This is how the wind shifts:

  Like the thoughts of an old human,

  Who still thinks eagerly

  And despairingly.

  See Saphienne as she was yet still becoming, the driven girl, sixteen years old. Her long braid was the fresh red of new autumn, and she was aglow with an inner flame — crackling like fresh-lit kindling. She was now tall enough to match most adult elves, figured enough to draw the eye of children her age, and confident enough to–

  “Taerelle!”

  Ah, but she speaks for herself.

  “Taerelle!” Saphienne called again, hovering in the doorway to the bathroom she shared with her tutor.

  Down below she heard grumbling, accompanied by the sloshing of water in the kettle as the older – but only slightly more senior – apprentice emerged from the kitchen. “Prodigy! What’s so important that you can’t–”

  “Stop leaving your wand in the sink!”

  A pause; Taerelle would be sighing. “Just set it by my door.”

  “I’m not touching it!” Saphienne glowered at the burnished, dark rod where it lay in the bottom of the bowl, glistening from being rinsed.

  “It hasn’t been used for any spells that–”

  “Really?” Saphienne rolled her eyes, which came to rest on the gleaming choker beside the sink, wrought from golden waves but for a single, angular stretch of silver woven through its front. “I think not — you left your collar, too!”

  “Use Far Hand!”

  “I haven’t prepared it today — and I refuse to tire myself swapping out a minor spell, not for this!”

  A hiss answered, along with the clatter of the kettle landing in the kitchen. Taerelle stalked up the stairs and past Saphienne’s glare, snatching the enchantments from where she’d discarded them. “You need to get over your–”

  “Oh, do fuck off.” The girl folded her arms. “Picking up your used towels? Fine, but I draw the line at you leaving those lying around. What would a visitor think?”

  Taerelle flashed a smile over her shoulder as she went into her bedroom. “If you must know, Thessa appreciates–”

  Saphienne winced as she retreated behind the half-closed bathroom door. “Stop it! Not another word! The two of you are awful — you’re nearly twice her age!”

  “We’re both old enough,” grinned the diviner as she reappeared on the landing. “But perhaps you’re less concerned about what a visitor would think, so much as what the visitor might. Starting to feel nervous, prodigy?”

  Saphienne narrowed her eyes.

  Taerelle continued to grin.

  “…Yes.” Saphienne melted, fully opening the door. “Yes, I am.”

  Cool gaze softening, Taerelle hugged Saphienne before going back down the stairs. “Leave the cleaning: come have breakfast.”

  “She’s arriving tomorrow–”

  “I know, and I’ll do the cleaning for a change.”

  Saphienne trailed after her. “…You prepared Cleansing Touch?”

  “Along with Sorting Zephyr, Locate Belonging, and Lingering Perfume,” she confirmed as she glided down to the sitting room. “Ironically, prodigy, I intended to place them into the wand in sequence, for ease of cleaning…”

  Touched by Taerelle’s consideration, Saphienne went after her into the kitchen, ignoring the dishes piled on the counter as she watched the young woman refill the dented kettle. “That’s almost all your daily castings.”

  “Fret not: I kept my ward.” The girl’s tutor set the water to boil, whispered the syllables for Cleansing Touch while grasping a pair of dirty teacups. “Unlike you,” she said as she shook off the dust the red-green flash left behind, “I don’t need to leave the house today.”

  “Don’t remind me…” Saphienne sat at the kitchen table, massaging her tingling hand. “…I’ve got too much to do before she’s here.”

  Taerelle smirked as she slathered blackcurrant preserve on toast. “You always have too much to do. Which reminds me: Rydel said–”

  “I’m seeing him this afternoon.” Arms folded on the crumb-strewn surface, Saphienne leant her chin on them as she tapped her foot. “Any idea what he wants?”

  “I’ve loaned you to him; he’s working on something special.” Bringing across the food and the cups, Taerelle set about steeping the tea.

  Rydel had no ambitions of applying to the Luminary Vale. “Wonderful.”

  “You say that…” She placed the teapot on the table as she sat. “…But I think his project will interest you.”

  Saphienne was sceptical as she helped herself to the toast. “Why?”

