  Kylantha had been doomed. Her friendship with Saphienne meant that, even were the ancient ways to have been defied, a more terrible fate than exile would have befallen the mortal elf. Rather than fight prophecy, Wormwood had let Taerelle take a constructive interest in her cousin; the rest happened as long ago decreed.

  Before Taerelle, Almon, too, had been appointed a role in anticipation of Saphienne, selected because his path to wizardry aligned with the omen of choice. He misunderstood: there had been no feats of open prophecy by Lenitha, only the inexorable progress of a curse, sweeping up whatever served its purpose. The rest had been the work of simple augury, constant scrying, and wisdom.

  Then later, shortly after Phelorna fell pregnant, Wormwood had arranged for Hyacinth to arise in a sacred glade of the Eastern Vale, there to be gifted cuttings that would predispose the spirit to serving Saphienne — and serving her wyrd.

  Her apprenticeship, her apostacy, her rapid mastery of the First Degree: three omens had been facilitated, that they might swiftly follow the first. All along the way, without realising what they had been brought together to do, the major influences on Saphienne’s life had been moved likes pieces on a chessboard, arranged around her in the hope of imparting what Lenitha never saw possible for Kythalaen:

  A chance to choose a happy life.

  * * *

  These were the horrors alive in Saphienne as she sat in the garden, wrestling with the guilt and rage that blossomed all around. Never had her eyes been darker, and never had she felt so sickened, and so ashamed, for want of an answer that no High Master could provide.

  Where did the influence of her wyrd end?

  If not for the curse, would her mother have been well? Would Taerelle have been better loved? Would Hyacinth have arisen later in another, kinder age?

  Were it not that Saphienne might witness, would Kylantha have been born to suffer?

  These happenings were not her fault, yet they all proceeded from her being. She was complicit in the lives that spiralled around her, dragging them down beneath the weight of a tragedy that had proven inescapable to her predecessor.

  “Only, you can choose a different fate,” Lenitha had promised.

  That was why the High Master had shared. All that remained now was the choice, to be made whenever her wyrd demanded. Saphienne evidenced what Lenitha had prayed to see: a desire for happiness, a willingness to reject her worst inclinations, a yearning to rise above the suffering revealed too soon and see the good in her life…

  …In the woodlands. She could make a life for herself here, or be destroyed by dragons’ fire.

  Stay or die? Hardly a choice.

  Yet the thought that ate her heart and leeched colour from her eyes and lost the world to grey was larger than self-preservation. In her misery, when she asked herself what Kylantha would want for her, now she felt doubt that couldn’t be soothed:

  Would Kylantha want her to live, if she knew Saphienne caused her woes?

  No wonder Lenitha had warned her to tell no one. They would fear and revile her — as well they should. Anyone close to her risked ruin.

  This was why she was unlovable.

  And that belief was what she must defy, to live.

  But for what? To live, for what?

  Lenitha interrupted Saphienne as she returned, waving the wizards and sorcerers closer as she approached with a mischievous smile. “High Master Elduin has concurred with my assessment.”

  Welcoming the distraction, Saphienne forced herself to stand with Almon and Vestaele either side of her; she waited patiently for the pronouncement.

  When none was forthcoming, Almon coughed. “High Master, if you would not consider it presumptuous, might I inquire–”

  “Yes.”

  He flushed crimson. “…My apologies.”

  “What for? I was answering your question.”

  The master of Hallucination froze.

  Vestaele hid her irritation well, but not well enough. “…Pardon me, High Master, but he didn’t finish asking. For those of us who lack your enviable skill with augury: is Saphienne a wizard, or a sorcerer?”

  Yet Lenitha was grinning. “Must I repeat my answer, young Vestaele?”

  Behind Vestaele, having too long suffered the eccentric humour of Lenitha, Illimun folded his arms. “High Master,” he inquired, “if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition: would you be so kind as to share what you learned about Saphienne from High Master Elduin? What specific conclusion you reached?”

  “Spoilsport.” Lenitha briefly pouted, then sobered. “I described what I discerned, and he agreed: Saphienne has both sorcery and wizardry. She possesses innate magic that she draws upon to cast her spells, and she does so by memorising sigils, using her wizardry to acquire patterns through which to channel her sorcery.”

  In the astounded lull, Saphienne nodded. “That makes sense.”

  Bewildered, the comparatively young wizards and sorcerers around her exchanged equally unnerved glances.

