Upon a midnight shore she dozed beneath the weeping willow, listening to the gentle roar of the blackness rising ever-higher up the pebbled beach.

  Although the sky was sunless, a shadow fell where she lay; she stirred, but had no strength to rise.

  “You may sleep, Saphienne.”

  Her eyes were too heavy. “…The hunt…”

  “You felled your mark: that is enough. What hunter does not camp? How will you stalk your quarry, if not fed and rested?”

  “…More to do…”

  “And you shall do it — for this was well accomplished.” He laughed as he waded into the waves. “I am very satisfied. Chase on.”

  Beside her, she heard another, more feminine voice. “But I am not, not yet.”

  “…I gave–”

  “You have withheld nothing that you promised. I do not fault your actions, but I ask you: are they balanced?”

  “…No…”

  “Then recover yourself, and do what you demand.”

  “…Now?”

  And a third speaker — unfamiliar, but recognisable. “When the time is right. Do not let her rush you to ruin: choose your moment. So long as you act as soon as you must, she and I will be pleased.”

  “…Made no covenant with you…”

  A smile upon the sea. “But you have kept it.”

  “…Aren’t even real…”

  The second of the three laughed in her retreat. “That hardly matters to us. Love for the icon is as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal, beside the sacrality on which your heart is weighed.”

  Then there were red flowers sprouting all around her, and the sun hung above silvering waters.

  “…Hyacinth…”

  “Rest,” urged the bloomkith. “You must rest, beloved of the bees.”

  She let her brow be stroked, and dreamt of happier days, when she raced after Kylantha with the wind at her back.

  * * *

  Daylight; birdsong; repose.

  Saphienne awoke without remembering anything at all, blissful where she reclined in soft cotton sheets. A friend was cradling her as she gazed out over a field of hyacinths, and being held so warmly was all she needed.

  Then she felt the change in herself–

  “Spire? Saphienne’s awake!”

  Hurried footsteps through a doorway she didn’t recognise, two silhouettes blurring together as she blinked sleep away–

  “Apprentice!” Almon set his weight on the bed and placed his hand upon her head, forcing her to look up into his glare. “Heed me: do not touch the magic within yourself, or I will render you unconscious again. Am I understood?”

  Saphienne stared. “…What?”

  “Almon, give her a moment — she’s disorientated.” Gaelyn was leaning over her master in moderate worry, eyes yellow from spiritual possession.

  Then the disjointed memories flooded through Saphienne, and she drew a wondering breath. “…I did it? I cast the spell?”

  “You cast a spell,” Almon corrected her, wrongly. “Not the one you were trying to cast — and you are not, under any circumstances, to attempt any further feats of magic without my explicit say-so. Do you understand, and will you comply?”

  “Yes.” She felt a smile blossom. “I’m still your apprentice?”

  “For the present.” The wizard released her and moved aside. “Let Gaelyn examine you.”

  Yet she struggled upright before the healer could object. “I’m fine. I feel weak, but… good?” Her frown didn’t diminish her smile. “Different?”

  Gaelyn perched on the foot of the bed. “That’s normal. How much do you remember before you collapsed?”

  Inside her mind she shifted around to study Hyacinth, who was grinning from ear to ear while enjoying the exchange; the bloomkith nudged her attention outward. “…I was sick when I arrived for the lesson. I went into the garden to prove myself,” she carefully answered, “and then something happened…”

  “And before?”

  She nodded. “I studied through my sickness. Celaena and Iolas left me alone. I memorised the sigil…”

  “You were confused.” Gaelyn spoke softly. “Hyacinth was able to heal you, but you were running a high fever without any sleep or nourishment. What you did was foolish–”

  “But it worked,” she objected. “I’m proven.”

  Gaelyn opened his mouth, then reconsidered, his gaze flicking to her master. “…Are you telling her?”

  Saphienne watched the wizard sigh and settle into an upholstered chair arranged in vigil beside her bed, tension running out of him as he sagged backward and wiped his hands down his rounded face. He looked rough — as though he hadn’t slept well.