  “You’re both pursuing Transmutation, and he’s applying it to solve a problem faced by the woodlands.” Taerelle declined to elaborate on the specifics. “He’s hoping to secure a prime position by demonstrating what he can do, and I believe his idea has merit — or I wouldn’t have offered you.”

  “Crossbreeding plants? Tedious.”

  “Forget that.” Taerelle poured the tea. “Why are you worried about Laelansa?”

  Saphienne swallowed. “…We haven’t seen each other in over a year.”

  “So? You write every week; you seem well matched.”

  How could she explain? “Lots can change.”

  “Unfounded fears, then.”

  She said nothing, blowing gently before she sipped her bitter green.

  Yet Taerelle was adept at reading her junior, and she wryly glanced up at the ceiling. “…So that’s your preoccupation. You’re worried she’ll have grown impatient?”

  Saphienne looked away. “Maybe.”

  “Forever the tragic girl,” Taerelle murmured, affectionately.

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “Not this time,” she conceded. “I won’t try to rally you to bravery, either. My only remark is that I think you’re curiously blind when it comes to your girlfriend’s feelings for you, Saphienne.”

  Once, Saphienne would have resented being told that. Now, she warmed her hands on her teacup and inclined her head. “Go on.”

  “Laelansa obviously wants to sleep with you.” Taerelle held up her palm, forestalling objections. “But! For all her awkwardness, she is not a fool, and she knows what she values. Your happiness matters more to her than her curiosity.” A faint note of judgement crept into her voice. “You’re the one with conflicted feelings, prodigy.”

  That Taerelle was correct didn’t make hearing the truth easier. Saphienne resisted crossing her arms. “…Most girls my age are–”

  “Repeat this,” Taerelle threatened, “and I will murder you.”

  Saphienne blinked; a grin spread across her cheeks. “…How old were you?”

  “Twenty-one.” Her senior’s expression was frosty. “I mean it: I know how to conceal a crime. I’ll bury you so deep in the wilds–”

  “You hypocrite.” Saphienne leaned forward. “All this time, ridiculing me–”

  “It wasn’t lack of interest…” Taerelle drained her cup. “Nor was I afraid. I just hadn’t met anyone whom I felt worth approaching…”

  Snorting, Saphienne resumed her breakfast. “More likely, everyone was too afraid you’d bite their ears off for making a pass, and you didn’t know how to express interest.”

  “…Deep in the wilds, prodigy.”

  She shook her head, finished eating, and stood. “I need to get going, Faylar–”

  “Clean the kitchen, first.”

  “You said you would do the cleaning!”

  “Not all of it.” Taerelle rose with her teacup, swaying into the sitting room with exaggerated relaxation. “You might as well use those spells you prepared.”

  Saphienne stalled in the doorway. “…This is unfair.”

  Her domestic nemesis was remorseless as she sat in the armchair. “Need I remind you? My house, my rules. Better get to work — you wouldn’t want to keep your dear librarians waiting.”

  * * *

  On her way to the library Saphienne stopped in at the bakery, where Tanelia cordially presented the wrapped box that had been waiting for her arrival. Saphienne tried to hold it onehanded, thought again, then fished in her pocket, taking out a beautifully patterned, bronze bangle and matching finger rings.

  The enchantment was unpleasant as she slipped the band over her left wrist, whining against her mind until she secured the rings on her fingertips and forced herself to admit the intrusive divination. At once, the conjoined conjuration throbbed as she bid her fingers spread, manoeuvring her unresponsive hand as she went through her warmup exercises.

  Behind the counter, the baker only observed.

  With stretches accomplished and her palm commanded to lay flat, Saphienne supported the box with it as she used the other to stabilise her hold, rotely thanking Tanelia as she shouldered her way out into the brisk autumnal morning. She hastened to the library at a dignified pace, her severe countenance and forbidding robes enough to deter the few who might otherwise have been inclined to hail her.

  Filaurel was stern at her desk. “Saphienne! No food in the library, young wizard!”

  Saphienne let the doors close at her heels. Scowling, she tilted back to peer down her nose. “I think you’ll find I’m also a sorcerer, not merely a wizard — and, in any case, I’m quite above the quotidian concerns of mere book-minders.”

