On the night before her next lesson with Almon, Saphienne set about reasoning through what she would say in her essay.

She was not in a rush: she never had any difficulty putting what she understood into words – assuming she did understand – and so she knew that whatever needed saying could be written out quickly. Were it just as simple as writing what she believed, she was confident she could produce her essay within the hour.

But as she stood by her bedroom windowsill and watered the freshly repotted hyacinth now flourishing upon it, Saphienne was sure that sharing how she really felt would see her apprenticeship immediately ended.

She drank the remaining water from the cup she held, studying her appearance in the night-dark glass in front of her; she looked far less angry than she felt. Saphienne supposed that was fortunate. Filaurel, at least, was proud she had grown better at restraining herself, no longer the same grieving child who had sneered in anger on the library steps.

There was a certain irony in it. Becoming an accomplished liar was not generally considered a laudable attainment in elven society. Yet Saphienne was forced to be one, compelled to deceive by circumstance — the harm done to her when they took Kylantha away compounded by moral harm.

And that harm would worsen.

The fraught path leading her through the woodlands had been illuminated by her conversations with Nelathiel, Filaurel, and Athidyn. Saphienne would forevermore have to represent herself as someone she was not. She would always have to hide her apostasy from the community that surrounded her, from people whom she believed – whom she knew – were wrong.

Never mind her intelligence; Saphienne had far better reasons to consider herself superior to them, had all the justifications for which she could ever ask. Whether or not she could call herself selfless — her beliefs were just. That was the inescapable conclusion she had come to, on the day she had read the ancient poem and sat in the lovely garden. Anyone who understood what she did wouldn’t blame her for looking down on the benighted elves of her village.

But the moment she let herself feel she was better than them?

Then, she would fall to moral hazard. No matter what form her descent took — it would be irresistible. To place herself above her people was to hold them in contempt, contempt that would fester, contempt that could only lead to preferencing herself before them. Together with the ability to deceive, to lie, to manipulate? Whether or not she attained mastery of the Great Art, she was certain to become a terrible person.

Saphienne was simply not allowed to be good.

Yet the spirits and the Luminary Vale demanded she pretend — convincingly.

Seeing the ire in her own gaze, Saphienne had enough self-awareness by then to question whether or not she should become a wizard. If her green eyes were doomed to become jaded, wouldn’t it be better to learn from history, and bow out before she accrued the power to cause serious harm? Filaurel had only wanted her to become an apprentice wizard so she would have leeway to be angry and difficult while she matured…

…What did she want?

Thoughtfully, Saphienne went to where she had hung her robes upon the door, fetching out the priceless coin that Kylantha had given her.

Months ago, she had done as her best friend had shown her — had made a wager to decide her fate. She previously told herself it was chance that had pushed her through the doors to the library, but now Saphienne wondered: were the coin to have landed the other way, would she have done what she later did, and flipped it over? Had she already made her choice to become a wizard, even before she sought her apprenticeship?

Was it even a choice at all? Saphienne wasn’t sure. She had experienced losing her mind, knew how it felt to believe she was making a decision that she was powerless to resist, and it had seemed much like sanity at the time. There was every possibility that all the moments which followed had been unavoidably set in motion by her separation from Kylantha.

But then, that was a foolish thread to pull upon, for where would it end? Their friendship had first come about because she was an outsider by nature; and her being an outsider owed much to the deficiencies of her mother. To say she was always powerless before herself was to abdicate accountability in favour of endless victimhood — and whether or not she was a victim, she refused to remain so.

Her smile to herself in the window was another sneer of grief.

That was what she wanted: to never again be so powerless that she couldn’t resist. What a foolish notion! What grand and delusional naivety! She had already accepted there was nothing she could do to change or defy the ancient ways, not even were she to become a wizard, and that was before she had learned that another had tried.

Why, then, should she desire to become a wizard?

What was the point?

* * *

Almost a week before she asked herself that question, Saphienne had gone back to visit Gaeleath at their studio in the tented pavilion.

The sculptor had been hard at work when she arrived, singing to the medium before them as their hands roughly shaped it, redistributing all the excess sandstone to one point, there to be easily cut away. She waited quietly until they were done, watching as the glittering stone sheared off in a single tap and thudded onto the floor.

“Good morning, Saphienne.”

She smiled; they had known she was in the entranceway. “Good morning Gaeleath. What’s this one going to be? Do you know yet?”