  “Tell me what?” She took in the rest of the gently curving, finely appointed bedroom. “And where am I? This isn’t the infirmary.”

  Dry laughter drew her back to Almon.

  “Saphienne,” he conceded as he folded his arms, “you continue to defy my expectations in ways that make neither of us happy. I must commend you on consistency in one regard: no pair of your vexations are ever the same.” He leant forward. “You presently occupy my spare bedroom, where you have lain for the preceding three days. We have been waiting for you to rouse; Hyacinth conveyed that you were utterly spent, and needed sleep.”

  Her stomach confirmed that she hadn’t eaten. “She sustained me?”

  “Tended you throughout…” He flicked his fingers dismissively. “…But that is unimportant.”

  Noting that she was dressed in her nightwear, Saphienne pulled the sheet up as she properly – and expectantly – faced her master. She crossed her arms.

  Almon’s lips made a thin, wry line. “May it console you to know that we were both right — and quite wrong. I was correct that you are unsuited to wizardry, and you were correct that you must learn magic. Happenstance has decreed you intrinsically worthy of instruction in the Great Art, for you–”

  “You think I’m a sorcerer?”

  His scowl collapsed into a weary smile. “I ought to have recognised your brash impatience as an indicator. Yes, Saphienne: you are undoubtedly a sorcerer.”

  * * *

  Rather than argue, Saphienne let Almon and Gaelyn talk.

  Sorcerers could not learn magic in the same way as wizards, for sorcerers and wizards were fundamentally different. To the wizard, magic was external, like a wind blowing around him, and the method to spellcasting below the First Degree was to memorise a sigil and then fly it like a kite upon the breeze. For the sorcerer, however, magic was internal, an ocean ready to rush out through whatever symbol he used to open the way.

  Like Saphienne, Gaelyn hadn’t been aware that his magic was there before it erupted; until it first stirred, how could anyone recognise what had always dwelled inside?

  Crucially, sorcerers could not memorise sigils, for the moment they were copied into mind they were dissolved by the magic within. This was what Saphienne had experienced — what Almon, who was unacquainted with the experiences of sorcerers, had misdiagnosed as inability.

  Naturally, her master was unapologetic.

  Other differences followed from this distinction. While wizards exhausted their sigils to cast them, the sigils of sorcerers were parts of their very being, thereby difficult to inscribe or expel, yet constant while internalised. The sole limit to the spellcasting of a sorcerer was his endurance — how long he could hold open the symbol through which the Great Art flowed.

  More subtly, wizards had an intellectual relationship with magic. But sorcerers? Magic was intuitive to the sorcerer. This was how Saphienne had been able to cast a spell that belonged to the First Degree: she had unconsciously grasped the secret without putting it into words.

  Throughout, both magicians promised her that all was well, and that she had a bright future ahead.

  * * *

  “What about Iolas and Celaena? I remember–”

  “They’re fine,” Gaelyn assured her. “Celaena was unharmed. Your spell convinced Iolas that his ears had burst, and they spasmed so hard that their vessels ruptured, but Spire healed him.”

  “This,” Almon reiterated, “is why you must not trifle with the magic now revealed within, for until you are properly trained you risk worse. We were fortunate that you have a natural aptitude for Hallucination, rather than a more dangerous discipline.”

  Saphienne paused to take stock of herself, aware that the steps of the library on which she was mentally sitting were a superficial arrangement masking a truer tableau. Hyacinth gasped as the scene fell apart into the kaleidoscope of elements that had originally confounded the spirit, but the maelstrom was not unordered as it spun, rather turned by the magician as she peered from the green beneath to the night above, both empty.

  “…That won’t be a problem.” She massaged her numb hand as she restored the steps for Hyacinth. “You’re wrong about me. I’m definitely a wizard: I’ve lost the sigil I cast.”

  Wizard and sorcerer both chuckled.

  “No,” replied her master. “You simply do not recognise whatever symbol you were using, but it remains alive within you.”