  “Really?” The librarian cracked a smile as she beckoned. “In that case, I’ll make an exception…”

  Setting her gift on the desk, Saphienne came around to hug Filaurel, all discomfort forgotten in their embrace. Whereas for a time their caring had been fraught from wounds old and fresh, now her mentor held her firmly, without the anxiousness that had deformed their bond when its limits were untested, better able to give of herself in the security that Saphienne did not need from Filaurel what she could not bear to be. Their closeness surpassed old heights… but not abandoned dreams.

  “Did you miss us?”

  “You, certainly.” She let the moment stretch, then reluctantly withdrew. “Faylar’s absence was a welcome reprieve. Is he upstairs?”

  “He’s late, is what he is.” Filaurel was unbothered. “He stayed up late before we travelled home, and moaned the whole way back. At least he wasn’t hungover…”

  “A hangover? I remember that term.” Saphienne tilted her head. “You never did explain what it meant… or what it means to ‘sod’ something…”

  “And you,” Filaurel tutted as she unwounded the cloth covering the box, “didn’t wait to start using the word: don’t think I never noticed how all your friends suddenly began saying it.”

  Her blush was mild. “Must have been Faylar, reading up on human languages.”

  “You’re a better liar than that…” She hummed as she saw the cake. “Chocolate? Faylar will be pleased. And a hangover is dehydration, headache, and temporary illness that humans acquire by drinking to excess — elves don’t suffer them, and dwarves consider them impressive to acquire and shameful to admit.”

  Wincing as she made her left hand relax, Saphienne reflected. “…There’s a dwarven saying I never understood: ‘A man once denied the night sky was too bright, but his cellar looked empty.’ Referring to the same?”

  “Probably.” Filaurel shrugged, candid in the absence of patrons so early in the morning. “I gave up speaking Dwarfish. Every time I did, I was treated like I was being rude. You should hide this in the–”

  “Hide what?” asked Faylar as he entered through the front doors.

  Saphienne didn’t turn around. “Chocolate cake — only for those who’re on time.”

  He laughed. “Ever think you missed someone, then realised what you really missed was your relief when they left the room?”

  “Not until now.” She pivoted to him. “Welcome back.”

  Faylar dropped the backpack he was carrying and hugged Saphienne, his long red hair dishevelled and unbraided; she wasn’t used to that change, though she had to admit he suited his fashionably tailored, silvery clothing. She felt him consider raising her off her feet, then reconsider, afraid of embarrassing himself now she had caught up to his height.

  “Good to be back,” he replied as he let go. “Felipe sends his regards.”

  The message made her smile — timidly. “…And how’s Cosme?”

  Filaurel gasped. “Sorry, Saphienne! He’s completely recovered. He was falling over himself to apologise for the delay.”

  Learning that heartened her. “Did you get a good price, then?”

  “Bled him ruthlessly,” Faylar quipped as he eyed the cake. “You can laugh, but he actually looked fitter than last year. We stayed up late–”

  “Drinking: Filaurel said.” She poked him in the chest. “No eating that here: take it through to the kitchen.”

  He scoffed as he lifted the box. “Of course — do I look like a child to you?”

  “Filaurel has you well-trained.”

  “Housebroken, like Peluda,” he agreed as he headed for the back. “Oh, and you won’t believe it, but Felipe grew a beard!”

  She wished she could have been there. “I’ll see it next year!”

  Meanwhile, Filaurel had collected the backpack Faylar had dropped, and she slung it over her shoulder as she patted Saphienne’s. “If I let you take your cups upstairs, will you make the tea?”

  “Only if you tell me what ‘sod’ means.”

  Filaurel turned scarlet… but leant in to whisper the answer.

  Ears drooping, Saphienne cringed. “…We’ve been using it like ‘fuck’…”

  “That’s how humans do it in practice– that is, how the word–”

  They stared at each other in mortification.

  And then they laughed, and went to rescue the cake from Faylar.

