Rain was lightly falling when Saphienne emerged from her family home — and she nearly walked right into Iolas and Celaena, where they were huddled on the doorstep under his umbrella.

Before she could say anything, both of her friends sighed in relief; Iolas offered Saphienne a weary smile as his anxiety lifted. “So, he didn’t end your apprenticeship.”

With a glance down at her robes, she nodded. “I had to work hard to convince him… but even if I’d failed, our master wasn’t actually going to–”

But Celaena interrupted. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?!” Scowling, her indignance did little to hide her deep concern. “I could have gone with you–”

Iolas nudged Celaena. “You know why — She was keeping you out of it in case she failed.”

“That wasn’t her decision to make,” Celaena sniffed, but she stepped up beside Saphienne and took her arm. “How do you think I would have felt, if it had all gone wrong, and I’d been powerless? If you’d brought me into things, at least I’d have had a reason to feel guilty.”

Saphienne clasped her hand, squeezing her fingers. “I’m not sorry I did it — but I’m sorry for upsetting you, Celaena.”

The older girl narrowed her eyes performatively, no resentment in them. “I’ll remember that.”

Worried that her mother might overhear them, Saphienne pulled the door shut and started down through the grove with Celaena, Iolas hovering nearby as he angled the umbrella to shield the girls at his own expense. Sighing at him, she gestured for Iolas to switch to the other side, and he chuckled as he did so, letting the rain fall across her as it – and she – willed; he laughed more loudly when Saphienne tossed back her hood to feel the rain on her wavy tresses — tickled by Celaena’s confusion.

Rather than pretend she was irritated, Celaena leaned closer, and she squeezed Saphienne’s hand back firmly. “…Odd bird.”

* * *

They shared as they went. Neither Celaena nor Iolas had been sure whose turn it was to walk with Saphienne, so they had met while waiting for her; Iolas had already explained everything relevant from the past two days.

When Saphienne clarified that Almon hadn’t wanted to end her apprenticeship, only move her to another master, Celaena found it so funny that she had to stop walking to contain her guffaws. Iolas had the opposite reaction, frowning with silent yet fierce distaste for the wizard’s petulance. Saphienne didn’t tell them the real reason that their master had wanted to pass her apprenticeship over to another teacher — nor did she share that she had received a letter from the Luminary Vale. She had decided that both friends were better not knowing, though with a different reason for each of them.

So mild was the weather than Iolas folded his umbrella and shook it out long before they reached their master’s home, and he went ahead of both girls as they entered the classroom.

Almon stood with a cup of tea beside his chair, and his eyebrows raised as he watched Saphienne come in. “Saphienne — the last one through the door?”

Before she could reply, Iolas gave a cold retort. “We arrived as a group.”

She lay a hand on his shoulder. “Our master knows that, Iolas.” She studied Almon with grim amusement. “He’s testing me. He wants to see whether I have the presence of mind to remember that I arrived early for this lesson, and to use my answer to judge whether or not I’ve told you both about what happened that day, and about yesterday’s meeting. Does this satisfy you, Master?”

Chuckling, the wizard waved the three in with his cup. “Amply.”

Celaena sat on the right before the chair, leaving Saphienne and Iolas to take the left and middle respectively. The writing boards hadn’t been laid out, still stacked beside the bookcases, but as Saphienne sat she noticed the older girl nevertheless opened her calligraphy set and readied her pens and inks. Meanwhile, Iolas took the time to hang his damp outer robe by the door before joining them.

Her eyes settled on her master as the others prepared. He was ignoring them, finishing his drink as he paced back and forth behind his chair. The wizard studied the teacup in his hand contemplatively, and then reached a decision with a nod to himself, ascending the stairs without another word.

“Did he forget something?” Iolas whispered as he sat.

“No.” She couldn’t tell whether Almon was performing for them, or simply indulging one of his whims. “He’s always prepared for lessons.”

A few minutes later the wizard descended again, carrying two cups in each hand. With the ease of one well accustomed to doing so, he deftly deposited his own, now replenished teacup on the arm of his chair, then bent down to hand a drink to each of them, ending with Saphienne. “I expect you know the subject of today’s lesson, now.”

She glanced at the tea, smiling despite herself. She didn’t answer, but instead turned to her peers. “He gave you both your preferred drinks, didn’t he?”

Celaena sniffed her green tea. “Yes… a divination? Is that what we’re studying?”

Iolas was wary. “Why the sudden hospitality, Master? Or is this part of the lesson?”

