This is how the wind shifts:

  Like a human, heavy and heavy,

  Who does not care.

  See Saphienne in the full bloom of her eternal youth, the woman as most in the woodlands remember her, nineteen years old. Spring had once more made her brunette, and her elven body had no more growth awaiting her, for she was among the tallest of elves, striding long-legged through the forest, shapely in hip and elegant in poise. Gazes followed where she wandered, drawn by the waves in her extravagantly long and thick hair when she forwent braids to let her locks trail in her wake.

  Often her arms were folded that she might rest her temperamental hand, making her forbidding as she peered down. She contrived to smile faintly to seem more approachable, but her reputation for excellence undermined her efforts; she was whispered to be superior by the many who did not know her disposition. That she made no effort to hide either her intellect or her learning, and spoke without assuming ignorance or slowness on the part of her audience, misled most into thinking her condescending.

  Yet, these impressions aside, Saphienne was not arrogant. What had been taught to her had held fast: she did not consider herself more important or entitled than merited by her ability and demonstrated by her achievements. Such conceit as she had was conceived in mind alone. Alas, as had been the case throughout her life, what advantages nature had bestowed upon her were received by witnesses to her brilliance with a fear of inferiority that could do naught but insist upon itself, rousing opposition to her flourishing.

  To add to this portrait, Saphienne remained irrefutably proud.

  No amount of politesse could overcome what her wyrd had fixed in her, and so she largely chose not to worry. In keeping with her response to the rest she was powerless over, barred from her mother as her friendships dwindled, she busied herself in seclusion, pursuing greater mastery.

  Observe her now in this spirit, shut away from judgemental onlookers and sadness, descending after Filaurel down the steps that lay under the stairs of the village library. She held a conjured, heatless, starkly illuminating flame in her right palm, the braided tail of her hair carried on her shoulder, wearing her daily robes of dim blue on forest green with her beaten satchel at her side.

  “Do you know what you want to read today?”

  Saphienne nodded as they entered the root-walled reading area, gated off from the stacks of the restricted collection. “One of the works sent from the Luminary Vale — written by Myathaen, with recent commentaries by Shanaera. ‘Heart of the Woodlands, or the Eye That Sees Itself,’ I believe it was called.”

  Filaurel touched a crystal lamp on a nearby table, and the others spread throughout the collection brightened with it. “I remember; it was preceded by stern instruction that Faylar wasn’t to handle it, and I wasn’t to examine its contents, not even to ensure the sending was successful. You’re not allowed to read it out here.”

  No longer in the habit of casually rolling her eyes, Saphienne nevertheless chose to do so in her present company as she extinguished her spell and hung up her satchel. “Locking me in again? I don’t see why. Esoterica of advanced Invocation are barely comprehensible to me, never mind anyone else who might happen by.”

  “I’ve no clue, but that book’s apparently at the upper end of the classifications we can receive. When I came back to have you affix your seal to your requests? Well, now you know what prompted it.” The librarian lifted a key from the ring she held, unlocking the outermost barrier and ushering Saphienne inside, relocking it behind her. “I’m obliged to repeat that, in the event of a fire, you’re to leave the books–”

  “–And if I push the bar to exit, I’ll be detained until the scrutiniser is reviewed and the whole collection inventoried: I know. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “Think of yourself,” Filaurel retorted as she opened the next gate. “Faylar couldn’t help me with the inventory, and someone would have to come from the vale for the last of it. You’d be the guest of the wardens for at least a week.”

  “I’d be better burning.”

  Filaurel snorted. “Careful with those jokes. Faylar made one without thinking, and the patron he was talking to actually cried…”

  How Saphienne wished she’d heard the anecdote from him.

  The restricted collection was subdivided into four areas, the first containing nothing that was dangerous, but rather unsuited for unsupervised consumption. More than half was taken over by erotica that was too outré for ordinary tastes, and on one of her first visits, Saphienne had been amused to find Thessa casually browsing there.