  “You’re mistaken–”

  Gaelyn cut in. “Saphienne: look at your left palm.”

  Perplexed, she turned it over — then blinked at the newly present, circular scar.

  “Almon? Please show her what she did.”

  With exaggerated irreverence, the wizard reached into his pocket and withdrew a distinctively dull grey disc, tossing it onto the bed where Saphienne could see the crude human face that had been – quite impossibly – struck upon it.

  She blinked.

  “This was not an act of wizardry,” Almon declared as she scrutinised the coin. “You are a tremendously potent sorcerer in the making, Saphienne, for the magic you channelled through base metal was sufficient to transmute it into a magical material that is completely beyond most magicians.”

  Her fingertips traced its rounded edge, then the mark left from where she had clutched it during her casting. “…Adamantine…”

  “The rarest magical metal. Unbreakable.”

  “Some sorcerers,” Gaelyn shared, “use tools to cast spells — reifications of the symbols within themselves. Wands and staves are most common, but in human lands there are sorcerers who use cups, blades, and even coins.”

  Almon raised his eyebrows. “I never knew that. We were always encouraged to go behind the symbolic.”

  “My master learned it at the Luminary Vale…” Gaelyn yawned. “…He taught me the problem with magical implements is that they can be damaged in use, but I don’t foresee it being an issue for Saphienne.”

  She reclaimed her beloved coin, which was cool, and which remained so as she placed it upon her scar — where her hand reflexively closed around it.

  “Interesting.” Gaelyn shuffled closer, gently probing her fingers. “I’d assumed you’d grabbed it when your hand spasmed… you must have muscle memory.”

  Almon offered context. “Saphienne often held that specie while writing during lessons. I presume it is of some significance to you, apprentice?”

  She found forming words difficult. “…A friend… she gave it to me…”

  The wizard sought guidance from Gaelyn. “Is there a danger in letting her–”

  “No. So long as Saphienne stays calm and doesn’t pry into herself, then there’s absolutely no danger. Magical implements aren’t necessary for sorcery, and just having them won’t elicit a spell. Most are quite ordinary objects.” The healer patted her shoulder. “This is an encouraging sign for your recovery. Can you let it go?”

  She couldn’t, but nor was she making a fist, and so was able to pull the talisman loose, at which point her hand went limp again. “I’m not doing this intentionally.”

  “The mind is a mystery. Incorporate it into your exercises, and see if it helps.”

  She nodded. Her hand gripped the coin again, and continued to hold fast as she lifted her head to Almon. “What happens now?”

  “I have contacted the Luminary Vale.” He spoke with greater formality. “You will be assigned a sorcerer who is qualified to teach you, and he or she will travel here forthwith. Once you have demonstrated your potential to your new master – under controlled circumstances – I will formally pass your apprenticeship over.”

  “You won’t have a choice at first,” Gaelyn warned her. “Every sorcerer has to be taught how to control their magic, if only to prevent its accidental use. Once you demonstrate you have it in hand, you’ll be free to decide whether to continue with your studies, or whether to pursue another art… but I’m sure we can guess which you’ll choose. Until then,” he yawned again, “you have to be chaperoned by a qualified wizard or sorcerer — and your master is the only such person in the Eastern Vale.”

  This disturbed Saphienne, who had been thinking carefully as she listened. “I’m going to be escorted everywhere?”

  Almon disabused her of the notion as he stood. “Absolutely not. You’re going to stay put, here with me, and not do anything that might overexcite you. Gaelyn informs me that your passions are the key to unlocking your sorcery — the last thing I want is to have to fascinate you again.”

  A fragment of the past resurfaced from the void: Almon telling her to sleep. “You prepare a Fascination spell every day?”

  “With no desire to use it.” He gave her unease an approving nod. “Fascination is one of the disciplines most appropriate to self-defence, for it avoids bloodshed; safe as the Eastern Vale generally is, I always have it ready, precisely in case of something like you happening.”

