By now you have a faint inkling of the woman Saphienne would become, and the people who shaped her as she grew. Two of the five moments that defined her have been described, and we crossed out of her early childhood some time ago.

So too the hour that you were to listen has elapsed. Tell me: does the hoard still command your attention? Would you care to fill your pockets now? Or would you prefer to linger until I finish describing her emergence, and what transpired to set her village aflame?

Ah, but I get ahead of myself. Though not too much further ahead.

Shall I continue? Very well.

The morning after Saphienne won her apprenticeship, she was sluggish and cold, having slept very poorly in her excitement. Nevertheless she moved with growing momentum, eating and bathing and dressing all warmly, her eyes unfocused yet her mind keenly fixed on the day before her. There was much she had to do, and she was eager for her first taste of what she had argued so hard to receive. That Filaurel would be the one to begin her instruction made it all the sweeter.

But before she would call upon Filaurel for her new lessons, she owed an explanation to her present tutor, Gaeleath. The androgynous artist had expected to teach her until springtime, and she felt guilty for having inadvertently misled them. Saphienne’s only regret in the cold, morning light was that she wouldn’t have more time to study the art of sculpture, and that she would thereby be disappointing someone who had done nothing but help her learn.

In this spirit of sad resolve, Saphienne arrived at the tent pavilion where the two had formerly worked together, the quiet within making her believe that Gaeleath was absent. Yet as she lifted the flap she saw the sculptor sat cross-legged before the plinth around which they usually worked, the space upon it empty, yesterday’s piece having been removed, likely placed with the dozens of others that now littered the snow behind the tent.

“Good morning, Saphienne.” They were facing away from her, contemplating the air above the plinth.

“Good morning, Gaeleath.” She lingered by the entrance, finding her courage.

“You’re early today,” the sculptor commented. “Might I suppose, together with your hesitation to resume your study, that your visit with Master Almon last night was eventful?”

Saphienne blinked. “You knew I went to him?”

“Filaurel forewarned me after your exit.” Rising nimbly, they turned to face her, still smiling their eternal, easy smile. “And I see now from the look of mournful excitement in your eyes that you were successful, and will soon be commencing the study of magic.”

“I’m sorry,” Saphienne answered, giving the sculptor a small bow. “I really didn’t mean to waste your time. I thought that I had–”

“In what way,” they spoke over her, puzzled, “have you wasted my time?”

“I thought I had until spring. We’ve had less than three months.”

“Not a single day of which has been wasted,” Gaeleath countered, gesturing to the several pieces of inscribed and partly sculpted stone scattered around Saphienne’s half of the tent. “You’ve learned quite quickly, and for all you need more heft in those arms, you’re well on your way to being capable in the fashioning of likenesses.”

“Perhaps, but I won’t be able to continue.”

“Won’t you?” Their smile dipped slightly, but didn’t dim, as though they were anticipating an answer that pleased them.

“I’m meant to start preparations with Filaurel today, and then study under Almon from my next birthday.”

“Which gives us a little over three months more, and perhaps some time after.”

Saphienne frowned. “But, I’ll be busy…”

“Likely not busier than I was, when I learned, which leaves plenty of time to work on your other art.”

Now Saphienne stepped fully into the tent, the flap falling closed behind her, quite forgetting to shake the snow off her shoes as she moved toward Gaeleath. “You’re a wizard? Or, have you studied wizardry?”

Grinning widely, the sculptor backed away from Saphienne, and then hopped up to sit on their plinth. “I studied wizardry. I have the talent, and learned to cast spells of the First Degree.”

“Then,” Saphienne asked, her voice full of wonder, “why aren’t you–”

“Why aren’t I chanting away, secluded in my sanctum, accompanied by my familiar in my pursuit of the Great Art?”

She nodded.

“I stopped.” Gaeleath shrugged. “I couldn’t choose a discipline.”

Dumbfounded, she just stared.

“Every wizard has to choose a discipline in which to focus their studies,” the sculptor explained, “and I simply haven’t decided yet. I’d been playing with sculpture during my studies, and making great progress there — so I thought, why not take a break, think it over? Take my time to get my hands around the issue, so to say.”

Saphienne shook herself out of her shock. “How long?”

“How long since then?” They shrugged again. “Oh, perhaps ninety years. I’ve not been keeping track. I hadn’t planned on such a long delay, but this work suits me, and part of me wants to see what I can really do with it before I go back to the incantations. It’s not like there’s any great rush.”

“You’ve spent nearly a hundred years,” Saphienne managed, “on an artistic diversion?”

“You say it like it’s odd.” They tilted their head. “Oh, the impatience of youth!”