  The artist had quietly explained that the convention was not to acknowledge friends when they were in the lower collection, before winking and recommending a shelf which – so the curious magician soon discovered – catalogued the impassioned art of rope bondage.

  Saphienne missed her sense of humour.

  The second area contained texts that could be dangerous, but which also had benevolent use. Filaurel had shown her the shelf on herbalism by way of illustration; when she’d found time to ask Gaelyn, he’d remarked that poisons and their remedies were still taught to priests and healers alongside the Great Art. Uncommon as it was, children and fools did occasionally eat one of the few mushrooms toxic to elves.

  Behind the third gate lay texts concerned with the Great Art, as well as books restricted because they were controversial to the consensus without reaching the point they undermined it. Filaurel had absolute discretion over who to refuse entry, and not even an elder could countermand her decision — not unless they were also admitted to the Luminary Vale. Unaccompanied browsing was forbidden, the shelves were alarmed to all but the librarian, and despite being unavailable for loan, the books had to be signed for.

  Therein, Saphienne had recognised the poetry previously shown her by Athidyn.

  Last was the section where stood bookcases upon which tomes were individually chained in place, secured by abjurations of force. Precisely one of these was a reference spellbook of common sigils, no higher than the Second Degree, available to sorcerers and wizards who met with the approval of the Luminary Vale.

  The other works were not even catalogued: should she wish to study, Saphienne was required to write the subject of her interest in a small, emblemless, periodically wiped Tome of Correspondence near the reading desks, then wait for an unknown librarian to respond with recommendations. Filaurel exercised no authority over these shelves…

  …Apart from physical access. “This is it.” Filaurel freed a small volume bound in yellow and carried it to the reading desks, where she rechained it; she then set down the calligraphy kit and ledger she’d carried under her arm, swiftly making the pertinent entry before presenting it for Saphienne’s sign and seal.

  The magician wrote her name in neat script, without flourish, then drew upon a least sigil in blue-shimmering red, conjuring hot green wax onto the page in a hiss, imbued with the magical script that declared her full title to the world.

  Procedures duly followed, Filaurel gathered up all writing implements, unclasped the book, and retreated to the door. “Pull the bell cord when you’re done.”

  “Thank you,” Saphienne murmured as she sat at the narrow reading desk. “This doesn’t look like it’ll take long.”

  Alone, she opened to the first page–

  And found a note, written inside the cover.

  Master Saphienne,

  What you perceive herein is never to be spoken of.

  High Master Lenitha is unconvinced you are ready to receive this knowledge; we discussed the matter at length, and consulted with several of our peers, before deciding to permit your knowing.

  I once sat where you sit, and faced the same choice as you do. What I remember most distinctly is that I was glad to have been fully informed. This courtesy I extend to you in turn, an offering made possible by the weight of my recommendation.

  The value of my wisdom is in your hands. Go gently, for both our lives are long.

  In sympathy,

  High Master Elduin

  She blinked. “…What in the world…”

  Saphienne had never had any dealings with Elduin, and no further correspondence with Lenitha had ensued after the day the ancient elder visited. There had been no indication that this text was restricted – let alone important – when she’d become aware of it, referenced in the footnotes of a treatise on the secret names of spirits.

  …Was she being scried upon? Her proprioception for her magic told her no, but experience had taught her that Lenitha, at least, could observe from afar without being detected by a wizard of the Second Degree.

  “If you’re watching,” she hazarded, glancing upward, “thank you.”

  Then she flushed, feeling as though she had offered a prayer at a woodland shrine — though she’d reason to imagine she was heard.

  Master Saphienne – Wizard and Sorcerer, Transmuter and Hallucinator, Attainer of the Second Degree – calmed herself with a breath. When she started to read, she did so with eyes that began wide and curious.

  *   *   *

  Heed Saphienne: you, too, should brace yourself.