Ever the contradiction, Gaeleath was dressed in rugged, masculine style that day, but had applied vibrant lipstick and eyeshadow that were decidedly feminine. They grinned at her across their shoulder as they answered. “This one will be an abstract work; an exploration of being through struggle and contrast. I feel compelled to do something very few will appreciate, after all the time I spent on my exhibit for the solstice festival.”

Fortunately for Saphienne, the painstakingly beautiful, explicit statue had been moved elsewhere. “I’m sure all that hard work will earn you some public acclaim,” she replied, her even tone concealing her pun. “Where are you storing your exhibit, anyway?”

“Right now? Over at the crafting hall — one of the apprentice tailors has been kind enough to dress the figures.” They set down their chisel as they turned around, resting the weight of the hammer on their shoulder. “Have you ever been to the crafting hall?”

She shook her head.

“How about the gallery? No?” This surprised them. “But you were apprenticed to three

crafters before you landed with me…”

“They all have their own workshops,” Saphienne shrugged. “Eletha is a master jeweller, and Jorildyn and Ninleyn are close enough that they spend all their time producing clothes and shoes for the village.”

Her admission made the sculptor’s eyebrows raise even higher. “…Well, now I feel the fool. I’d wondered why it was, that none of the sculptors in the hall had been willing to take you on.”

Saphienne blinked. “They weren’t?”

Gaeleath laughed at her expression, swinging the hammer down to join the chisels on their tool bench. “I think they would have been — had you asked them. Did Filaurel arrange all your apprenticeships?”

She frowned, pacing toward the latest sculpture. “…I didn’t feel like she did. When I told her I wanted to study tailoring, she told me she would think about who best to ask; she told me the next day that she knew just the right person to approach. Then when I asked after jewellers in the village, Filaurel said that none of them were as capable as Eletha, but that she wouldn’t take me on as an apprentice.” Saphienne’s gaze grew brighter as she spoke. “Filaurel was the one who suggested I ask to watch.”

“And the shoemaker?”

“Ninleyn was seeking an apprentice: she hadn’t had much luck keeping them. She came looking for me when she heard I was interested…” Saphienne grinned. “…Probably from Filaurel. Which only leaves you.”

Grinning in return, Gaeleath put their hands on their hips and inclined their head. “Your Filaurel asked for recommendations from the librarian of the village I was in, and he asked me if I’d like a change of scenery. I was already packed when Filaurel sent the invitation to meet you.”

Marvelling at the effort her mentor had gone to, Saphienne hugged herself. “Why would she–”

“Because you were too gifted to waste on the merely average, I’d say.” Their voice lowered in their earnestness. “Filaurel told me you were special in her letter, and stressed that you were certain to make good of our time together. I wasn’t convinced until I interviewed you — until I understood you.”

Of course Filaurel would want only the best for her.

“Well,” Gaeleath chuckled, “you should go along to the crafting hall. Or at least visit the gallery adjoining it — nothing means more to an artist, than to see their work is appreciated.”

Saphienne shifted with unease, dropping her arms to her side. “I’m not sure I feel that way about my own art. I don’t want to be praised.”

“For now.” They went back to their work, taking their time as they chose which of the available chisels to employ next. “You’re driven to make art because you want to understand yourself — but once you make a work that shows you to yourself? Then you’ll want to find people who value that work, because what they’ll really be valuing is you.”

“You think they’ll know me through my work?”

“They’ll see far more than you would let them,” the sculptor replied, “and you’ll be humbled by how much they like who they see. Art bonds us together, Saphienne. To truly embrace the work of an artist is to become a little bit like them — and to sculpt the life of another, and be sculpted by them in turn? That’s a far greater art than even the Great Art.”

To hear that sentiment from a former apprentice in wizardry was unexpected… though less than it would have been, had she not known Gaeleath as well as she did. Or as well as she thought she did. “Gaeleath…”

They had selected a claw chisel of medium size, and lifted their hammer as they answered. “Saphienne?”

She drew in a deep breath. “My master told me: your apprenticeship was stopped.”

Chisel lined up against the stone, Gaeleath hesitated.

“…That’s not strictly correct.” They lowered their tools and turned, crossed their arms as they leant back against the edge of the plinth and averted their eyes. “I have been told the condition for proceeding. For now, I decline to do so.”