  Despite herself, Saphienne managed a smirk. “…I remember thinking I could resist, but deciding that I was tired…”

  “Let us not test your hypothesis.”

  Gaelyn stretched as he joined Almon in standing. “Don’t fret about the future. The first casting is the worst: you won’t ever feel the same way again. For now, eat and drink as much as you can, and sleep whenever you’re tired. I recommend reading to busy yourself–”

  “I have something else in mind to keep her occupied,” the wizard interrupted, gesturing to the door. “You may as well go home and rest, Gaelyn. Pass the good news to Tolduin when you see him — I’ll send Peacock to inform my apprentices.”

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

  Saphienne bit her lip as her teacher showed the healer out. “Master… would you be willing to do me a small favour?”

  Irritable from lack of sleep, Almon nearly denied her unheard request, but Saphienne saw him exhale his stress and beckon for her to continue.

  “I’d like to see Filaurel.”

  He pondered his apprentice from the doorway. “According to the procedure for handling newly emergent sorcerers, no one other than your family and priest should be told until your new master has arrived…” His tone was not refusing. “…But, I have some discretion. Celaena and Iolas know, obviously, along with Gaelyn here; I informed Arelyn in case I needed his aid, and he insisted that I tell Taerelle as well…”

  Recognising that he was talking himself into doing what she wanted, Saphienne remained quiet.

  “…In recognition of her role as trusted secretary to our consensus,” he satisfied himself, “and owing to her limited familiarity with magical affairs, I think we can permit a short visit, once your strength is restored.”

  Grateful that he hadn’t made her fight for once, Saphienne bowed. “Thank you.”

  He ushered Gaelyn out, not bothering to close the door as he left.

  * * *

  “…Well.” Saphienne leaned back against Hyacinth, inhaling the scent of her petals. “What do you make of it all?”

  Having held her tongue as she was holding the girl, the bloomkith squeezed Saphienne in affection before disengaging, rising to dance along the steps.

  “Hyacinth?”

  The spirit paused her jubilation. “They have misjudged. Beheld I have the sigil shining true, for you did make a bridge between yourself and what you could not hold.”

  That was what Saphienne had believed, before the coin had been presented to her. “Could you be mistaken?”

  Hyacinth shook her head as she swayed. “The like have I surveyed before. All told, not all they spoke rang with untruth, but you are not what they believe…”

  “If not a sorcerer,” Saphienne challenged her, “what am I?”

  Shrugging, the bloomkith abandoned her rhyming as she came to sit beside the girl. “…I do not know. I cannot tell how you have changed yourself, nor what this…” Usually so eloquent in her verse, she groped for a way to describe the fertile, verdant endlessness that was concealed by the steps. “…What this latest expansion may portend.”

  “So you’ve never perceived my magic before?”

  “There were no signs.” Hyacinth mulled the question over. “I had an intuition, which I expressed to you, but I never imagined that you might a sorcerer be. When they told me that was the case, I was excited for you… but having now listened to their reasoning, and having witnessed here what you can do…”

  Saphienne once more let the steps fall apart, steadying Hyacinth as they were surrounded by the patterns whose repeating was no longer dizzying. “This isn’t confusing anymore. The flowers in the distance are you, but the library is my thoughts and feelings within my mind, while the night sky is where my memorised sigils should sit, and my magic lies below us.”

  “…I cannot impose any order upon this…”

  “No, because this is my order.” At her will, the shapes slid seamlessly into place, and they were seated before the fireplace inside. “This is my domain. During whatever happened when I cast my spell, I took possession of myself.”

  Amazement, uncertainty, and fear were in the bloomkith. “…I know of no elf who can do this; whereas once I was intimidated by what you had accomplished, now you awe me, Saphienne.”

  She clasped the spirit with both hands. “Please, don’t be afraid.”

  “Never.” Hyacinth giggled. “How will your master respond, when he learns that you are more than he believes?”