For the first time in her life, the reality of elven timelessness struck Saphienne, and she sat down on the floor rather than fall over, landing heavily and curling her legs under herself as she stared up in wonderment at the laughing artist on the plinth. She had been so focused on all that she wanted to explore, that the scale over which she would live and make those explorations had never really sunk in.

Gaeleath saw her distress, and the recognition in their eyes tempered their laughter. “Ah, Saphienne,” they said, “we’re all free to learn at our leisure. You needn’t think you’ll take so long as I will. Most can learn spells of the First Degree in ten years, five if they’re unusually gifted, and I’m told spells of the Second Degree take no more than another twenty-five to a diligent student. After thirty or so years, you’ll surely be a wizard in your own right, perhaps bringing on students, or receiving further instruction at–”

“I don’t have that long,” Saphienne whispered.

For the first time since they had met, Gaeleath’s smile fell away completely, replaced by concern. “But, Saphienne,” they said, sliding off the plinth, “whyever would you think that? You have as long as you want.”

They crouched down before her, and Saphienne took their hand, standing slowly. She didn’t know why the prospect upset her so much, why it felt like she had such little time, but the thought of thirty years learning magic filled her with unspeakable dread. And yet, Gaeleath was telling the truth — she did have forever.

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“Anyway,” Gaeleath was saying, “your preparations won’t take up most of your day, and even after you’re deep in study, you can’t spend every waking hour on the same thing. We’ll talk more once you’ve found where you stand. For now, I’m inclined to stay.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled, aware of how little she had slept.

“Not at all! Now,” they smiled again, patting her on the arm, “why don’t you run along to Filaurel? I’m sure it’ll all make more sense after seeing her.”

* * *

When Saphienne met Filaurel, however, her first concern wasn’t magic, or what to do with her unending days, but whatever had happened to upset the librarian. Filaurel was wrapped in a blanket by the fire, eyes red, and as Saphienne hurried over she saw her mentor delicately blow her nose into a lace handkerchief.

“Filaurel?” Saphienne said her name loudly, fear gripping her. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

But Filaurel was waving her away. “Wait,” she sniffed.

Saphienne did as she was told, and watched as Filaurel lifted a swatch of green cloth, stitched with ferns, which she secured over her mouth and nose by means of two straps that she gently looped around her ears. Masked, she nodded for Saphienne to come closer.

Confused now, Saphienne approached warily. “Why are you wearing a mask? And why have you been crying?”

“Crying?” Her voice sounded strange to Saphienne — not just muffled, but constrained. “Saphienne, I’ve not been– oh! You’ve never been sick before, have you?”

“Sick?” Her worry grew. “No, I’ve never been… You’re suffering from an illness?”

“Yes.” Filaurel read the younger elf’s expression, and her eyes crinkled in a smile. “Just a mild sickness, don’t worry. Humans would call it a ‘cold,’ though I don’t know why, since it’s nothing to do with temperature.”

Keeping a little distance, Saphienne sat on the furthest chair. “How did this happen?”

“Oh, one of the children was sneezing a few days ago. I thought it was the smell of the glue I was using,” she sighed, sniffling, “but here we are. I’m probably as much to blame, breaking my routine last night, and then getting late to bed.”

“Shouldn’t you still be in bed?”

“It’s not that bad,” Filaurel soothed her, lifting a cup from beside the fire, “more irritating than anything else. And I’m drinking willow tea, so I’ll be more comfortable before long. This really isn’t the worst I’ve ever had.”

The thought of Filaurel being sick was distressing, and the thought of her being sicker made Saphienne pull her knees up against her chest, holding them with both arms. She studied her face, disquieted by the mask. “Will you recover soon?”

“Probably by tomorrow. Which isn’t so bad at all: humans take much longer, and they sicken more easily.”

Saphienne breathed deeply, somewhat reassured. “And the mask?”

“So I don’t pass it to you,” Filaurel explained. “Or anyone else. There’s no point in making anyone else suffer. Or, do you mean, how does the mask work? It blocks transmission. Illness spreads by shared breath, by shared taste, by shared touch, or through exposure to things that have been in proximity to the same.”

“Shared taste?”

Filaurel went still for a moment, and Saphienne could see a blush creep up to her ears. “An expression. It means the exchange of bodily fluids, which can be as simple as sweat, or through kissing. I know you read some of those books I told you to organise, that time I was away, so you can fill in the rest.”

Burying her face in her knees, it was Saphienne’s turn to blush, and she felt her cheeks and ears burning brightly.

“Anyway,” Filaurel went on, then paused to sneeze. “Ugh. What I was going to say was, I couldn’t stay home today, not after what you went through last night.”

Raising her head, Saphienne smiled weakly. “I can wait another day.”

“No, it really won’t take that long. Do you want to start now?”

Saphienne nodded, and brought her legs down, smoothing out the hem of her skirt.