Never before had Saphienne seen Gaeleath so guarded. “I’m not upset that you misled me; you warned me that you lie to everyone.”

Their smile for her was fond, but they were still tense. “I’m glad.”

“Every deception rests on a truth…” She searched her teacher’s face for the reason. “…Which makes me think you already told me. Gaeleath, why won’t you choose a discipline to focus on?”

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The would-be wizard closed their eyes. “We’re not allowed to talk about this, Saphienne. I can’t tell you anything that might affect your apprenticeship. The art of sculpture is the only of my arts that I may share with you.”

She exhaled. “I had you wrong. I thought you were indecisive… but that’s not who you are. Not at all.”

“We are who we perform as, so we must take pride in our performance.”

The way they spoke had none of their usual levity. Saphienne caught the outline of the wizard who might have been, first glimpsed in their indifference to expectations of gender, more clearly visible in the incomplete sculpture that loomed over them, looming all the taller for the like works that littered the ground behind the pavilion, deliberately undecided in imitation of their maker.

“Not uncertainty…” She whispered the word. “…Not like Almon. But your magical praxis won’t let you choose a discipline.”

Sighing, the sculptor tossed their tools to the floor and moved away. “If you won’t leave the matter be–”

“I will.” She blocked their path to the exit. “I won’t ask you any more questions about wizardry. Learning sculpture from you is enough.”

Gaeleath held Saphienne’s gaze for what felt like a very long time.

Then, they smiled. “Ah, but you’re a better child than I was. You’re not as proud as me: you won’t refuse to listen when you’re told. You’ll rise to meet their expectations, say only what should be heard, and go much further than I ever will.”

She recognised their warning. Yet, she was still curious about one thing. “May I ask you a personal question, instead?”

“I may answer a personal question.”

The way she phrased the question mattered. “Your name is very distinctive… were you named after an obscure historical figure?”

Her teacher erupted with laughter, immediately restored to good cheer as they flushed scarlet to the tips of their ears. “Ah, Saphienne!” They clasped her shoulders as their own shook. “You must be quite confused! But it’s not what you’re thinking. When I chose a new name for myself, I didn’t know what you’ve now learned — I’m not named in imitation! There are many old names with the same ending.”

Deep down, her disappointment was unexpected. “You chose your own name?”

“I changed it to have a modern, masculine prefix and an ancient, feminine suffix.” Gaeleath giggled at her expression. “I hadn’t the slightest clue! I thought the ending was as generational as any other, and had fallen out of use in the traditional way. I picked it because I liked the symmetry: the same sound appears twice, but the old form is written the opposite way around.”

Several questions were outraced by an idle thought. “Did they change the way it was written because–”

“Who dare say? Best not to ask such questions.”

* * *

Sat now on her bed, Saphienne ran her thumb over the emblem of the tree on the coin, her mind still on her essay — and that revealing exchange with Gaeleath. The longer she dwelled on what her teacher had imparted, the more she decided there were other reasons to want to become a wizard.

Filaurel had shared that she only focused on what she could achieve: everyone who went on to do good because of her efforts gave her justification for continuing in hope against a dark background. Saphienne wasn’t sure she could live for that.

But she could live for spite.

Not against any one person. Not in grief for Kylantha, nor in vengeance for herself. Saphienne would become a wizard simply to spite the people who would stop her if they knew who she really was, be they elf or spirit. She would become a wizard because Filaurel was unable, and Gaeleath denied, and Faylar refused.

That was why she would place herself at hazard, she promised herself. And no matter the moral hazard that awaited her, Saphienne wouldn’t justify the paranoia of the Luminary Vale by becoming an evil wizard. She refused to look down upon the misguided and flawed people who nevertheless tried their best, people like Nelathiel, like Athidyn…

…Perhaps, even like Almon.

Saphienne tossed the coin up in the air – watched it tumble edge over edge – and caught it. When she slapped it down on the back of her hand she called a side, but she didn’t check whether she was right before she reached for her purse — only tipped it back inside without a glance.

* * *

I have seen that look before. You think you know how this story ends.

Of course you should. Whether or not you believed the tales of the treasure now spreading out before you, the name of her story is what drew you here. I myself told you what Saphienne has been called: ‘The Elf Who Would Become A Dragon.’

Yet that is only one of two titles. I invite you to remember both, and to keep each equally in mind as you regard her struggles beneath irony’s light.