  Lylae gathered up her voluminous robes to wring the fabric. “Apprentice Saphienne… in what way does that make sense?”

  “That’s how I cast?” Saphienne remembered to whom she was speaking. “Please excuse me: that fits with how it feels when I’m manipulating a sigil, Master Lylae.”

  Vestaele smoothed the edges of her short mantle. “High Master, might I query the practical implications of this… novel approach to spellcraft? What can we expect from Apprentice Saphienne?”

  Lenitha shrugged. “Longer term, who can say? But as for her capabilities as a magician,” she went on, “Saphienne possesses the flexibility of a wizard and the endurance of a sorcerer, combining features from both. She is, definitively, both a wizard and a sorcerer. She is also a senior apprentice, having control over her casting, knowledge of the First Degree and the corresponding faculty for its spells, and the ability to memorise sigils. You needn’t chaperone her around the Eastern Vale.”

  Almon was trying very, very hard not to meet Saphienne’s triumphant gaze. “Who,” he managed, “shall be her master? Is she more of a sorcerer, or a wizard?”

  Lenitha was familiar with the contest between master and apprentice, amusement in her voice. “I’m afraid you aren’t getting rid of her, Master Almon; nor are you, Master Vestaele; I expect you to collaborate in support of her independent study.”

  Almon, Vestaele, Lylae, and Illimun all exploded with objections.

  “You can’t be serious about–”

  “Independent study is forbidden–”

  “High Master, wisdom demands–”

  “All education must proceed under–”

  High Master Lenitha crossed her arms. “Enough.”

  Her juniors quietened.

  “I speak now on behalf of the Luminary Vale.” She seemed to grow in stature as she invoked her full authority. “The High Masters speak through me. Hear us: Apprentice Saphienne is to be supervised by Masters Almon and Vestaele, who will guide her pursuit of the Great Art as she prepares herself for examination. Apprentice Saphienne is to be educated to the highest standard, furnished with whatever knowledge may be made available to an apprentice wizard or sorcerer, and trusted to seek the wise counsel of her masters, whom she will keep apprised of her progress.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “No spell that is harmless is to be withheld, and any sigil that could result in harm shall be given to her when she is judged ready by both of her Masters.” She inclined her head. “However, the conventional timetables for education shall be dispensed with, and judgements as to her readiness shall not be made with regard for her age, only her sagacity. Masters Illimun and Lylae will adjudicate disputes. Should consensus still not be reached,” she sweetly smiled, dropping her formality as she unfolded her arms, “I will be disappointed.”

  Illimun bowed. “As we are commanded, High Master. May I ask a question?”

  “Please do.”

  “You implied that this is precedented.” Saphienne watched him clasp his hands behind his back. “Might we know more? How many others are there, like Apprentice Saphienne?”

  Lightly, the High Master brushed her hair past her ears. “To our knowledge, there have been two who presented the same way, each under irreplicable situations of profound duress. One became a High Master.”

  Saphienne had been cradling a dreadful premonition. “And the other?”

  Lenitha remained smiling, but there was a caution in the stare she gave Saphienne. “Her, we do not talk about.”

  All the woodlands were silent.

  “But,” Lenitha brightened, “heed one who has lived it: history never repeats in the same way. We are unconcerned.”

  Not so Saphienne.

  “Vestaele and Almon, divide her education between you both as you see fit. Saphienne, tell Taerelle to show your masters the letter. Illimun and Lylae, I’ll open a portal back to the vale, here, two hours after sunset.” Lenitha lifted her hood and set off into the forest. “Our meeting is concluded.”

  * * *

  Although the High Master was finished with her subordinates, Almon was not through with Saphienne. “…What letter?”

  She winced. “Taerelle received–”

  “Your senior apprentice,” Illimun interjected, “was appointed to tutor Saphienne. Apprentice Taerelle caught Apprentice Saphienne covering up her involvement in the spiritual affair, and had the discernment to write for further instructions, reasoning that she had best report the incident than risk a misstep.”

  While his reply was subdued, Saphienne read conflicting feelings in her master’s narrowing eyes. “…I see.”

  “It was reasoned that Apprentice Saphienne would benefit from the example of a girl closer to her age.”

  She saw Almon take into account what he knew about Wormwood’s influence over Taerelle, and beheld the moment he decided: this did not reflect on his abilities as a teacher. “Understandable.”

  Taking a chance, Saphienne bowed. “Master, she was later appointed to take a similar interest in Ce– in Apprentice Celaena.”