  …Or perhaps not. Unlike I, you were not born an elf of the woodlands.

  *   *   *

  Filaurel came to find her nine hours later, when the library was closing.

  Saphienne played off her overlong session by declaring that she’d been so engrossed in the subject she hadn’t noticed the time passing, laughing self-deprecatingly at her na?ve presumption that the book would be quick reading.

  This was a lie. It remained a lie as she bid a mild farewell to Filaurel and went back through the village, drawing up the hood of her outer robes to shadow her face.

  She had read the book in three hours; reviewed the commentaries in two; spent one further teasing out the subtext. For the remaining three, she had brooded, well aware of how long she had been sitting and pacing.

  Leaving the collection had daunted her.

  Materially, or immaterially, nothing had changed. All was exactly as it had been for thousands of years; the only difference was in how she could interpret what she saw, armed with insight so heretical in its implications that to repeat a single word would have her dragged before the High Masters.

  Why had they trusted her? Would they watch her more closely, now?

  …Had Elduin supposed to Lenitha that Saphienne would find out eventually, and that she would feel betrayed if she’d been prevented?

  No. No, this was an act of kindness. Lenitha had told Elduin the facts of Saphienne’s life as she had orchestrated them, and Elduin had insisted it would be wrong to let her continue in ignorance — for she had outpaced his early progress, and was owed what he had once been granted.

  When she arrived at the grove she kept walking, went out into the forest after sunset, her way visible by the moon in its third quarter.

  “‘…The Eye That Sees Itself…’”

  Myathaen had known what she was writing was explosive, and had buried her point so deftly that it had taken Shanaera fifty years of sublime scholarship to get at the occulted truth. Even she had only dared signpost the way, three decades ago.

  And the High Master hadn’t needed Shanaera’s commentaries.

  Saphienne thought of Hyacinth. “…Poor, poor thing…”

  Weighed down, she lengthened her stride until she came upon a fallen tree, pulling herself up to sit upon it as like in her childhood, when she would dwell on the edge of a clearing, estranged from the play she saw.

  This is what Saphienne comprehended:

  Spirits arose from the woodlands through the pooling magic of sunlight, sympathy of identity taking form as an unembodied spirit, shaped by the meanings attributed to the forest by elves. In this way, spirits were the personification of the elves’ relationship with their homeland and with the flora to be found therein. Bloomkith or woodkin, wherever a flower or tree was regarded as more than background foliage – whenever they were invested as symbols through which the elves interpreted the world, and themselves – there was the potential for a woodland spirit to wake.

  Elves shaped spirits, and possession by spirits gradually reshaped the elves.

  But…

  Hyacinth had shared how she’d been cultured by grafts given by older spirits, among them Wormwood. Young, she’d been unsteady in her identity at first, vulnerable to any person who knew of her existence and projected onto her; adulthood came when she took and cleaved to a name, a talisman for her chosen identity. So long as hers was kept secret, she was not wholly known, and so resistant to elven imposition.

  Except, she hadn’t chosen.

  Saphienne covered her face.

  Spirits couldn’t choose; not really. They were entirely decided by their natures, playing out the role of their selves in response to how they had been formed. Angry, they would perform anger until an external force altered their trajectory — and while their characters were dizzyingly complex, they were, in the end, not self-willed.

  A spirit could never do what Saphienne had done: reject what they knew in their roots to be true, make themselves otherwise than life directed.

  Hyacinth could not defy herself. She could not help herself.

  She was, now and forever, to be a stunted simulacra, a dream of a person who acted on passion and reason, lacking that still, immense inner reflection from which selfhood might, with great effort, be grasped. She was a character upon a stage; penned by many hands, she was nonetheless authored by every hand but her own.

  So did the wood elves make their partners, the real icons of the woodlands, pouring into the spirits their hopes and fears, their yearnings and sorrows — only to be possessed by them, and in walking with them to become ‘perfected,’ the self mirrored by its abstraction.