What makes her story tragic is more than you imagine.

* * *

When the rising sun next roused Saphienne from her sleep, the young prodigy still hadn’t written a single word of her essay.

She considered her options carefully as she took a leisurely bath and dressed. There were many different viewpoints she could profess, and so long as whatever she wrote evidenced what the Luminary Vale wished to see, they were all much alike. Any lie she chose could be more than convincing enough — so which did she most want to perform?

While preparing breakfast she made her decision, and she took out her calligraphy kit when she sat down at the kitchen table, writing her answer with one hand while she ate buttered toast with the other. She didn’t need long.

If Saphienne was to be compelled to lie, then she was going to do it brilliantly.

* * *

That Iolas kept her waiting didn’t surprise Saphienne, and she waved off his mumbled apologies as she embraced him at the bottom of the grove. The day was bright and dry, which had allowed Iolas to forgo his umbrella, and he had replaced it with a heavy leather pack that dug into his shoulders. He grunted under the weight of the paper within as he walked with Saphienne.

“How many pages?” she asked him.

“I lost count.” His yawn told her he wasn’t exaggerating. “I spent the past two days rewriting it all from the start… needed to make it legible. Not sure whether it’s coherent.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“What about yours?” He glanced at her satchel, which seemed no fuller than usual. “How many?”

But Saphienne only smiled.

* * *

“…And so here we are gathered once more.”

Time apart from his students had refreshed and revitalised Almon, leaving him enthusiastic enough to have put on a robe of sky blue which glimmered with hallucinatory stars along its well-stitched seams. He adjusted the hang of its long sleeves as he lounged within his chair, his tight smile and sharp eyes warning his apprentices that he was eager to tear into whatever they had written. Were his demeanour not clue enough, Peacock was perched inquisitively on the back of his chair, whistling in excitement, his eyes alert and aglow with his master’s whimsy.

“Where shall we start?” The wizard scanned across their faces, unconcealed anticipation in his own. “Celaena! While we wait for Iolas to finish unpacking, why don’t you show me what you’ve written.”

Obliging him, Celaena produced her work: twenty-six pages of neat, utilitarian script in bright blue ink. “Do you wish me to read it, Master?”

“Best not to set the precedent,” he answered, eyeing the growing pile before Iolas. “Can you summarise your key insight?”

Saphienne watched Celaena adjust her outer robes, aware her friend was nervous from the way she clasped her hands beneath them: she would be squeezing her fingers quite hard. “I think wisdom comprises knowledge of the best practices by which we might achieve the greatest good for the greatest number. The whole of the woodlands is more important than any one individual, and our use of magic must be guided by that principle. No one person has the right–”

“Yes, yes. Your answer is quite conventional.” Although he had lost all interest, he nevertheless queried her diligence. “I assume your essay holds a defence against the obvious criticisms? Tyranny of the majority, the privileging of the average over the exceptional, who defines what is good, how it is measured — that sort of thing?”

His immediate familiarity with her reasoning unnerved Celaena. “…I think so, Master. I related the general principle to specific scenarios that you raised; for example, when you asked us what we would do if a new sorcerer–”

“Good, good.” Almon’s attention – and dismay – was focused on the tower of paper on the floor before Iolas. “We shall, regrettably, move on. I see Iolas took my comment about your predecessor as a challenge — that threatens to be about three books, by a conservative estimate.”

Mild embarrassment made Iolas cough. “I wrote single-sided, so–”

“Ah, so merely one and a half books.” Almon shared a look with Peacock. “That’s far more reasonable.”

The bird chirped with laughter.

Iolas remained undeterred. “The last ten pages summarise all of the rest, Master. I tried to keep them interesting and concise.”

“Then why,” Almon asked, sitting forward with withering scorn, “didn’t you simply bring the summary? Are you making an argument from exhaustion? Seeking victory through numbers? Or is the weight of your argument all that recommends it?”

Iolas channelled his tiredness into a glare. “That wouldn’t have worked: the preceding chapters introduce the context that gives the last ten pages their meaning.”

“And what is your key insight, Iolas? What is wisdom?”

“Not a question that can be answered by any one person, but a practice that all of us together can live by.” Defiant, he folded his arms. “I propose that the application of this to magic is what the Luminary Vale ought try to achieve — and what the community of its members should strive to embody.”