  Now his intellect was fully engaged. “Presumably,” he inferred, “because she had additional context with which to recognise…” Aware that others were listening, he amended what he said. “…That Celaena would benefit from the same mentorship.”

  Illimun smiled tightly. “Exactly so.”

  Lylae was conciliatory. “While there is precedent for Apprentice Saphienne’s unorthodox education, I think we should note this is uncharted territory for ourselves, Master Almon; the appointment reflects well on your education of Apprentice Taerelle.”

  Her master in wizardry brushed the matter aside. “Of course: I have every confidence Apprentice Taerelle knew what she was doing.”

  Having held back, Vestaele cracked her knuckles. “I have no qualms about Apprentice Saphienne being tutored in wizarding. Regarding the division of labour between us, Master Almon, I propose that her theoretical studies are best handled by yourself, and that the development of her spellcraft would benefit from my instruction.”

  Almon found this equitable. “With the caveat,” he offered, “that she will need to be trained in techniques of memorisation befitting a wizard.”

  “Which leaves,” Illimun murmured, “the question of her living arrangements.”

  Saphienne blinked. “I’m living with Apprentice Celaena–”

  “No longer,” Almon informed her. “Junior and senior apprentices cannot live under the same roof; there is too great a temptation for the senior to inappropriately assist the junior, or for the junior to read beyond his studies. A wizard or sorcerer could be trusted, but Apprentice Celaena is older than you, and your close friend.”

  Layers of irony accumulated on her shoulders, and she bowed under their weight. “…I understand. I should be the one to tell her.”

  “Where, then,” pondered Lylae, “would be suitable? I presume there is a reason you live apart from family.”

  There, Almon raised a finger, pausing Saphienne as he contemplated. The smile on his lips portended petty revenge. “…There is, and we need discuss the matter no further, for I can think of an excellent candidate for Saphienne’s new domicile.”

  “Alone?” asked Illimun. “Or under adult supervision?”

  “Neither.”

  Saphienne’s suspicion petrified, then crumbled into panic. “No– you can’t– she’ll murder me!”

  “Doubtful.” The master of Hallucination beckoned to the upper floor of his home, from which Peacock descended, the familiar having surreptitiously surveilled from above. “The pair of you are closer than I imagined… and having made her bed,” he joked, “the least she can do is let you lie in it.”

  * * *

  “No.”

  “Now, don’t be hasty, apprentice. Let us consider the circumstances–”

  “I am not sharing my house with anyone else — least of all a teenager!”

  “According to my newfound understanding, she is already a frequent guest–”

  “No. Saph– Apprentice Saphienne has never stayed the night.”

  “Yet you have a room to spare.”

  “Master, under no circumstances can a junior apprentice–”

  “Senior: Apprentice Saphienne is to don the black.”

  “…Prodigy?”

  “Ignore her, Apprentice Taerelle. Look here: what seal is upon this letter?”

  “…The seal of the Luminary Vale, Master.”

  “And when you accepted the appointment in this letter, were you not affirming to the Luminary Vale – represented by Masters Lylae and Illimun here – that you accepted responsibility for the future of Apprentice Saphienne?”

  “For her education! Respectfully, Masters, I refuse.”

  “…Masters, I apologise. It seems Apprentice Taerelle is less adult than we realised; she still has much to learn. Very well, apprentice.”

  “Thank you–”

  “Unfortunately, I’m obliged to reconsider my undertakings in light of this new information: I simply must withdraw my prior endorsement of your independent living arrangements. You clearly lack the maturity to keep a home.”

  …

  “Perhaps your family would be willing to take you back in? I understand they were sorry to see you leave–”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what, Apprentice Taerelle?”

  “Yes, Master. Thank you for reminding me of what matters. Masters Illimun, Lylae, and Vestaele, I apologise for my emotional outburst. Apprentice Saphienne, I would be… so very glad… to have you come live with me.”

  “Are you sure, apprentice?”

  “Quite sure, Master.”

  “Excellent! You had best go prepare for her arrival.”

  “As you wisely suggest, Master.”

  “Amazing how quickly children grow up! Wouldn’t you all agree?”

  * * *

  Pressing matters resolved, Vestaele announced she was adjourning to pursue her own living arrangements, now that was clear she would be spending significant time in the Eastern Vale — resigned to have to wait for a house to be grown, since there would be no tempting Saphienne to move with her to the Thorny Vale. Lylae pivoted from sympathy to asking Almon if anyone in the village could provision a good lunch at short notice, to which he recommended a location Saphienne had never visited, having not been aware that meals were available for request outside the teahouse.