“Not part of the lesson, no.” The wizard sat and sipped his own brew. “Today’s lecture will be longer and dryer than usual. We will be covering Divination, yes… but the astute among you three will remember that I said you would be introduced to each of the other disciplines of magic across the first week.”

Saphienne sipped her tea; to her annoyance, it was exactly how she liked it. “So we’re covering two disciplines today… the other being Hallucination?”

“Curious…” Almon’s eyes roamed across her face for a long moment. “Why do you believe those two would make a good combination?”

“They appear to be inversions of each other.” She knew she was guessing, but decided to hazard her thoughts regardless. “One discipline portrays what is not, while the other reveals what actually is. My unfounded speculation is that each discipline shows us what the other isn’t.”

Reminiscence softened his response. “Your conjecture is wrong… however, my master did introduce Hallucination alongside Divination, so your guess wasn’t completely meritless.”

Celaena leant forward. “Which are we studying, then? Transmutation, Translocation, or Fascination?”

Iolas spoke up. “Translocation would be my guess.”

His answer pleased his master. “Correct, Iolas — has your father shared knowledge with you ahead of time?” He smirked at the boy’s surprise. “Yes child, of course I know his chosen art.”

Vexed, Iolas folded his arms. “…Once I told him I was going to try for wizardry, he watched what he said around me. But before then, he did once mention that the two disciplines share a lot in common.”

“They do.” Almon swirled his tea in his cup, grinning. “But that isn’t the reason they’re being taught together.”

Enlivened, the wizard stood, setting his cup down as he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. “There are eight disciplines of magic. Every wizard worth the title is proficient with them all — and every wizard of any significant accomplishment specialises in a single discipline. Saphienne, what does this imply?”

She had been thinking about his past, and how it informed on the wizard she knew. “…Your skill with Translocation is lacklustre.”

Almon actually laughed. “Ah, and now you’re entirely correct. No wizard is equally talented in all disciplines.” He swept his hand across the books waiting on shelves and floor. “These texts will take you years to comprehend, and they are but an introduction to the Great Art. Most students of wizardry – once they have attained sufficient familiarity to know their strengths – select two disciplines to study more lightly, that they may pursue their chosen calling in greater depth. Can either of you two,” he addressed the others, “name my weakest discipline?”

“This is a trick question,” Celaena said, confident. “You want us to assume it’s Divination, since you’re teaching it together with Translocation, but you’ve stressed how important Divination is to wizardry — so it can’t be your worst. In fact, is Divination one of your strongest disciplines, Master?”

“Well remembered!” He awarded her a small bow. “No wizard who neglects Divination will be accepted into the Luminary Vale. My weakest discipline is Transmutation, which we will cover another day.”

“Why,” Saphienne wondered aloud, “do wizards always introduce one of their weaker disciplines alongside Divination?”

“They do?” Iolas asked, not following.

“They do,” Almon confirmed. “Saphienne has intuited it from my admission about my master — and what she has inferred about how I first learned the Great Art. But as for the reason,” he went on, “I cannot explain it to you fully, not so early on. Part of the answer is to do with the comparative difficulty in preparing spells of different disciplines, while another is because Divination is best illustrated alongside another discipline.” He set his teacup aside. “My motive for the choice is simply to get Translocation and Divination out of the way at the same time — since their principles are not taught through demonstration.”

“…Which is why this lesson is going to be duller than the others. I see.” Satisfied, Iolas tasted his tea at last. “Then, thank you: this is quite good.”

“I should clarify,” their master said, raising his hand in caution. “Sufficiently potent divinations and translocations are as astonishing as other feats of magic: just because their principles are abstract, do not mistake either discipline for boring.”

Celaena was defensive. “We know the difference, Master. We’ve all had to work at things that aren’t immediately rewarding.”

“Very well.” Rolling up his sleeves, Almon returned to his feet. “Warning given, let’s see what drama we might yet wring from today’s subjects, shall we?”

* * *

The discussion that followed was long and winding, more a philosophical interrogation of the concept of truth and the contingent nature of observable fact than a concrete lesson in the principles of magic. Despite what she had said, Celaena showed signs of frustration as the debate wore on, and even Iolas grew tired with the provocative way Almon asked simple questions and then dismantled their answers.

Saphienne said little, mostly listened and reflected. She knew what Almon was doing — he was using the irony of feigned ignorance to get at inconsistencies in how they thought about the world. Filaurel had taught her in a similar way, though with more gentleness. And the content under consideration was not too far from what Nelathiel had introduced during Saphienne’s visit to the woodland shrine, ultimately arriving at the same key insight.