  Saphienne repressed the memory of her illegal acts, putting on a smile; she didn’t want what time she had before her confession to be anxious. “We’ll find out, later. I want to share my accomplishment with Filaurel first.”

  “She will be conflicted by your success.”

  That pained Saphienne, who withdrew as she rose. “…I think she’ll be proud of me.”

  “That she will,” the bloomkith hurried to affirm, sensing the hurt she had caused, “but you have achieved what she once dearly wished for herself, and the old wound will make your triumph bittersweet. Maple-blooded, do not mistake the consequence of her past for how she feels for you, nor my words for other than caring.”

  Mollified, Saphienne nevertheless brooded as she stared into the safely contained flames flickering beside them. “Thank you for warning me… and for supporting me, while I was recovering.”

  “You are forever welcome, most beloved of the bees.”

  Her warmth rekindled. “I love you too, Hyacinth.”

  * * *

  A golden tray laden with filling breakfast foods and tea floated after Almon when he returned, and he politely but firmly requested that Hyacinth depart as he brought it over to where Saphienne propped herself up against her pillows. The spirit obliged, though petulantly ruffled his robes as he opened the window.

  Once the pane was closed, he intended to be brief with Saphienne. “I trust you are well enough to walk across the hall and bathe yourself?”

  She nodded, her mouth full of egg-battered, pan-fried toast.

  “Call for me when you are nearly finished, and I will run you a bath.”

  He cast a spell – Far Hand – with a brief indigo incantation, then levitated the chair from beside the bed–

  Stopping as he saw Saphienne’s expression. “…You felt that, didn’t you?”

  She swallowed. “…Like a vibration inside me…”

  “I’ll indulge you just this once.” He pointed to the tray. “Without engaging in anything other than observation, tell me: can you feel the enchantment?”

  She closed her eyes. There was trembling, high and delicate… “Barely.”

  “Remarkable.” His smile for her was entirely pleased. “I had read that sorcerers are more sensitive to magic that wizards, but for you to do that without training? A younger version of myself would be quite jealous.”

  She found herself returning his smile. “How long did you–”

  “Years.” He marvelled at her. “Years of meditation, before I could sense anything other than spells in progress. I felt your magic gathering in the garden, you know; its magnitude was appalling.”

  Her recollection of the wizard disbelieving her spell was hazy. “…Did something happen to Peacock?”

  Almon laughed, scornful. “Ah, so your wanton vandalism has not been forgotten! I will confess that I first mistook your casting as a conjuration, for there was a flash of red at its outset. I suppose I’m to blame for that: I did warn you that a wizard capable in Hallucination spells can change their gross manifestation.” He moved aside as the chair floated into the hallway. “My response was to try to use Peacock to distract you, in the hope that you would falter long enough for me to approach.”

  Saphienne was cringing as the past became clearer. “What happened to him?”

  “Ill-formed, unstable spells have a pronounced resonance. As soon as he touched your spell, its resonance leaked into him, and the more potent hallucination contaminated the lesser to such an extent that his figment collapsed.” He waved the complexities aside. “You inadvertently counterspelled him. I’ve recast him, and begun the process of bonding with him as my familiar, but he’s not quite back to his usual self. He will be fully recovered by the week’s end.”

  More for inconveniencing Peacock, Saphienne was blushing. “I’m sorry.”

  “Let it console you to know that’s what gave you away: when I realised what had happened to him, I deduced that it had to be a hallucination, and then proceeded accordingly…” He gave her a shallow bow. “…And I must credit you this, Saphienne: the force of will behind it was impressive. I very nearly couldn’t disbelieve. That is no small feat, considering my specialism, and that I have centuries of practice beyond you.”

  Being recognised by the wizard was profoundly, deeply strange. “…I’m not even sure what I was doing with it. There were voices…”

  “If there were, the volume made them indistinguishable.” He turned away. “Enough chatter. Call me when those plates are nearly cleared.”

  * * *

  In due course Saphienne made her way to the bathroom, which was styled in bright, summery green and filled with matching succulents that complemented the brass fixtures.