  “If you would care to go on ahead, Master Lylae,” Master Almon proposed, “I will meet you there before long. Two of my junior apprentices are waiting to be dismissed–”

  Illimun’s eyebrows raised. “Indeed?”

  “Yes, Master Illimun.” His smile told Saphienne he was being clever. “Today just so happens to be the day that I instruct my most junior cohort, and I had them wait behind after the morning’s lessons were done — in case they were needed to run errands.”

  Lylae laughed gently. “I see where this leads; well played, Master Almon, and I will await you at lunch.” Her acknowledgement of Saphienne was reserved, yet equally friendly as she went off in the same direction as had Vestaele and the High Master.

  Confused, yet with an inkling of what was going on, Saphienne reappraised Illimun as he clasped his hands behind his back for a second time, noticing another detail…

  “Seems a shame,” the senior wizard offered, “to have them wait for nothing. Perhaps I might join you, Master Almon? I am forever keen to be forewarned of future applicants.”

  “But of course, Master Illimun! Apprentice Saphienne, attend.”

  Rather than enter through the kitchen only to go up and down the stairs, Almon led them around to the front entrance, cruelly declining to warn Iolas and Celaena before he strode inside. “Apprentices! I trust you have been making good use of your time?”

  Caught off-guard, Celaena and Iolas were sat with stacked notes in front of them, Celaena reading from the text they had been set by their master. Both were startled, and then both surged to their feet as they saw the striking robes of violet that trailed behind their master’s cerulean.

  “Y-yes, Master,” Iolas blurted, bowing.

  Saphienne clicked the door shut behind her, smiling as she finally figured out what had eluded her all afternoon.

  “Splendid.” Almon gestured to the senior wizard beside him. “We are blessed today by the presence of a senior member of the Luminary Vale. Master Illimun, allow me to present to you Apprentices Iolas and Celaena — both of whom have distinguished themselves by completing their proving ahead of schedule.”

  Iolas and Celaena were bowing again, though Celaena less deeply.

  Illimun strolled toward them, at ease as he stopped before Iolas. “Apprentice Iolas; I recall your name. You succeeded against the tutelary spirit in your introduction to Invocation, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Master Illimun, but only with the help of Apprentice Saphienne.”

  “And what is your ambition for magic? Do you hope to tread your master’s path?”

  “Perhaps, Master Illimun.” He was being diplomatic. “I’m also considering a future as a healer, should I be suited to the work.”

  “Admirable.” The master of Fascination’s smile was small but bright. “You may think this odd, but I disagree with many colleagues: I don’t believe every wizard who can apply to the Luminary Vale and is likely to be welcomed ought to do so. There are many ways to serve the woodlands, and the wizards whom I hold in greatest esteem are those who devote themselves to public service. If you are of the temperament to make healing your art, do not be dissuaded, Apprentice Iolas, for such work is never a waste of talent.”

  Iolas stood taller. “Thank you, Master Illimun.”

  The wizard moved on, stopping before Celaena. “…And Apprentice Celaena. How proceed your studies?”

  She was nervous, but her smile was hopeful. “Very well, Master Illimun.”

  “I understand,” he said, a trace of seriousness in his tone, “that last year you were engaged in extra-curricular research into practical ethics.”

  Iolas flinched, his eyes widening as they shot to Celaena.

  She had withered, and began to tremble. “…Yes, Master Illimun.”

  “I trust your experimentation was fruitful?”

  “…Regrettably so, Master Illimun.”

  “Do you intend to conduct similar research in future?”

  “No, Master Illimun.”

  “Good, good.” He stared up at the ceiling. “A talented apprentice wizard would be better spending her time on other pursuits. Should you ever return to the subject, perhaps you have family who can advise you on a sounder methodology. I expect they take great pride in your accomplishments, and are well placed to recognise your noble intentions.”

  Now her eyes glimmered, and she could only nod.

  “Master Almon,” Illimun said as he moved back to the door, “you continue to produce promising apprentices…” He laughed, dryly, as his blue-grey gaze flicked to Saphienne. “…Extraordinarily promising. I will leave you to your instruction of them.”

  “You are too kind, Master Illimun. You have plans for the afternoon?”

  “Visiting someone dear to me.”

  Formal farewells followed, and then Illimun departed.