“Then let’s begin with the basics.” Filaurel shrugged off the blanket, and leant forward, stoking the fire with her free hand. “You will learn the fundamentals of magic in three stages, which I’ll explain in reverse. In the last stage, you’ll be educated in matters of arcane theory, as well as tutored in the words and gestures needed to marshal yourself and cast spells of the First Degree. Don’t worry about the different degrees of magic right now: that will all be in the middle stage. During the middle stage, you will be taught the conventions and history of magic, exposed to certain spells as may assist your learning, and given opportunity to practice spells that fall beneath the First Degree.”

“Wait,” Saphienne interjected, “if there are spells below the First Degree, shouldn’t they be called the first?”

“No.” Filaurel shook her head, lifting up her mask to sip from her cup before drawing it back into place. “No, the degrees are separated by specific criteria they each require, and spells that fall short don’t qualify. You’ll learn about them later. Just accept for now that real magic starts at the First Degree.”

“So,” Saphienne repeated, “the last stage has First Degree spells, the middle stage has spells short of that, and the first stage has…?”

“Practicing meditation, to hone your concentration.”

Saphienne nodded, a little disappointed. “…I suppose that makes sense.”

“That’s very mature,” Filaurel approved. “Almost everyone asks if that’s all there is to it. Most can’t accept it’s so simple. But even the complicated things start with simple practices.”

“How do I meditate, then?”

“I’ll warn you: it’s harder to do than to explain. And you need to do it every day, starting with half an hour at a time, working your way up to two full hours. You’ll need two weeks of continuous effort before you’ll start to make progress.”

“Tell me what to do,” Saphienne promised, “and I’ll do it. Every day.”

“I know you will.” Filaurel smiled again, her eyes watery, perhaps from her illness, and she gestured to the fireplace. “Do it first thing in the day, after you’re fully awake, long before you’re tired. We’ll start today by having you look at the fire.”

Dutifully, Saphienne squared her shoulders and gazed into the flames.

“Relax your body, sit comfortably. Better.” The librarian gave her a moment to settle. “Now: the task is to watch the flames. Pay close attention to them. Pick one tongue, and study it, and keep studying it.” Filaurel spoke slowly, as though she had taught others before, or perhaps was repeating what she had once been taught. “Don’t look away. Breathe, blink, but don’t think. Do not let yourself be distracted by your environment, or by your thoughts. Whenever you notice your attention drift away, return it to the fire.”

Saphienne concentrated. The fire appeared brighter. The longer she studied it, the more it seemed replete with hidden mysteries, portending the magic that she would surely soon–

Shaking her head, Saphienne glanced to Filaurel. “This is really hard.”

Filaurel was simply staring at her, expectantly. The mask made her expression severe.

Blushing again, Saphienne mumbled, “Sorry. I see.” She turned back to the fire, forced herself to pay attention.

Filaurel waited a few minutes before speaking again. “The fire isn’t the important thing,” she explained. “Some practice by paying attention to their breathing. Some to the sound of the rain. The subject is not important: what matters is your focus, and your control over your own attention. Which, again, will take two weeks to start to develop.”

“…Can I ask a question?”

“So long as it’s deliberate, and you stop meditating to do it, and resume after.”

Nodding, Saphienne turned to her. “If I do this in the mornings, would it hurt to continue with sculpture in the afternoon?”

Filaurel smothered another sneeze, and gathered her blanket back up. “You’re allowed a life beyond magic, Saphienne. Just make sure you do thirty minutes, every day. Starting now — no more interruptions.”

* * *

Whether it was through tiredness or inexperience, Saphienne struggled through her first session, with every single sound, every little itch magnified beyond measure. What she thought was her greatest advantage in life, her keen mind, had turned traitor on her, constantly seducing her away from her task with errant thoughts. Those were then followed with thoughts about her errant thoughts, then thoughts about how poorly she was doing, then thoughts about how good it was for her to notice that those thoughts about her progress were also interruptions, and then–

She clearly had a long way to go.

Saphienne was exhausted by the time she was done, and she left Filaurel dozing by the fire as she made her way out of the library, planning to rest and consider how best to pass the remaining months until her birthday. There would be plenty of time for sculpture at first, but once she reached two hours of meditation a day, should she stop there? Would she find it advantageous to try for four? Assuming, of course, that she could.

Mulling it over, she strolled along the path to her family home — pausing when she saw a horse tethered outside, where the animal stamped at the snow, breath steaming on the air. A blanket had been placed across the horse’s back, keeping him or her warm despite the icy wind.

Someone was visiting. But no one ever visited. Could it be her father?

Her eyes darkened. Surely not. Anyone but him.

Saphienne steeled herself, and crept the remaining distance to the front door, leaning against it to listen to the voices inside.

End of Chapter 10

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