His proposal worked a profound change on Almon, who sat back again with a broad grin while Peacock flapped his wings. “I retract my earlier remarks. You may well have something worth reading, there.”

Not having anticipated this from his master, Iolas needed a moment before he awkwardly relaxed. “…I hope so.”

“Which leads us to Saphienne.” Almon nodded to her satchel dubiously. “I see your treatise is doubtlessly waiting elsewhere. Might Filaurel have reserved a shelf in the library? Shall I send Peacock to request a loan of the first instalment, or do you plan to recite your work from memory?”

Amused by the mental image, Saphienne fished her essay out of her pocket. “That won’t be necessary.”

The folded sheet of paper commanded his full attention. “Well! I suppose I should have anticipated you’d be contrary. The one time you’re invited to hold forth at length, you elect to be brief.” He held out his hand. “Give it here.”

Rising nimbly, Saphienne passed her answer to the wizard.

“Let’s see what you…”

His eyes raced back and forth across the single, green line.

“…Is this a joke?”

She pressed her hands together as she resumed her seat on the floor. “You asked for my definition, Master. That’s it.”

Iolas couldn’t restrain himself. “What does it say?” He was so desperate to know that he had risen onto his knees.

Absorbed by what he read, Almon imperiously flicked his fingers at Saphienne. “Tell them.”

She rolled her eyes before she addressed her fellow apprentices. Her recital was succinct and even. “‘Society is founded upon that which proceeds from us that we each forbear to claim; wisdom is knowing what to forbear to claim.’”

Iolas sat in silence as her words sank in.

Celaena, however, was openly befuddled. “…What does that mean?”

Her master was also struggling to comprehend the nuance. “What an excellent question.” He finally looked up from the page. “What does it mean, Saphienne?”

“You told me to keep it short and sweet.” Saphienne leant back on her palms, performing her smugness. “That sentence contains the entire principle and practice that comprises wisdom, at least as I understand it. Everything else follows in line with the definition. Since the Luminary Vale says you are wise enough to practice the Great Art, you should be wise enough to discern the implications, Master.”

Both Celaena and Iolas turned from Saphienne to their teacher.

Peacock had craned down beside him to study the page, and he spoke up with a whistle. “I think this goes in the book!”

Almon hummed as he pondered the suggestion. “…It might just. It has an obnoxious semblance of profundity to it, which feels quite unwise to ignore.” He stood with evident annoyance and stalked to the stairs, ascending from the classroom without further explanation.

Saphienne squinted at Peacock. “What book?”

But the excitable familiar only bobbed up and down.

* * *

When the wizard returned to the parlour Saphienne understood what was happening, observing that he carried a book under his arm that was very similar to the one that was locked in the desk she and Filaurel now shared. Whereas the enchanted tome in the library was bound in brown leather and clasped with gold along its spine, the variant Almon carried was black and silver — and the emblem on the medallion set into the spine depicted the same tree and stars as the hallucinatory seal on Taerelle’s letter.

“I’ve shared your essay, if it can be called that, with my contemporaries.” The wizard had already untied the black ribbons that had bound shut the tome, and as he set it on the armrest of his chair he drummed his fingers on the cover. “We will see what consensus emerges. You should be aware that they–”

The book softly chimed.

“…You should be aware that most of them are too busy–”

Another chime followed.

With a sigh that evaporated the last of his dwindling cheer, Almon gave up and opened the book, lifting out the essay page that had served as bookmark. Another chime sounded as he studied the first replies, and he absently touched a symbol just below the inset medallion, causing the book to quiver.

“Early opinions appear to be divided.” He closed the volume over and set it back on the armrest — where it vibrated against the wood as new responses arrived. “We shall see whether your thesis withstands–”

The book rang with a sharp, brazen urgency.

Almon paused to compose himself. “One moment.”

His apprentices watched him walk to the window with the tome, turning his back to them as he read from it in the morning light. Further unsilenced tolling resounded through the classroom while he flicked to the next page, and when it happened for a third time he slowly leant against the nearby bookcase.

Iolas whispered to Saphienne with exhausted resentment. “You know… you’re a pretty good friend… but right now?”

“You hate me.” She was grinning from ear to ear as she read her success in the defeated way the wizard increasingly slumped against the shelves. “If it makes you feel better, writing mine took me the whole week, too.”

End of Chapter 62