  …Permitting Iolas to exhale. “He’s your–”

  “Father.” Celaena was blinking back tears. “Yes, that was father.”

  * * *

  On a less momentous day, Saphienne assured herself, she would have caught the similarities sooner. That so many of Celaena’s habits – even her diction – were patterned after her father was obvious in retrospect. Her father, Illimun, Master of Fascination, Wizard of the Fourth Degree, who oversaw admissions to the Luminary Vale for wizards.

  Taerelle’s heart must have skipped a beat when she realised what Illimun’s daughter had done for Saphienne.

  Celaena was brimming with excitement, and Almon was quick to dismiss her and Iolas so that she could spend rare time with her father — who waited for her at home. She was so enthusiastic to hurry off that she didn’t stop to ask after the verdict on Saphienne’s future, but she did pause in the doorway to grin at her friend.

  “Saphienne — give us a couple of hours before you come home? He’ll want to talk to you less formally, too, since we’re living together.”

  Saphienne wasn’t heartless enough to break the news then.

  Iolas had the presence of mind to ask whether she was a wizard, but Almon demurred, telling him Saphienne would explain another day and ushering him out the classroom.

  Then the wizard sank onto his chair. “…Conceded, you wretched child.”

  She brightened, seizing on that mote of brightness. “I refuse your concession. I might yet prove unworthy of wizardry.”

  His glare was balanced by a twitch of his lips. “Unlikely. But, assuming you’re still the same obnoxious girl as you were before your foolhardy communion: what did you discuss with the High Master?”

  Inhaling, Saphienne steeled herself. “…I mustn’t tell you.”

  He slumped back, drumming his fingers on his armrest. “Nothing at all?”

  “I can say that no open prophecy was involved,” she hedged, “and that the intentions of High Master Lenitha appear to be helpful. My conjecture is that my spellcasting is an accidental byproduct of what she attempted… which did involve manipulating you, and others, but despite how it might appear, she wasn’t behind our suffering.”

  His rhythm halted. “…That implies, I think, she was acting to counter… something, or perhaps someone. A malign influence? Another player?”

  Saphienne let him infer what he would.

  “Your speaking in the past tense–”

  “Means no more interference.” So the High Master claimed. “She’s done all she can.”

  He sat up, steepling his fingers. “I have concerns, and reason to be sceptical.”

  “So do I — she might have lied…” A vain hope. “…But I don’t think so.”

  “Saphienne… why me?”

  She inferred the full, weighty question, and sighed. “…Your relationship with your master was intended to prefigure our own. I can guess at several reasons, but most of all? You would force me to fight you to choose for myself, and still be willing to educate me, and do it well.”

  He looked to the window, bright in the cold light of day. “…How appropriate, and yet how anticlimactic. I am dissatisfied by this ending.”

  So was she — and not wholly for her own woes. That there was one more person still to be hurt by what her wyrd contrived was intolerable to her, an insult to the grievous injuries already inflicted. Celaena would not escape her loneliness as she was left in Saphienne’s wake.

  Not unless…

  “…I am what I make of the world…”

  “Pardon?”

  “…Master,” she bowed, “if you’re somewhat sceptical and dissatisfied now, you’re about to be extremely so…”

  * * *

  They argued for half an hour, until Saphienne finally begged — which infuriated Almon, who severely reprimanded her for debasing herself, no matter the cause, for no wizard should ever voluntarily relinquish her dignity. He was still fuming when he surrendered the letter detailing their suspicions of the High Master’s manipulations, and then he delayed her by insisting she change out of her robes, for she should not be seen in the village dressed in robes other than black.

  Clothed in the warm furs she’d worn to the winter solstice, she next visited a woodland shrine. Fortunately, her reception there was far more compassionate, and the subsequent stop she made found both of the people she sought present, and willing to hear the priest.

  The last challenge, she faced by herself, knocking on the doors to the grand foyer.

  * * *

  Illimun was unmoving as he finished the letter.

  “…High Master Lenitha warned me.” Awe cracked his reservation. “She told me that by the end of this day, I would no longer owe her a debt.”

  “She’s extremely wise,” Saphienne allowed. “I should clarify that Master Almon and I were wrong about what has been going on, but I can’t tell you–”

  “Forget that.” He tossed the letter onto the dining room table. “None of it matters. You think showing me this letter means I owe you a favour? You think my owing you would make me consider–”

  “No.” She leant forward, grabbing his hand as she once had his daughter’s. “No. That’s not it at all.”