  * * *

  “…I genuinely don’t know, Saphienne.” Faylar pushed the book they were reading back toward her. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve never heard it spoken — I only learned to read it, same as you.”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Setting set her cup down on the spotless sheet of paper she was using as an improvised coaster, Saphienne frowned as she surveyed the well-thumbed pile of texts before them. “Tone has to matter. I did some light research, and none of the languages I read about lack interrogative or subjunctive moods. If they’re not formed by declension or sentence construction, then the language must incorporate tone, even if less so than the tongue of sylvan creatures.”

  “Just how ‘light’ was your research?”

  “…I only skimmed…”

  “For how long?”

  Saphienne resigned herself to his mockery. “About eight hours.”

  Where he sat beside her in the upper collection, the young man only smirked.

  “Are you sure these are all the books that–”

  “Yes.” He tired of her asking. “We checked the restricted collection as well: the only other books are held at the Luminary Vale, and only wizards or sorcerers – or both, I suppose – can request them. We’re not even allowed to read them.” He flicked to an earlier page. “And they aren’t even about the language: this reference, here, is the best the woodlands has to offer.”

  She surveyed the curved markings, still reminiscent of magical script; the pronunciation key was detailed, but felt wrong. “…I really don’t want to have to ask my masters.”

  “Why not? They’re supposed to teach you–”

  “Because Master Almon bloviates whenever he has chance to lecture for me again,” she sighed, rubbing the back of her hand as she felt the threat of a spasm, “and Master Vestaele explains everything – everything – through mysticism; getting a simple, yes-or-no answer involves exploring the contradictions inherent in the asking.”

  He stuck his tongue in his cheek. “And, you don’t like her.”

  Saphienne was sure they were alone, but nevertheless lowered her voice. “…No, I don’t. She’s still trying to befriend me.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Depending on intent.” She didn’t trust the master of Fascination. “She’s not the only one, but at least with others, it’s because they want a talented magician for a friend.”

  Faylar canted his head. “That’s not what she wants?”

  “She wants to shape me into someone I’m not.” And that High Master Lenitha didn’t want her to become, she suspected — for why else would the elder have chosen to impose Vestaele, of all people, on Saphienne? “I’m not interested in politics, nor ‘guiding’ the consensus.”

  He nodded in sympathy as he returned to their studies. “Then ask Master Almon, because Filaurel doesn’t know anyone else in the vale whom you can ask.”

  “…Such a stupid language…” Saphienne didn’t mean that, but right then she felt it. “Almost no gender, not even in pronouns; but no translation for ‘male’ or ‘female,’ with the closest concepts being ambiguous. Unless someone uses the gendered construction of a name, good luck guessing! If I’m wrong about tone, the lack of a subjunctive mood would mean you couldn’t even prompt them with a hypothetical statement.”

  Faylar leant back, fingers interlaced behind his head. “Do you think,” he wondered, “that the reason their tongue ‘sounds like a shouting match’ is because they’re always arguing?”

  His joke won a smile from her. “…That would redeem it…”

  “Imagine trying to agree on dinner…”

  She giggled. “Speaking of the subjunctive mood: I imagine a dragon would eat whatever they wanted — probably you, if you were annoying.”

  “I doubt I could be, not without asking questions.”

  “I have absolute faith that you’d manage.”

  “Fuck off.” He grinned. “How’s that for imperative mood?”

  * * *

  Half an hour later they were interrupted by a young woman bounding to the top of the stairs, there to pose dramatically in the silvery, ostentatious dress she had only recently grown old enough to wear; she swept it after herself with her bejewelled hand as she floated to Faylar. “Lo, my hero returns! Pray tell, beloved mine: how fared you in the wilds?”

  Saphienne chuckled at his equally performative weariness, and waved. “Hello, Laewyn — this a new style?”

  “‘Tis,” Laewyn answered as she bent to kiss Faylar, her bright blue, dyed braids obscuring his face as she expressed how glad she was for his return.

  …How very glad…

  Saphienne coughed. “I like the hair.”

  That made Laewyn break away – both she and her boyfriend flushed – to stroke through his red locks. “I do, too. He suits longer hair, doesn’t he?”

  Faylar was unconvinced. “She’s talking about yours, Laewyn; I still think mine looks better short…”

  “That,” Laewyn objected as she wedged herself onto his lap and draped herself against his chest, “is because you have no taste. You’d look like a child, if I left you alone.”