  An eye that saw only itself: that was what lay at the heart of the woodlands.

  For this, mortal elves suffered.

  And worst of all?

  Hyacinth still felt, and thought, and believed. She was under the illusion of having the same selfhood as an elf, only differently expressed…

  “…Perhaps of equal depth…”

  Yet she knew. Not consciously; no one had told the bloomkith. Hyacinth had been planted and watered to be the foil of Saphienne, and had followed close at her heel, imbibing of her that she might become her match, urged so by Wormwood to fulfil a dizzying design.

  “…You are fast bound to her. The faster bound, the safer you shall be. Why not resign yourself to her command? Set down your pride — allow the elf to take the role implied…”

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  And somewhere under Saphienne’s influence, she had grasped the same questions of selfhood as had plagued her, before the then-girl had learned about her wyrd.

  “…To become your familiar would be to receive stability of identity, my being thereafter maintained by yours. Part of your unconscious mind would find expression through me, and part of my mind would dwell in you…”

  That was why Hyacinth always took the form of Saphienne, and why she loved her so absolutely. Whatever more had brought them both together, the horror of the bloomkith was intimate, and delicate.

  Hyacinth wanted to be a person… and could not be her own.

  Therefore, Hyacinth wanted to be part of Saphienne.

  “…As moth is drawn toward the burning flame…”

  Saphienne wept for her.

  *   *   *

  Many elven visitors to this chamber doubt the provenance of the tale I am telling you. Those so inclined often accuse me of hagiography, discomfited by how the story differs to what they believe.

  Yet this resistance to seeing the person behind the anathema is as nothing compared to their refusal to accept what you have just heard. Almost all storm out, snatching up jewels and gold as they go.

  …But they return. And when they put down what they have taken, I tell them again what I now say to you:

  I cannot know for certain, but I am confident that most of this account was authored by Saphienne herself. There are additions, beyond those you hear from me, to imply it was completed by another… but the voice reflects the Saphienne I knew.

  And I am best placed to recognise her thoughts.

  I found no lies — and so I inserted one. All else is as she wished to share, disclosed without compromise, that the world will make of her whatever it is to be.

  *   *   *

  Until that discovery, Saphienne had never fully comprehended what Filaurel and her teachers had meant by the cost of knowledge. She struggled across the following days, kept her distance from Hyacinth as she radically reconceived the woodlands and her place within them, made to reexamine all that she had taken for granted.

  Tradition followed blindly had never been enough to account for the cruelty.

  She had hypothesised that the worst practices were perpetuated not simply by active oppression, but by the inertia that elders could not help but impose. Ever since she had wandered the primeval forest within Lenitha, Saphienne had tried to ignore what elven agelessness portended: that what scarred an elf would never fade away.

  Supposing that an elder had been raised in traumatic circumstances, and that Saphienne was right in thinking trauma not so different from Fascination… how could they do other than perpetuate what had been done to them? How could they even recognise that there was another way? If the suffering inflicted on them had come from the same hand as soothed their wounds – as had rocked their cradle – then what chance did they have not to regard the harm as a necessity of life?

  Humans, mortals: their tragedy was the inevitability of death. But the tragedy of elves was the life lived unending, lived not in the shadow of those who had come before, but in their light yet burning. Every travesty of kindness visited upon a child was still very much alive in the woodlands.

  From this, she had long suspected that the Luminary Vale was informed by the cults that preceded it.

  “…Magic was taught in cults — by cultists, to cultists. Most frequently, the object of their devotion was the eldest elf among them, by whom all others were enslaved… whether or not they believed they were slaves. What was practised was not Fascination as we recognise the discipline…”

  And what pained her most? The Luminary Vale was, she was now sure, sincerely trying to do good. At every level of elven society they had made improvements to the world of ancient times — such as by carving a prohibition against slavery into the first lessons in magic.