  Uncomfortable, he tried to pull free. “Explain yourself.”

  She held on. “You thought you were doing the right thing for your daughter when you sent her here — but you weren’t. You weren’t doing what was best for her, but what the High Master wanted, because it served her purposes. You’ve been swept up in something beyond you, used by agendas contrary to what is best… and so has Celaena.”

  “What you’re asking–”

  “You love her.” Saphienne gripped tighter. “But you don’t know how to love her. You’ve given her everything you know to give, but you don’t know how to provide that other thing, Illimun, that thing you never had yourself: a happy home.”

  Mesmerised, he ceased pulling away. “…And you do?”

  “No. No, I don’t.” She let go of him. “But they do. Athidyn and Mathileyn do. And even if Iolas’ parents raise her, she’ll still be your daughter, and she’ll never stop loving you.”

  So much like his only child, Illimun had to look away as his eyes watered.

  “Please. If you love her, don’t make her like you. Don’t let Celaena be alone.”

  * * *

  Three days later, after much adjustment and bickering, Taerelle accompanied Saphienne to the garden beside the teahouse, stopping a little way from the entrance to deposit the heavy load she had been levitating behind them with Far Hand.

  Saphienne lingered. “Are you sure about this?”

  “First impressions matter.” She adjusted the backpack slung over her shoulder. “No cowardice: convincing them to approve loaning you the sigil was supremely difficult, and I won’t have you waste all my effort.”

  “But Jorildyn–”

  “Our master says his brother will approve.” Her cool stare was unyielding. “Is this stage fright to be a recurring problem, prodigy, or will you grow out of it? Stop your whining. Think about your detractors, and go announce yourself.”

  Muttering an obscenity, Saphienne grabbed the rim of the blackened metal.

  * * *

  Permit me this pageantry in my telling.

  Filaurel was setting down the drinks she had requested for the group – Celaena sat between Iolas and Thessa by the window of the loudly crowded teahouse, Laewyn and Faylar on the couch across from them – when Saphienne came into view. The librarian, like the youngsters, was present by Saphienne’s invitation, and so was confused to see the girl outside, dressed in pale winter furs, white hair braided in a long ponytail where she dragged a tall, iron brazier into place on the snow; everyone else was even more so, when Saphienne ignored their waves to walk back out of frame.

  Their bemusement attracted attention, including that of a frowning Alinar, who came from behind the counter to join the growing crowd of onlookers peering through the faintly fogged glass.

  Soon, Saphienne returned, carrying in her arms a bundle of light grey cloth, recognisable as the robes she had worn for most of the preceding year. Filaurel heard sneers behind her as they were dropped into the waiting receptacle, but paid no heed, a grin rising through a hundred and sixty years to crease her cheeks as she watched the girl she mentored, and adored, placing herself opposite the brazier, hand raised…

  Red flashed like lightning, a torrent of flames descending into the brazier — persisting, intensifying, growing to a roar audible through the glass, what was blackened made cherry and then golden and finally white hot as the robes of an unproven apprentice were reduced to irrecoverable ash.

  What looked like amazement, uncertainty, and fear silenced Saphienne’s audience.

  Then the spell was spent, and as Taerelle swooped in Saphienne shrugged off her furs, revealing inner robes of midnight hue around which was draped a mantle of utter darkness by her peer.

  Having announced her attainment of the First Degree to her village, Saphienne swayed around the wilting metal, and folded her arms.

  The applause that followed in the teahouse was mostly insincere, buoyed by the whoops and raucous cries that erupted from Saphienne’s friends…

  But Filaurel knew Saphienne cared only for the loving approval she wordlessly gave.

  End of Chapter 104

  Although I don't always reply to the comments I receive on these chapters, I do always read them, and I take note of the discussions that unfold around the story.

  For me, part of the fun of a well told story is figuring things out in advance. A good story doesn't depend on surprise, but on delivering the satisfaction it promises. I don't change course just because someone's correctly guessed what's to come — in fact, I intentionally weave in clues for readers who want to try auguring the future...

  My congratulations to two readers for being the first to successfully infer parts of the story in advance:

  Yesterday, .

  And four months ago, .

  Well done to both for paying close attention and engaging with their observations — each have been gifted a free month of membership on the Patreon.

  Want to find out what's in store for Saphienne? rising to sixteen chapters ahead before the end of the month.

  Chapter 105 releases Tuesday the 13th of January.

  Thanks for reading!