  Once more, Saphienne tried to redirect her. “How is Jorildyn, anyway?”

  Laewyn huffed. “He’s fine; I’d be a lot happier if he’d believe me when I tell him that this isn’t a phase.”

  “He thinks you’re unserious?”

  “That’s not it…” She faced Saphienne for the first time since arriving. “He approves of my enthusiasm, and he’s complimentary about how quickly I’m learning. If he weren’t convinced that tailoring isn’t going to be my chosen art, I’d have no complaints.”

  Faylar slid his arms around Laewyn’s waist, kissing her neck. “She finally takes an apprenticeship seriously… and her master doesn’t take her seriously.”

  “He says I’m ‘too creative.’”

  Although Saphienne intuited what Jorildyn meant, she knew better than to explain. “Just do as I did: prove him wrong.”

  “That I shall,” Laewyn airily agreed, contorting herself so that she lounged sideways between the desk and Faylar, her shoes rocking Saphienne’s chair. “What of your heart’s desire? Is Laelansa still arriving tomorrow?”

  “So her letter promised.”

  “It’ll be exquisite to see her again…”

  Exasperated, Faylar poked Laewyn. “Behave — you’re too old for her now, and you already have a girlfriend.”

  But Laewyn had winked at Saphienne from the side of her face he couldn’t see, before successfully teasing him. “I’m only playing…” Her voice became wistful. “…But it’d be nice to feel like I have a girlfriend…”

  Protective of Celaena, Saphienne elbowed Laewyn’s foot. “She’s just busy! So’s Iolas. Advancing as an apprentice wizard takes a lot of studying.”

  “Not for you.”

  She hesitated. “…I’m different. Sorcerers spend less time in solitude.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen her in two weeks,” Laewyn complained. “I’ve seen more of Thessa than Celaena or Iolas — but, from what I hear, that’s probably the same for you.”

  Saphienne blushed. “I leave when she visits. I really don’t approve.”

  “Why?” Laewyn gently kicked her elbow. “It’s not like they’re dating. There’s no romance between her and Taerelle.”

  “They’re not the same generation.”

  “Don’t be prudish! Tell her, Faylar.”

  Pained to be caught between them, he was apologetic as he took his girlfriend’s side. “In fairness, the way Taerelle braids her hair, you wouldn’t know they were different ages; and it’s not like Thessa is in danger of getting her heart broken.”

  Uncomfortable, Saphienne stood. “I don’t like it. Taerelle is in her forties, old enough to know better than to fool around with someone in her twenties. They might look the same, but she’s much more experienced than Thessa — and that gives Taerelle power she could wield over her.”

  A decidedly wicked smile lit Laewyn’s gaze. “As I understand it, that’s exactly what Thessa–”

  “Laewyn!”

  “What? It’s true!” The apprentice tailor dissolved into giggles.

  Faylar didn’t join in. “Honestly, if I didn’t know them well? It would give me pause. Otherwise, if they were closer to reaching their centuries? I wouldn’t think twice. But,” he queried Saphienne, “doesn’t Taerelle studying wizardry mean she has power over anyone she has a relationship with?”

  And didn’t Saphienne? “…It’s not the same. A wizard who abuses her magic will be sanctioned by the Luminary Vale: they watch out for that sort of thing. I can’t be too specific, but compelling spells aren’t the sort we have unsupervised access to.”

  “Well,” Laewyn remarked, “then it’s just a matter of trust, isn’t it? No different from people walking with spirits.” She studied Faylar meaningfully. “And personally, I think the summer solstice festival can’t come back to the Eastern Vale soon enough… unless we’re travelling?”

  “We’re waiting,” Faylar insisted. “We all agreed.”

  Queasy, Saphienne gathered up her notes. “Laelansa will be pleased.”

  His reproach made Laewyn relent. “…A promise is a promise. Is Laelansa still nervous about officiating? Is that related to why she’s late to visit?”