  But they taught in the likeness that had come before. Almon’s adversarial style; horror used to indelibly teach important lessons; subordination to the whim of authority; swift initiation into mysteries withheld from the many; all to create distance, insist on a remove, and dignify isolation. These were the methods that the eldest of elders had suffered, and while they did everything conceivable to make the future better for their descendants, they were who they’d been made to be.

  There had been progress in culture, in art, in abundance… yet the soil from which they were grown was limited in nourishment. Any too great a deviation from the ancient ways would not be tolerated, for the woodlands were, in the end, the protectorate of the Luminary Vale; the child was raised in the likeness of the parent.

  In her own childhood, Saphienne had resented the silhouette of this injustice. Why couldn’t the elders in the woodlands act against their nature – or nurture – and live for ways better than the ancient? Her refusal to accept their peace was the same impulse that had led her to do what Hyacinth could not, and reach beyond herself.

  …And spirits like Hyacinth were the reason that most wood elves didn’t do that.

  Replete with self-hatred, Saphienne felt sympathy for Tolduin. He was doing the best he knew how. He’d been reared to see the art of healing the mind as the excision of grief, and – like the woodlands – he thought providing for children materially was enough, for childhood was so very short.

  And, damn him, his care was not feigned. When the apostate spirit had possessed and saved Tolduin as a child, Tyrnansunna had imprinted her selflessness onto him, while the boy had perceived the bloomkith as a warm goddess of healing. Thus whatever life he might have led was stolen from him; thus his fate as a priest had been predetermined.

  Other spirits, accepted within the woodlands, had walked with him after — as they did with all physically mature wood elves. Only wizards, sorcerers, and priests accompanied them earlier, young enough to be more impressionable, but never so perilously young as Tolduin had been.

  Therein lay the problem.

  How wonderful Saphienne felt, to walk with Hyacinth! How affirmed she was, how connected to the world! To walk with a spirit was to escape oneself, and to share in what the spirit meant. With Hyacinth, that was a profoundly affecting liberation.

  However, had Hyacinth not been allowed to grow wild by Wormwood, so as to encourage Saphienne to exercise choice over her curse? Then Saphienne would have become a more conventional elf, sharing not in escape from the weight of herself and the woodlands, but in belonging to them.

  None of this was deliberate. Hyacinth hadn’t lied, when she swore not to change her mind without her consent. The imprint was from the intensity of intimacy alone.

  Few elves understood that walking with spirits of the woodlands swayed them into harmony with the woodlands. Saphienne grasped it, and she anticipated so did Shanaera, and Myathaen, and the High Masters — and whomever had authored the ancient ways, careful to restrict knowledge of them until elves were walking with spirits.

  Was that, perhaps, why Filaurel avoided the practice, fearing that it wore down the edges that sheltered her small rebellions?

  Avoiding pacification wasn’t Saphienne’s concern. Hyacinth was unruly, more apostate than her sisters; Saphienne could even demand her true name, shape her however she decided was right. No, the danger was that to walk with Hyacinth was to fall under the same, insidious influence as kept the woodlands what they were:

  Great or small, collective or personal, woodland spirits were a mirror. To walk with Hyacinth would be to turn inward, becoming a reflection, of a reflection, of a reflection.

  Iolas had been right. Hyacinth was bad for her.

  And it wasn’t Hyacinth’s fault.

  *   *   *

  Not all was hopeless.

  On a thunderous afternoon, Saphienne lay on her couch and brooded, lost in these monumental thoughts when Taerelle came into the house through the kitchen.

  “Prodigy.”

  She tilted her head. “Aren’t you supposed to be meditating–”

  Then the magician noticed the diviner’s absent gaze, feeling the magic that distracted Taerelle where she stared into the polished bowl with which she was scrying. Saphienne rose to cast a minor divination of her own, Second Sense, eliciting an assault by rippling colours and distorted sound, all manner of ghostly sensations shivering through her in synaesthesia until the spell stabilised and expanded her senses, rendering Taerelle’s spellcraft tangibly apprehensible.