“Faith,” Almon concluded, “is therefore the prerequisite of truth.” He abruptly rounded on Saphienne. “Let us see whether your reservedness was from confusion or prior understanding, child: explain what this means.”

“Truth doesn’t exist materially.” She rolled her shoulders as she answered, her mind on her earliest lessons in the library. “We can attempt to establish fact by repeated observations of the world around us, and so have varying degrees of confidence in our facts, but even supposedly objective facts might be disproven by further measurement and expanded understanding. Truth, in comparison, is a value we assign to information. Whether or not we consciously know it, when we say something is true, we’re saying that we believe it — that our understanding of the world and our place within it has made us believe. Yet,” she explained, “our understanding of the world and ourselves is always imperfect and incomplete. Even what we believe we understand could be completely wrong.”

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“I know I exist,” objected Iolas.

“Perhaps,” Saphienne allowed, “but what else do you know for sure? What’s to say you’ve not spent every moment trapped by a fa– trapped in a Hallucination spell, cast by an evil wizard?”

Celaena sighed heavily. “It seems unlikely… but judging it likely or unlikely is based on our observations up until now, which are hypothetically caused by the hallucination, and controlled by the evil wizard. Everything we think we know beyond the self-evident experience of our own existence could be wrong.”

“Practically,” Iolas countered, “we can’t live like that.”

“And we don’t,” Saphienne agreed. “We choose to believe that this isn’t all a Hallucination spell, that the world isn’t going to fall apart at any moment. But the fear of not really knowing is still there. And it also applies to how we understand ourselves — which is why we’re often panicked and angry when we’re shown we’re not quite who we believe we are, I think.”

Almon was standing behind his chair, and he leant against it as he quoted. “‘I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw or heard or felt came not but from myself; and there I found myself more truly and more strange.’” He let the verse sink in. “What does all of this imply?”

Uncomfortable, Iolas rolled his empty teacup in a circle on the floor. “…We can talk ourselves into believing anything…”

“No,” Saphienne countered, “that’s not it. We don’t choose all of what we believe. You don’t choose to have faith in yourself and the world — you grow up with it already made for you, along with everything else we pick up on as children. We all know ourselves as elves because we grew up as elves.”

Celaena folded her hands together. “Are some truths self-evident, then? Like our experience of our own existence?”

That question drew Saphienne’s full attention, and she frowned. “If self-evident truths exist,” she hesitated, “then it would be very difficult to tell them apart from truths we’re so attached to – truths so fundamental to how we understand ourselves and the world – that we can’t contemplate them being choices. For that reason alone, I think the only truth it might be safe to believe in is the truth that we exist… but even then…”

Unwilling to contemplate it any further, Iolas fixed their master with a tired stare. “Is the whole point of this that Divination magic can’t reveal the truth? That there’s no truth to be found, only things to be seen and experienced, and what we then make of them?”

Drumming his fingers, Almon eventually shook his head. “Answering yes or no would be misleading. Contemplating that question is fundamental to the discipline of Divination and, by extension, to all of the Great Art.”

“A mystery.” Iolas let the cup roll to a halt; his weariness was palpable. “Not intending to be disrespectful, Master, but this sounds a lot like what is taught at the woodland shrines.”

“So it does.” The wizard wasn’t offended. “What’s the difference?”

Celaena knew. “What we choose to put our faith in… and how well we understand the act of having faith…” Her pause elicited a nod of encouragement from Almon. “…We have to be aware that everything arises from ongoing acts of faith, and be aware of the limits of our understanding. A wizard’s faith doesn’t have a god or goddess behind it…”

Iolas breathed in sharply, and sat up. “…Magic. A wizard has faith in the Great Art, don’t they?”

There, Saphienne understood the lesson. “…There are self-evident truths: finding them is what the Great Art is all about. But Divination spells won’t reveal them to us… not directly.” Her eyes became lost in the wizard’s blue robes. “None of the disciplines can. No work of magic will. We’re pursuing the truths that lie behind the world, and from which magic arises. We can discern their existence by the existence of magic, feel for them using magic, but…”

Almon bowed to them. “Transcendental, self-evident truth cannot be reached through the casting of spells. Nor can it be taught. You experience the truth of your own existence; so too, you must experience the truths that comprise our pursuit.”

No longer frustrated, Iolas’ gaze was as intense as a woodland icon. “Do they really exist? Or are they metaphorical? Is the unrelenting pursuit of them the point?”