  Almon stopped the water that had been pouring into the tub, then fetched out clean towels. “I will be downstairs in the sitting room. Do not injure yourself through foolish pride: shout for me before you attempt the stairs.”

  Saphienne had barely been listening, entranced by the robes he had lain out for her — alluring in their dark grey. “…These are mine?”

  “Quite literally.” He failed to smother his smile at her reaction. “You are proven, apprentice. Not proven as a wizard, but proven all the same. These are the same clothes you were wearing, but I have sanitised them, and a temporary transmutation has darkened their shade. I imagine Jorildyn will tailor you a proper set once your new master accepts you.”

  “I…”

  “Don’t keep me waiting.” He left, shutting the door as he went.

  That was when Saphienne reeled and sat heavily on the floor, holding herself as she was wracked by ugly, gasping sobs, then grabbing up a towel to muffle her scream of exultation.

  * * *

  She did descend the stairs alone, earning the wizard’s disapproval as he looked up from his book and indicated the chair near where he was sitting. “Impudent child! Be seated.”

  Exhausted from climbing down two flights of steps, she gratefully sagged into the cushions, only then realising that he had directed her to the armchair that was arranged on the opposite side of his chessboard… and that there wasn’t a game in progress. “…No…”

  Almon began lifting pieces from the upper two tiers that surrounded the main board, leaving the lowest tier and the board itself populated. “Ordinarily, students of chess begin with only the main board, and with only two of the three factions upon it.” He completed his preparations. “That is not how I will teach you the game. Listen very carefully, Saphienne, for I will not repeat myself.”

  Challenged, she craned forward.

  “The central board is known as the realm of mortals.” The rounded pieces upon it were shorter than the others, divided into three distinct shades of grey that held the three corners; each faction had six varieties of pieces, of which one type was very numerous, and two were not repeated. “The game has several victory conditions, and I will only share the first: when only one faction remains in the realm of mortals, whoever controls it is the victor.”

  “Whoever controls it?”

  He ignored her, pointing to the first, raised set of triangles around the board. “This is the forest realm. Each turn, you must move one piece belonging to this realm, and one piece belonging to the realm of mortals. For the purposes of teaching you, all the elves will be under my control, and all the spirits under yours.”

  Bewildered, but determined, Saphienne noted that the pieces on the higher board were all alike, divided evenly between silver and gold. “And they influence the lower board?”

  The wizard pretended not to hear. “I will follow the rules, and I will not cheat. Whenever you make a move that is invalid, I will reset your offending piece, and your turn will be forfeited. Should I believe you are playing purely to test the rules, rather than playing to defeat me, I will declare myself the victor and reset the board.” Whimsically, he lifted one of the silver pieces, moving it three triangles away, then lifted a seemingly random piece in the realm of mortals, and moved it to an adjacent triangle. “Best me.”

  “…This is wildly unfair.”

  “Correct.” He resumed reading.

  Gritting her teeth, Saphienne moved one of the gold pieces two triangles from its starting position. When this provoked no reaction from Almon, she hazarded lifting one of the pieces from a mortal faction, placing it on an adjacent space–

  Only for the wizard to move it back and take his turn, all without looking.

  “…You’re enjoying this.”

  “Also correct.”

  She set about trying again, observing the way her master moved his pieces when his turn came. Their initial game was over quickly, the wizard declaring himself the victor for an inscrutable reason that he declined to elaborate.

  Saphienne muttered a profanity as they began their second match, aware that he was goading her into applying her intelligence to spite him.

  And the worst part?

  Deep down, she enjoyed it.

  * * *

  For three days Saphienne did nothing but eat, drink tea, and lose at chess, refining her hypothesis of the rules from what she teased out in play.