  “She won’t officiate for the solstice festival until she’s eighteen,” Saphienne clarified, subdued, “which happens to be when the festival comes back to the Vale of the White River, in another two years. Next year, she’ll be travelling to the Vale of Rushes to understudy… and it’s not the officiating that she’s nervous about, anyway…”

  “Are the two of you going to–”

  “Laewyn,” Faylar warned, “leave Saphienne alone.”

  Were she able to look anywhere other than her satchel, Saphienne would have shone her gratefulness on Faylar.

  “Fine.” Laewyn didn’t pout — not physically. “Don’t mind me, Saphienne; I’ve just been missing my paramour, my muse, my guiding star…”

  “Have you?” Faylar grinned.

  She lowered her tone. “Do I need to prove it?”

  “Gods,” muttered Saphienne, only half in jest, “the two of you need a bedroom.”

  Neither of the lovers responded, for they were too busy kissing again.

  Unsure how to carry herself, she bid them an unreciprocated farewell as she departed.

  * * *

  Having never visited Rydel before, Saphienne had prepared a Divination spell to help her find the way; she drew a quartz pendant from her satchel as she headed to the western end of the village, dismayed to see that the stone was developing a hairline crack from extended use. “Probably a few more castings before it needs repairing…”

  While her sympathetic connection to her fellow senior apprentice wasn’t particular strong – on account of not knowing him well – she reasoned that she would be physically close enough for her magic to find him, so long as he wasn’t warded. As she willed her left hand to make a fist around the silver chain, Saphienne readied the sigil for Locate Person, bringing it to the fore of her consciousness. She aligned herself with its probing contours, commanded it to reveal the way as she swept her fingers over the trees before her in the gesture of unveiling, thinking of hunting, feeling keen loneliness, whispering the paired syllables that comprised ‘Search.’

  White, ethereal threads coalesced between her first two fingers, and she wound them around the quartz prism, which lit with the same divinatory light as it swung back and forth while the threads crawled the woodlands–

  The pendant pulled taut as Rydel was found.

  Saphienne went where it pointed, indifferent to the stares of the people she passed by as she wandered the groves. Had she more time, she could have used a different version of the divination, together with a map, in order to pinpoint his home in advance and thereby avoid its notice… but her day was crammed, and she had a reputation of mystery to maintain.

  The house he lived in was larger than that she shared with Taerelle, which wasn’t very surprising, as she’d heard he lived with family. A few exploratory movements of her arm indicated that he wasn’t inside, however, and she went around the broad tree to find that the rear garden was largely taken over by a very strange structure, an outbuilding knitted together from several short trees.

  Rydel opened the door when she neared. “Saphienne! Right on time.”

  Intrigued, she let her divination lapse and stowed the pendant as she stepped inside, finding that they were uncomfortably confined in a small antechamber. Her host was shutting the entrance, which thrummed with an active enchantment as it was sealed, feeling like an abjuration of force to Saphienne. “…Worried about thieves?”

  She amused him. “Wrong way around; but I suppose the world is full of them, isn’t it? Can’t be too careful.” His gloomy humour hadn’t changed, but his clothing had, his outer robes replaced by a heavy smock, thick gloves covering his hands as he unbolted the inner door. “Thank you for using Locate Person — when I felt your spell, I knew you were on your way.”

  “Just being polite,” she lied, vexed that she couldn’t yet cast more subtly.

  Within lay a narrow corridor, lined by pairs of fine mesh screens, the cells behind them filled with cabinets that held glass boxes…

  “…Webs?” She examined the terrariums carefully. “Rydel, are you breeding spiders? What sort of a plant is pollinated by spiders?”

  “Spider plants?” He enjoyed his own joke as he shut the second enchanted door. “But you’ve never heard of those, so never mind. This has nothing to do with pollination — nothing to do with plants at all. I’m going in a new direction.”

  Damn Taerelle: this was interesting. “You have me lost,” she confessed as she turned to examine the opposite cell, “I’ve no clue what you’re up to. Enlighten me?”

  “Ever wonder where all our silk comes from?”

  She laughed. “Gods, so that’s it: you want to replace silkworms with spiders.”