  Shimmering white tinkled as it overflowed the bowl, stirred by observation. “…A spell of the Second Degree…”

  “Yes,” Taerelle vacantly answered, still awed.

  “What are you scrying?”

  The former apprentice approached the master, seating herself on the couch, maintaining stiff posture. “…The Thorny Vale; a small glade. I went there for the solstice festival, years back. I had a special experience, and I remember the grass and the trees vividly… everything has changed so little…”

  A flash of lightning startled her from her reverie, and she let the spell lapse.

  Proud beyond speech, Saphienne drew an unresisting Taerelle against herself, kissing her cheek as they embraced. She held her until the older woman began to sob, then caressed the back of her neck below her plait, soothing her as she had been soothed.

  “Congratulations, Master Taerelle. I’ve no doubt you’ll be confirmed.”

  Then the diviner coughed and withdrew, rubbing her nose. “This isn’t fair… we both cried when you succeeded…”

  “I’m too pleased.” Saphienne was; her friend was again her peer.

  “…Tragic little shit…”

  “Come now,” she teased her, “a wizard can do better than that. Surely you can think of a better way to reclaim your dignity?”

  Cool gaze shining with affection, Taerelle crossed her arms. “Master Saphienne?”

  “Yes, Master Taerelle?”

  “Do your own fucking cleaning.”

  They laughed together until they were shrieking.

  *   *   *

  Spring’s chill climbed toward summery heat, presaging other upheavals that were welcome diversion from existential dread.

  Although forbidden from teaching Taerelle, there was no rule against Saphienne recommending how she structure her revision, nor reminding her about any part of the syllabus if she was in error. Without revealing anything of the forthcoming examination, the master of two disciplines did her utmost to prepare the diviner, finally reciprocating a measure of the tutoring she’d received.

  Elsewise, they conferred about their applications to the Luminary Vale, Saphienne excited to share particulars of her transformation of Minina — almost a vegetarian! While Taerelle couldn’t follow most of what she’d derived, ‘Transmutation as Transition’ was certainly the most impressive thesis that any student of Almon had ever produced, sure to be an exemplar for centuries – if not a millennium – to come.

  What did Taerelle end up writing? ‘Pedagogy as Enchantment,’ wherein she explored how the broader education of a wizard or sorcerer could be facilitated by practical demonstrations of–

  “You’re using me as your thesis subject?”

  “After everything you’ve put me through? This once, prodigy, I deserve to sign my name to yours. Besides,” she said, softening the inherent compliment, “as long as we make a token effort, we’re both guaranteed acceptance — why try harder?”

  Later, Almon would boast that Master Taerelle had been so advantaged by his teaching that she’d been confirmed as a wizard and produced her thesis in less than a month, faster than even the infamous Master Saphienne.

  They let their old friend pretend.

  *   *   *

  As the torrential downpours eased and Taerelle’s hair turned blonde, both wizard and magician were busy with preparations. Sure to be welcomed into the Luminary Vale, they were organising a pause to their present lives, Saphienne securing approval for the house to remain theirs rather than being reassigned. That might have been controversial were they in a more western village, but there were no shortage of shelters in the Eastern Vale.

  Minina would be coming with Saphienne — Almon laughed when Saphienne asked whether the spider would be welcome. “You will have ample accommodation, Master Saphienne. I expect your aberrant arachnid will fit in with the oddities roaming the vale.”

  Hyacinth, too, could enter… if invoked.

  All else would be left behind, though not abandoned. However long Saphienne and Taerelle chose to study, they were to be engaged only by their undertakings — free from examinations, or even a formalised syllabus. Certain masters in the Luminary Vale taught on their areas of expertise, yet beyond these lectures, most learning transpired in conferences organised among peers, or through collaborative research.