  Whether or not a piece in the realm of mortals was in her possession depended on her having at least one gold piece directly in line with its space; when Almon also had a silver piece in line with it, the piece was stalemated and could not be moved; when she had two pieces in line, exerting control from two of three directions, the piece was irrevocably in her possession; at least until Almon captured it with another mortal piece. Forest pieces could not be taken out of play, but they could be converted to the other player’s possession by having two opposing pieces adjacent to them for three consecutive turns — which was almost as nasty a surprise as when the wizard casually moved a silver piece onto the central board and began capturing with it.

  Nevertheless, she did last longer with practice.

  * * *

  A week after her proving, Almon informed Saphienne she would be receiving visitors.

  Celaena, Iolas, and Taerelle arrived in the parlour at noon, and the instant Saphienne heard Peacock declare they were to proceed to the sitting room Iolas scrambled up the stairs, freezing at the top to grin when he saw her robes. “Gods… look at you…”

  Saphienne flushed. “Sorry for–”

  But whatever she intended to apologise for was lost in the hug that followed, and their master went down to the kitchen as Celaena and Taerelle joined the pair, giving the apprentice wizards space with which to congratulate their friend.

  Saphienne teased Celaena as they embraced. “We might not be wizards after all…”

  The older girl poked her. “Still counts! I always knew you were an odd bird.”

  Taerelle did not hug her in front of the others, but the woman’s cold eyes were shining. “My highest compliments on failing your apprenticeship in the only way that meant our master couldn’t be rid of you. Has he been treating you well, prodigy?”

  “No, but not too badly.”

  Iolas laughed. “The more things change…”

  * * *

  After much pleading, Almon let them take her into the garden, and Saphienne enjoyed the fresh air as they strolled in sight of the house.

  “I stopped in on Celaena some days back,” Taerelle mentioned after a few circuits of the flowerbeds, carefully facing away from their master’s home. “She mentioned that you made quite a mess of her study.”

  Dread seized her then; she glanced to Iolas, who showed no indication he knew what Celaena and Taerelle had found. “…Sorry about that. I wasn’t myself…”

  “Quite the interesting notes you copied out.”

  “I’m glad you thought so,” Saphienne mildly commented. “I’m planning to discuss them with our master…”

  That was sufficient to earn a nod from the senior apprentice.

  Celaena was pragmatic. “I tidied everything — and repaired the damaged books. They’re all back on the shelves, where I don’t expect they’ll be read any time soon.”

  Iolas took Saphienne’s hand. “Forget all that! How did it feel to cast a spell of the First Degree? How does it feel, to be a sorcerer?”

  Was it the winter chill that made her shiver? “It was overwhelming… in a frightening way… and I suppose I’ll find out whether this was worth rushing into.”

  “But are you happy?”

  Movement drew her eye — the door to the kitchen opening, Almon leading another guest outside. “…Let’s find out.”

  * * *

  The wizard called his visiting apprentices inside, affording Saphienne some scant privacy with her final guest of the day, who approached across the melting snow with a reserved yet tender smile.

  “…Hello, Filaurel.”

  Her mentor sensed her apprehensiveness and stopped before her, dressed in a thick coat and colourfully knitted scarf. “Saphienne. Almon tells me you’ve been causing him some grief?”

  “That’s… very true…”

  The librarian laughed lightly. “I meant that you’ve been playing chess with him.”

  Saphienne felt the redness in her cheeks more keenly than usual in the cold air.

  “Well?” Filaurel tilted her head. “Do I have to guess, or are you going to tell me?”

  Of course Almon hadn’t broken the news — and of course Filaurel knew anyway.

  Still, Saphienne hesitated, adrift in too many feelings, shame and fear and longing holding her back from what she had worked so desperately, agonisingly hard to be able to say to the woman who, in her mind, was the author of her attainment.

  “…Saphienne?”

  “I cast a spell,” she admitted in a choked whisper. “Of the First Degree. I– I wanted–”

  Filaurel stepped closer, opening her arms, and rocked back on her heels as Saphienne, crying, collapsed into them. She kissed the top of Saphienne’s head, her stroking touch soothing as she gave what comfort she could to the girl in hard-won dark grey.