  “Spider silk is already used in special cases,” Rydel clarified, “but it’s far more labour intensive to farm. That’s unfortunate, because it’s generally much stronger, and far more varied than silk taken from silkworms.” He slid aside the screen ahead of Saphienne, showing her in for a closer look at his specimens. “We’re also limited to one silk harvest a year when silk moths emerge from their cocoons, and knitting the broken threads back together is tedious. Web-weaving spiders,” he said as he pointed, leaning down to observe a small, golden arachnid at work, “can extrude silk all throughout their lives, and all varieties of spider produce their own unique form.”

  The reason for the security made sense. “You’re transmuting different families of spiders to make interbreeding viable, and selectively breeding them to make a tame spider that will trade its silk for shelter, like honey bees.”

  “Not just one spider.” He tapped the glass, watching the spider within go still. “My intent is to have three different varieties: one that closely replicates silkworm silk in comparable quantities, one that produces finer silk, and one that produces stronger, thicker silk in greater volume.” Leaving the weaver alone, he indicated its neighbours proudly. “I’ve been at this for about a year now. Getting permission was quite an adventure, but our master was very supportive, and the Luminary Vale endorsed my proposal before I presented it.”

  Sold, Saphienne clasped her hands. “What do you need me to do? Analyse the secondary and tertiary effects of the transmutations? Are you having issues with resonance contaminating spells cast on subsequent generations?”

  Her enthusiasm made him smirk. “None of that… not for now. Mainly,” he said as he led her back out and closed the screen, “I need someone to help keep them fed and watered, and to socialise the candidates.”

  “…That’s all?” Her disappointment was unconcealed.

  “In exchange, I’ll share my notes — so long as you don’t try to improve on the work in progress, not without my explicit permission.”

  She could win him over. “Fair,” she agreed as she went after him, “but what do you mean by ‘socialise the candidates’?”

  There, he opened a door at the furthest end of the passage, where the terrariums were larger. “See for yourself: top left.”

  Saphienne crept closer.

  The scene behind the glass resembled a forest floor, bark and fresh greenery interspersed to make a home. Under a hollowed-out half of a log, she could see yellow webbing had been woven to make a nest–

  Then movement made her freeze, as a brightly coloured spider, about the size of her palm, scuttled on top of the log, resplendent in blue and gold, gazing up at her contemplatively with its four pairs of eyes.

  To her amazement, the spider lifted one of its back legs, and waved.

  “…Was that– did it just–”

  “She did.” Rydel craned over her shoulder and waved back, at which point the spider climbed down to the front of the terrarium, waiting patiently for its master to unlatch the glass and hold up his hand. With a bold leap, the spider landed on the back of his wrist, then shifted around to observe Saphienne.

  Despite having no particular love for spiders, she was charmed. “Tame?”

  “She is.” He brought his hand to his shoulder, and the arachnid leapt over, hunkering down near his collar, still observing her new visitor. “Intelligent, too, which wasn’t intentional. She’s third generation, bred for sociality and longevity rather than silk production, and she’s been growing steadily. Would you believe,” he grinned, “that she unlatched her enclosure one night? I brought her back and scolded her, but the next day I found her enclosure closed over, with webbing in place of the open latch.”

  Saphienne giggled. “What’s her name?”

  “Nine.” He very gently stroked her upper abdomen with his fingertip. “She’s not a pet, so I didn’t name her. Nine, this is Saphienne.”

  Unbidden, Saphienne held out her right hand.

  Nine refused to jump.

  “…Pleased to meet you, Nine?”

  Evidently satisfied, the spider sailed across, and upon landing she danced from side to side, legs thrown out in a flourishing greeting.

  * * *

  “Let me guess,” Almon mused while he made tea. “You’re confounded by the intricacies of harmonic and disharmonic resonance in spells?”

  “No, that’s not–”

  “False asymmetries in sigils, then? They tend to catch apprentices out.”

  Saphienne pursed her lips. “I’ve learned the tongue of dragons from Faylar, but he doesn’t know how to speak it, and the guide we have doesn’t seem right, to me.”

  “…Oh.” The wizard deflated. “Mere linguistics. It’s been some years, but I suppose I can spend a little time polishing your pronunciation.”

  She reconciled herself to a long evening. “If it would console you, we could play chess while we talk…”

  He lifted their cups. “Much more interesting! Lead on, apprentice.”