  Centuries hence – perhaps sooner for Saphienne – they would be approached with tasks by their seniors in the vale. While all were free to refuse, advancement to positions of greater responsibility and esteem were contingent on one’s contributions. Taerelle was likely to be recruited into surveillance for a time, while Saphienne was warned by Vestaele that she would be coveted by competing interests.

  “Whomever you refuse,” the sorcerer told Saphienne as they walked Calamity, “will be mildly irked. Ordinarily this wouldn’t last, but you’re the most promising entrant since High Master Elduin, and every cabal will want your prestige. Your snubbing them will be remembered.”

  Throwing a stick for the drake, Saphienne sighed. “Your advice is to determine not who is most prestigious, but who is most influential; then to play the less important against each other for better conditions and considerations; finally, to take these generous offers to whomever I identified, asking for advice on how to politely decline them. Implicitly complimented, let my new superior smooth ruffled feathers.”

  “Good.” Vestaele was under no illusion that Saphienne would listen. “But, you want to know how best to avoid that game. What says your intuition, Master Saphienne?”

  She’d been pondering. “…Give them a narrative that lets them tell themselves my refusal is entirely unrelated to their competition. Seek boring work, that they would assume beneath me, but that’s in keeping with my personal history — that I could conceivably choose for understandably sentimental reasons. From there, be very quiet about whatever I go on to contribute to the Luminary Vale’s daily work, and redirect attention to my research.”

  “Excellent. There are several roles that–”

  “I’ve identified one.” Saphienne sank down as Calamity bounded back over, rubbing his floppy ears as she wryly acknowledged she was ensnared by her past. “Anyone who wonders why I chose it will easily find out about my first apprenticeship…”

  Her old friend laughed lightly. “I’m sure the head librarian will be happy to have you. Inglorious work, but someone has to do it…”

  At least Filaurel would take pride in her.

  *   *   *

  “Saphienne!”

  Head buried under a mound of pillows she’d pilfered from Celaena’s old home, Saphienne needed a moment to recognise it was morning — and then instantly knew the cause of the disruption as Taerelle crashed into her narrow bedroom.

  She rose slowly, braid pinned beneath her arms. “…Both letters? So soon?”

  Taerelle was indeed clutching two envelopes to her chest, still dressed in nightwear beneath her house robe; the diviner was vibrating. “Yes. A warden knocked on the door with them — they arrived via Translocation, marked as official correspondence.”

  “It’s only been a week; Master Illimun must have reviewed our applications immediately…” She wiped the sleep from her eyes as she yawned, ears fluttering. “…Do you think he bothered to read my thesis? Or yours?”

  Taerelle shrugged, her loose hair swinging from side to side as she almost danced on the spot. “He’ll have delegated that to his cabal — who even cares?”

  “I happen to–” She was being too literal. “…You’re right, that’s not what’s important. Give me mine.”

  Sure enough, the correspondence was secured against tampering by more than wax: even without the Second Sense, Saphienne felt the ward – resonant with Hallucination – that had been cast beneath the plain green circle. To read the response from the Luminary Vale, she would have to produce her seal. “Share my spellbook?” she suggested to Taerelle, reaching for the grimoire where it rested beside her bed.

  The two sat side by side as they studied the sigil, Saphienne being quicker to memorise the least spell. She didn’t interrupt her friend, waiting for Taerelle to nod before taking back her tome and setting it aside.

  “Together?” asked the diviner.

  “Let’s.”

  They each cast simultaneously, brandishing their marks upon the patches of green and white; the abjurations collapsed beneath their hallucinatory keys, waxes briefly flashing with distinct magical scripts before crumbling away.

  Then, the pair only stared.

  “…Are we both cowards, prodigy?”

  “Me more so: you’ve been waiting for this for longer than I’ve been alive.”

  Taerelle leaned against her. “Shouldn’t that mean I’ve had longer to prepare?”