  Then Filaurel said what Saphienne had hoped for, had longed for, had pushed herself beyond all reason to win from her:

  “You’ve made me very proud of you, Saphienne. Well done.”

  * * *

  Do you see, now, why so much of this tale has been spent on such a short span of Saphienne’s life? Can you surmise why it was so important to show the connections made, and tangled, during her most formative months?

  Perhaps. Yet, you have not yet heard all that you must.

  Let us continue.

  * * *

  That night, Saphienne brooded as she studied the board.

  “If you wish to concede…”

  “No.” Quite the opposite. “I just have something on my mind.”

  “Clear it.” Almon flicked to his next page.

  She inhaled deeply, then made her moves. “…I have something to confess.”

  “You finally appreciate my teaching–” He repositioned a silver elf, asserting temporary control of both mortal chieftains left on the board. “–and wish to thank me for all you have learned. Spare me the false nicety.”

  Her smile was sick as she nudged a gold piece to pin one chieftain, then skipped a warrior she’d held in reserve toward it. “That’s not my confession.”

  “No?” Seeing her coming, he effortlessly commanded and placed a shield-bearer to block the threat.

  She committed to her gambit, contesting the other chieftain then overextending a pawn to threaten his shield-bearer. “I’m not a sorcerer.”

  “This again–”

  “And I committed several crimes before casting my first spell.”

  His fingertips lingered atop silver. “…What exactly are you referring to?”

  She folded her hands in her lap, the coin secure in her left. “Do you remember some time ago, when you were woken in the night by messages from the Luminary Vale?”

  Almon frowned throughout his next moves, distracted. “…How did you know that?”

  “Because I was there.” She played more carefully than he. “I learned how to hide my presence from Peacock when you’re not around. Those messages were sent earlier in the night, but they didn’t arrive until after I put the emblem back into the Tome of Correspondence.”

  Sceptical, but indulging her flight of fantasy, Almon sustained the game. “And why were you reading it?”

  “I didn’t intend to. I was using it to copy books.”

  He nearly dropped his piece. “…Pardon?”

  “I copied the magical theory in your library.” She held his gaze. “Later, I feigned the destruction of your spellbook by goblins, deciphered a spell of the First Degree, then cast it.”

  The wizard played thoughtlessly. “I only told Arelyn about the goblins.”

  “There weren’t any.” She was quick with her turns. “I faked the whole thing. All but one of your sigils are still intact.”

  “None of this strikes me as credible.”

  “Faylar helped copy the books; the rest I did alone.” She gestured for him to continue. “Shall I explain?”

  Almon paid less and less attention to the game, until at last he paused to summon Peacock from the classroom, directing his familiar to fly to Arelyn and to go with him to the library, where his young friend was to search the upper collection for concealed sigils.

  “Assuming you aren’t delusional….” He didn’t notice his blunders. “…Why confess?”

  Having counted three turns, Saphienne replaced the silver piece she’d flanked with gold, taking three-sided possession of one of the chieftains, then placed the other into an inescapable check. “Because you can excuse what I did; because I want you to take me seriously when I say that I’m not a sorcerer; and because I need you to listen to the rest.”

  “There’s more?” He puzzled over the board.

  “No more chess tonight: I’ve won.” She sat back. “But there’s another game being played. Those messages I read were for me, written by High Master Lenitha, sanctioning the copying and warning me to keep my books safe. She’s been interfering in our lives for some time, and I think what happened when I cast my spell was the fulfilment of her design.”

  Silence spilled from Almon.

  “…Can you guess,” he asked, “at the tiers above the forest realm?”

  She read the answer in his eyes. “The realm of wizards and sorcerers, who influence elves and spirits; and then the realm above belongs to the High Masters.”

  “To the gods,” the wizard corrected her, “and those who would play as them.”

  Saphienne watched him steeple his fingers; when she talked, he listened.

  End of Chapter 101

  Chapter 102 will release on the 2nd of January 2026. Two new chapters release every week, Tuesdays and Fridays.

  Thanks for reading!