  Once they were seated and all tiers of the board were set, she made the opening moves, asking her preoccupying question. “Am I right that the draconic language uses tone to indicate the subjunctive and interrogative moods?”

  Almon’s lips twitched as he scrutinised her opening. “…I’ve been remiss in teaching you about dragons, or you’d know the answer. No, Saphienne. Dragons do not speak in hypotheticals, and they do not ask questions.”

  She didn’t need to pause after he played, but she did need to think over his claim; she nudged her pieces. “How is it possible to hold a meaningful conversation without them?”

  “Posture.” He refined his position. “When two dragons meet, either they are contending, or one submits to the other: a dragon who makes a declaration while physically withdrawing is implicitly suggesting that their proposition may be overpowered. Definitive answers are, quite literally, advanced in reply.”

  “That,” she declared as she leant over the board, “is profoundly stupid.”

  “There is a reason they are solitary beings.” He pondered her scheme. “…Go on, then: try your tongue against the language.”

  “I was hoping you’d provide me a demonstration, Master.”

  “And deny myself the spectacle of your embarrassment?” He grinned as he began his counterplay. “No, apprentice: speak.”

  Steeling herself, she thought of the syllable scheme she’d memorised, then put it aside, trying her first, half-growled, guttural words by instinct. “These are the words; this is how dragons speak; this way, and no other way.”

  Almon dropped the gold piece he held, the spirit clattering on the central board.

  Saphienne blinked. “…That bad?”

  He laughed nervously as he recovered. “I should be used to your surprises, by now. No, not at all. That was very good, Saphienne. Close to perfect, in fact. Were you not constrained by physical limitation, it might well have been.”

  “…You’re making fun of me.”

  “No.” The wizard corrected his clumsiness, but not his blunder. “No, Saphienne, you have it: you spoke with the tongue of a dragon.”

  * * *

  Night saw her yawning as she carried a lamp through the garden behind the house she shared, the flowerbeds neat thanks to their tending by Hyacinth. The bloomkith was absent from the pot of flowers within the ritual space inside the earthen mound, and Saphienne did not call for her friend, settling down with her spellbook by lamplight and turning to the final page.

  Resplendent in hallucinatory blue, a sigil of the Second Degree dismissed her.

  She still hadn’t grasped its nuances… nor soon would she. Yet every night after evening reading, until the late hour became early, she meditated in contemplation of it, seeking order in the shifting tides of its cerulean sea.

  On that night, however, her attention wandered, snared upon Taerelle and Thessa, Faylar and Laewyn. She felt trepidation for what was to come for herself and Laelansa, yes, but her anxieties were quiet in that moment beside another, more brooding worry.

  Iolas, Faylar, Celaena, Laewyn: her friends had all matured. True, she exceeded them in her chosen art… but in every other way, she’d been left behind, and though each passing day brought her closer to her own physical maturity, she felt herself drifting further from them, isolated by circumstance and by her unreadiness to participate in the dances of adulthood, such as the adult games that, for her, held no allure.

  She was glad that Laelansa didn’t live closer… and ashamed to feel that way.

  And yet, she missed her girlfriend — missed the girl who welcomed her oddness, who made space for her, who pretended to be nervous about walking during the summer solstice festival so as to give Saphienne the time she needed.

  …Was this her curse, at work? Would any amount of time be enough? Would she disappoint–

  Saphienne shivered, screwing shut her eyes. No. She wouldn’t let herself think that: she would cease understanding at what should be understood.

  What did she understand? That she was better with Laelansa than without; that they enjoyed visiting, and holding hands, and kissing; that even if she was losing Celaena and Iolas and Faylar and Laewyn, there would be other friends in future, new peers to be found when she at last was welcomed into the Luminary Vale.

  Whatever her life lacked, she did not lack for the Great Art.

  …And Laelansa, who would smile for her, tomorrow.

  Calmer, she recommitted her attention to the spell, ignoring the shadows that lengthened in the room as the lamp slowly dimmed.

  End of Chapter 105

  Chapter 106 releases Friday the 16th of January.

  Thanks for reading!