  “You’re stalling.”

  “So are you.”

  Saphienne nudged her; she leaned on her as well. “…What if they’ve said no?”

  “We know they haven’t.” Yet Taerelle didn’t hasten to open her envelope.

  The coin purse was next to Saphienne’s spellbook, and she fetched out her precious talisman from within, pressed it into her reflexively clasping hand before she reclaimed the letter. “Sod it — we’re wizards, Master Taerelle.”

  That heartened the older woman. “We are, Master Saphienne.”

  They opened their responses and read.

  Taerelle’s letter was shorter, and she fell back on the bed, gaze contented where it rested upon the ceiling. “…I shan’t have you telling anyone that we ever doubted, prodigy. We knew from the start that we would be admitted. In fact, we read our acceptances while making breakfast.”

  Saphienne didn’t respond.

  “…Prodigy?” Anxiety drew Taerelle upright. “…Tell me you’ve been accepted by the Luminary Vale — tell me right now.”

  “I have.” Saphienne folded the letter shut.

  Taerelle relaxed, colour returning to her face. “Gods, what a tragic excuse for–”

  “My entry has been deferred.” She shook her head. “I’m to attend the Luminary Vale on my fortieth birthday. I presume you’re to report immediately?”

  The wizard had to fight to reply. “…Before the summer solstice… why did…”

  “I’m advised to take the next twenty years or so to enjoy non-magical pursuits.” Saphienne could only smile sadly as she faced Taerelle. “They didn’t give a reason, but I can guess. They want to be sure I’m mature…” That she was committed to living happily in the woodlands. “…And so they want to end your influence over me. It wouldn’t do, to have me turning to my former tutor for advice every day. This is to unappoint you; to sever us.”

  Not once since their meeting had Taerelle seemed small, but the child the elves believed her to be was lost. “…This is my fault? Was it my thesis?”

  “No: they’d have done it anyway.” She tossed the letter down with a defeated laugh. “Haven’t we learned? Wizards and sorcerers must have their solitude. That’s the orthodoxy. That’s the wisdom. That’s always been the way. That way, and no other way.”

  *   *   *

  A fortnight before the summer solstice festival, Saphienne accompanied Taerelle to the centre of the village, where the diviner met with Arelyn at the hall. The conjurer had received his response at the same time as they, and unlike Saphienne, his attendance was undeferred.

  Almon came to see his young friends off, giving a short speech that was listened to by passersby, the crowd growing as he held forth to fill the time until midday.

  When his attention was more on the onlookers than on his former students, Taerelle slipped over to Saphienne, setting down her luggage so that she could hug the younger woman. “I’m going to miss you. If I could delay–”

  “I wouldn’t let you.” Saphienne’s eyes were oddly dry.

  “You did for me, Saphienne.”

  “…And that might have been my mistake.” She forced a wan smile as she withdrew. “But probably not. Even if, I don’t regret it.”

  As the sun touched its zenith, they felt powerful Translocation magic gathering atop the steps to the village hall. Neither woman looked away from the other; there were more important wonders in that moment than portals.

  “Be good, prodigy.”

  “…I love you.”

  Taerelle shut her traitorous eyes. “I know, Saphienne. I feel the same way.”

  *   *   *

  The house was quieter, now.

  Saphienne would have to repaint the front door — grey was not her colour.

  Laelansa could make suggestions for the décor. She’d be arriving soon. That was something to look forward to, despite her worries about the festival.

  Saphienne settled into the chair that had been Taerelle’s, the impression left behind by her palpable in the calm.

  Yes; she would be glad to see Laelansa.

  …Only…

  Gathering up her blonde, plaited tail, Saphienne twisted it around her good hand.

  …What would she do with herself?

  How was she to live, if not in pursuit of the Great Art?

  End of Chapter 108

  Chapter 109 releases Tuesday the 27th of January.

  Thanks for reading!