Their master’s smile was unusually kind. “Should you cast your first spell, you will have answered that question. I cannot tell you the answer. All I may do for my apprentices is ease the way, so that they may engage with the mystery, and accomplish the act of mysticism necessary to comprehend the Great Art.”

“So all of this,” Celaena asked, complaint rising, “wasn’t really about Divination?”

“Saphienne hit on something earlier.” Almon came around his chair, and clasped his hands together. “One of the many methods to outline a subject is to show what it is not. Divination is not truth; divinations cannot reveal the truth; yet the practice of casting Divination spells and engaging with the mysteries they imply can lead to truth. You now understand, intellectually, why diviners cannot simply cast spells to deepen their comprehension of the Great Art.”

“Then,” Saphienne pressed him, “what can Divination teach us?”

He waved to the side of the room, where the writing boards awaited them. “Only a fool would give a definitive answer… but if you make ready to record my words, I will share with you what little we comprehend.”

* * *

Saphienne’s notes on Divination filled a dozen pages by the time Almon was finished speaking, and the conjecture she added later that day would expand them to thirty. Even so, the principles that governed the discipline were easily expressible, for all their subtlety.

Divination was defined as the discipline of magic that bestowed information, whether through supplementing perception or by directly imparting knowledge. Anything could be subject to a Divination spell – even abstract ideas – but not everything could be accurately divined. The danger of the discipline was that divinations could go wrong in many ways, and when they failed, it was seldom obvious.

First, Divination was constrained by complexity. The more complex the subject of a question, including the degree to which the question itself lay open to interpretation, the less accurate the resulting divination would be. More powerful Divination spells were able to engage with more complex questions with greater accuracy, which meant that a diviner who had attained the Third or Fourth Degrees could answer questions that would stymie an average wizard or sorcerer. But – as Iolas’ father had explained – a better solution was to simplify the question that the divination sought to answer, which meant every capable diviner primarily focused on framing their questions incisively.

Second, and much like what they had learned about wards, Divination spells were constrained by the understanding of the wizard who cast them. If a diviner asked a question that invited an answer they were incapable of understanding, the Divination spell would fail. A very good diviner might notice, but the odds were slim, as the spell would usually give the closest answer that they could understand — whether or not it was correct.

Third, and most insidiously, was what Almon called the problem of context.

“Divinations can only answer questions that lie within the context of the wizard who made the spell – insofar as that context was incorporated into it – along with the context of the wizard who cast it.” He paused to let them finish writing, waiting until he had their attention before he proceeded. “What wizards cannot conceive of, no spell can see; what wizards can conceive of, a spell can only see in the way they can conceive.”

Saphienne was aware of Iolas and Celaena sharing a confused look, and then that they were staring expectantly at her — as was their master. She closed her eyes to think. “So if a wizard asks a question with an answer she can’t understand, the spell will answer with whatever answer is closest that she can understand. But if a wizard tries to divine a subject… and that subject has a whole side to it that she is completely ignorant about… then the divination will proceed as though that side doesn’t exist?”

“Correct. Are you confused by the implications?”

Celaena and Iolas both answered “Yes.”

Laughing, the wizard clapped his hands, and Saphienne opened her eyes to see he was tapping his armrest while studying them.

“Let us play a game,” he said, easing forward. “Saphienne, ask me questions as though you are a diviner. You are seeking to find out what is in my pocket. I will explain how the spell might reply, assuming for now that it is powerful enough to handle issues of complexity.”

Caught up in the challenge, she set her writing aside, and leant back on her palms. “For the purpose of illustration… ‘What is in your pocket?’”

“The spell,” he answered, “tells you that my pocket contains air, twenty pieces of paper, a pound of lint, two pens, and a leather pouch.”

She smiled. “I never specified which pocket, of which garment. I don’t even know how many sets of robes you own. ‘What is in the inner pocket of the left breast of the outer robes currently worn by my Master?’”

“A piece of lint, and a folded piece of paper.”

There, she paused. “Repeating my previous specification, is there writing on the paper? No — are there markings, made in ink, on the paper?”

“There are no markings made in ink on the paper.” His eyebrows raised.

“…Are there markings on the–”

“Yes; and let us assume you ask what they look like,” he replied, “and the spell reveals to you a drawing of a tree. You see it as being made with ink.”

She began to fathom how the spell worked. “But I know there isn’t ink on the paper. Some other substance has been used to mark the paper — something strange that I don’t know about, so I see it as written in the closest substance that I’m familiar with. And, perhaps what I’m being shown isn’t actually a depiction of a tree.” She understood what came next. “So, what else is in your pocket, that I can’t even imagine?”

“For the sake of this hypothetical,” Almon mused, “let us say a small, vicious creature, completely unlike any you have ever encountered before, that is tasked with protecting the paper.”

“How dissimilar must it be to–”

“Beyond the bounds of your imagination, as informed by your experience. Perhaps,” he mused, “the creature is made of living shadow.”

She wondered about that. “What would have happened if I’d divined for the presence of shadows in your pocket?”

“The spell would first have told you there are no shadows; with a better phrased divination, that it is too dark for shadows; and had you asked what shadows would be in the pocket were it to be opened to the light in this room, the spell would have listed the shades that would be present.” He looked to the other apprentices. “And if she had then divined the objects which cast each shadow?”

Next to her, Iolas answered. “The spell would tell her there was a shadow not cast by an object — but only if she could understand what that meant. Otherwise, it would give whichever misleading answer was closest to her understanding… by saying it was cast by something.”

Saphienne mulled over the problem. “Does a Divination spell rearrange the mind to fulfil its purpose, and that’s why it’s limited by the mind’s capacity and content?”

“So it has been theorised,” Almon murmured. “With the caveat that, where understanding is incorporated into a spell by the one who created it, anyone casting the spell may benefit from the understanding it contains.”

Curious, Celaena asked “Is that added knowledge deliberate?”

“Not always…” The wizard hummed thoughtfully. “…If we were to return to a topic from another day: modern formulations of the Second Sight show Conjuration and Invocation as distinct, when much older Divination spells do not. You recall my favourite theory for why disciplines have specific colours? Imparted understanding, intentional and accidental, neatly explains it all.”

“Then…” Saphienne felt endless fields for exploration spreading out before her, wild and alluring. “…Could there be undiscovered disciplines of magic, affecting the world in ways we cannot understand and do not perceive, which are completely hidden from us?”

“Not undiscovered disciplines,” Almon corrected her. “The disciplines are a meaningful framing device for spells, based on significant distinctions in the magic we observe in the world. Finding new manifestations of magic, including previously unnoticed distinctions, can lead to the disciplines being revised… but disciplines do not exist until defined and adopted.”

Tilting her head, Celaena asked “Are the disciplines defined– rather, is our tradition of magic defined by the Luminary Vale?”

“Insofar as the syllabus you must study is decided there, yes. Beyond that,” Almon emphasised, “the settled consensus of the Luminary Vale is of paramount importance, but not beyond challenge. Every advancement once began because a wizard or sorcerer disagreed with an accepted explanation, and persuaded their peers there was a better answer.”

Yet Saphienne was thinking about her first magical discovery, and the way in which Almon had treated it as sacrosanct. “But, returning to Divination, and its blindness to the truly unknown…” She hunched forward, studying her master very carefully. “…That’s why wizards guard their secrets, isn’t it? What no one else knows about cannot be accounted for using divinations. It’s an advantage, should one wizard have to contest another.”

“Correct.” He slowly stood. “Candidly, Saphienne? Had I attempted to divine whether you would find the clearing, my divinations would have misled me… because I never could have conceived of it. By sharing your method, and by my sharing it with the Luminary Vale, the reach of elven Divination has been extended for many others.”

Celaena pursed her lips, more wondering to herself than deliberately asking her master. “What if you had divined a different question? Might you have asked ‘Will Saphienne discover a method to find the clearing without using magic?’ What would have happened?”

“Ah.” He paced to the window. “And so we now move – to phrase it appropriately enough – from Divination to Translocation. Having grappled with the practicalities of what is and isn’t…” The wizard stopped, hands upon the sill. “…We now must answer questions about when and where. Are you eager to have your future divined, Celaena?”

Celaena hesitated.

“How about you, Iolas? No?” He turned around, silhouetted by the light. “What about you, Saphienne? Do you wish to learn what you will become?”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t know. You wouldn’t be teaching me if you knew.”

“Indeed. But then,” the wizard mused, holding the lapels of his robe, “the real question is why I don’t know, isn’t it?”

Playing along, she pointed to her notes. “I think that’s easily explained: you clearly can’t imagine my future.”

“Perhaps. But isn’t there another consideration, one we haven’t touched on?”

“Such as?”

“Choice,” Iolas said, quite timidly. “We haven’t really considered choice.”

End of Chapter 51