CHAPTER 14 – An Immovable Rock

See Saphienne as she was becoming, the forthright young girl, fourteen years old. Her hair was once more brown as the earth, and she was still pale — though even these features had begun to lose their resemblance to those of the quiet child she once was, her hair thicker, gloss beginning on her skin. Her eyes were still green, but their childlike openness and passivity had been replaced by sharp observation and implicit judgement, qualities which shone brightly even when she said little. She was tall, though not yet as tall as fully grown elves, and she was not so slight in build as before, though her figure was still reaching out toward her forthcoming womanhood. Yet the most striking change was in her face, which no longer had the proportions of a child. Saphienne now regarded the world through an expression of confidence, worn to mask her incipient resentment toward anyone and everyone who held authority over her life. She was not in rebellion, not then, but even the way she wore her light grey, apprentice’s robes evidenced her irreverence where others would bow down. She carried the satchel slung against her hip like it was a sheath for a weapon, one hand upon the shoulder strap — and the sharp pens readied within kept a keen edge. This was how she appeared when she approached the home of the wizard Almon for the second time, no longer a supplicant, now set to be his apprentice. He had fought to refuse her — and she had won her admission. Yet she knew he would never accept her. He had requested she visit him when she turned fourteen, and Saphienne understood that her failure to arrive on the morning of her fourteenth birthday would give him pretext to withdraw his teaching. He would demand more from her than the other students, with less support, and she would either thrive in his shade or wither into dust: that was to be their relationship. All this, she knew. Saphienne also knew the door to his tower-like home would be open, and as she stepped through and closed it she clutched her treasured coin in her hand tightly, steeling herself as she looked over the small parlour beyond. Almon was not present. The high-backed chair in which he had lounged was still placed beside the fire, but it no longer faced the room, and the piles of books that crowded the floor by the shelves showed signs of being recently organised. “So, the girl arrives.” Almon smoothly descended the curving stairs at the far side of the room, dressed in vibrant, blue robes, ostentatiously formal. He paused with his hand on the banister, surveying her as he drew his outermost layer across his chest. “I had expected you would be here with the dawn.” “That would have been discourteous, Master Almon,” she answered, and she gave him a small bow. Nothing in her demeanour disguised how she felt toward him. And yet, her false respect was enough to make him smile. “So we are to care about courtesy now? Very well. We shall pretend, for the sake of the other students, who are not yet such ready combatants as you and I.” The wizard alighted on the wooden floorboards, forgoing his chair as he walked to the middle of the room. “Let us see what Filaurel has made of you. Come: sit.” Saphienne crossed to where he waited, and then lowered herself nimbly, sitting cross-legged, her robes fanned out around her. Almon walked to the mantlepiece and collected an hourglass, and as he did he spoke without his usual drama. “This is a simple test,” he told her, “and one that all apprentices must complete to formally receive the title. Failing it would ordinarily entail another attempt in a later year, but not so for you.” He crouched down, his plump arm extending from his sleeve as he held the hourglass horizontal before her, shaking it back and forth so that the sand stirred in the upper bulb. “ must succeed.” He didn’t need to further explain his threat. “And to succeed, you must sit in meditation for one hour, ignoring all distractions until the sand has finished pouring. Should your attention wander, should you lose focus for even an instant, I will know.” Inwardly, Saphienne smiled: Filaurel had made her sit for two. The wizard’s gaze was severe. “If you require preparation, say so now.” She shook her head. “Are you ready?” There was no need for words; she closed her eyes. “One hour hence,” he warned her, “and not a moment before.” Saphienne heard the soft trickle of sand as he placed the hourglass down, and she focused on that sound to the exclusion of all others, deepening her breathing as she stilled her mind and emptied herself of any thought. She was aware of all that was happening, but her awareness was controlled. The world around her faded. Time fell, one grain at a time. Almon moved to the nearest shelf. He quietly lifted a book, thumbing through its pages, then placed it back. Another was soon reviewed. Then another, accompanied by a restrained cough. There was a loud thump as he dropped the book on the floor. Saphienne was undisturbed. A minute later, the wizard retrieved the volume and walked past Saphienne, the hem of his robe brushing her elbow. An obnoxious grinding filled the air as the wizard slowly pulled his chair around, dragging it forward inch by inch until it was before where she sat. He threw himself into the cushions heavily, and sighed as he settled down to read, his robes rustling and shoes clicking as he stretched out his legs. Distantly, birdsong whistled through the open window. “You seem to have settled into it,” he casually observed. Somewhere in the woodland children were at play, screaming and laughing. Almon continued to flick through his book for a while, drumming his fingers on his armrest in a faltering tempo. Eventually, he slammed shut the book. “Time’s up.” Still the sand was hissing; still Saphienne listened. Standing again, the wizard muttered an insult as he stared down at her. He returned the book to its shelf, strode to the parlour’s entrance, collected a thick cloak, threw it over his shoulders — then yanked open the door, slamming it angrily. There were no further attempts to interrupt her meditation. …Not until he slipped the cloak back off his shoulders and rehung it beside the door, having waited just inside for several minutes, watching her the whole time. He loomed behind her, glowering down. “If you insist on making this difficult…” Whispering incantations, the wizard invoked a spell right above her head, magic lighting up the room. Then warmth joined the light, and Almon reached down to drop the bright heat onto her shoulder, where it took hold, hissing and crackling as it blossomed into tongues of flame. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Saphienne faltered; her thoughts returned. Almon had lit her on fire, and her robe was burning, growing hotter as the fire spread — and singed her hair. Pain bit into her neck as the scent of scorching skin filled the parlour– No. Either he had set her on fire, or it was an illusion. Would he risk his home? Would he physically harm her? None of that mattered. Whether the fire was real or not, she would endure. The flames spread across her body as she returned her attention to the hourglass, enveloping her in intensifying agony — which all at once vanished, the hallucination departing, sweet relief rushing in to fill the sudden absence. Ignoring the cessation of pain was harder than ignoring the pain itself. Almon moved back to his chair. He sat, and did nothing more to disturb her as the sand in the upper bulb dwindled. Finally, as the hissing grew fainter, he breathed deeply. “Very well. You’ve proven yourself.” Saphienne waited for the sand to settle. “I said, you’ve succeeded.” A few motes drifted down from the pinch in the glass. Almon sighed and lifted the hourglass, and only then did Saphienne return to herself, looking up at him calmly. Seated, he was studying her expression thoughtfully. “Answer me honestly,” he instructed. “Did your attention wander?” Her reply was quiet. “I thought you could tell?” The wizard couldn’t help but smile. “Very good.” He suppressed the feeling quickly, and stood. “Filaurel may have no competence, but I will confess: she prepared you more thoroughly than I expected. Convey to her my satisfaction with your readiness.” “I shall.” He gestured to her. “Arise, apprentice.” Saphienne stretched, and then gracefully climbed to her feet with all the dignity she could summon. Almon laid his hands upon her shoulders, and bent forward to look deeply into her eyes. “There will be no truce between us,” he cautioned her. “I will teach you, but the only respect and acknowledgement you will receive from me will be for the sake of the Great Art. The only fairness I promise you is this: I will recognise your accomplishments, without praise, yet without belittlement. To this promise, I will add that I will give you every instruction offered to the other students.” Saphienne nodded. “But,” he said, “I will make no allowance for your youth. You are the youngest I have ever taught, younger than I believe wise, and I expect commensurate excellence from you. Should you ever fall behind the others – should you ever be less than an average student – your apprenticeship will end.” “You’d demand I outperform the others?” “At least one of them.” He let go of her, folding his arms. “I care not who is slowest to learn, so long as it is not you.” Saphienne mirrored him, crossing her arms in turn. “That won’t be a problem, Master Almon.” “See that it isn’t,” he nodded. “And from now on, until you fail out of apprenticeship, you will address me as master — you will not use my name unless compelled to by circumstance.” That irked her; she clenched her teeth. “As you wish, Master.” She bowed. His tone was dismissive. “We are done.” The wizard retreated to the stairs, speaking as he went. “The others have been told to attend tomorrow morning for first lessons. Lessons will be four hours, daily, for the first month. After that, you will receive instruction one morning each week, and be expected to use the remaining time to complete such reading, writing, and magical work as I assign to you.” “When, in the morning?” “Lessons begin when everyone has arrived.” He paused halfway up. “You’ll be careful not to be in attendance… won’t you, my diligent apprentice?” Saphienne left, and could hear him laughing at her even after she shut the door. * * * Filaurel was pacing back and forth at the front of the library; Faylar was leaning against the counter, practically sitting on his hands to keep still. Saphienne saw their silhouettes through the window as she passed by. Both turned expectedly to Saphienne when she mounted the steps and entered. “Well?” Filaurel demanded. Faylar held his breath. Inside, Saphienne felt mischief stir. She kept her face very still, looked down, shook her head. Faylar groaned and slumped back against the counter. The librarian frowned, not so quickly taken in — though not disbelieving. Toying with them any further would be cruel. “I’m stuck with him,” Saphienne admitted. Faylar’s head whipped toward her, shock on his face. “Wait, do you mean–” But Filaurel gave a happy yell and threw her arms around Saphienne, and lifted her, and spun her around as she hugged her warmly, laughing as she set her down and beamed with happiness. Catching up to them, Faylar laughed as well, clapping Saphienne’s shoulder while calling her an ass. “We start tomorrow.” Saphienne felt her eyes watering, perhaps from exiting the cold. “And Al– and my told me to convey his satisfaction with my readiness to you, Filaurel.” “Prick,” Filaurel laughed. “How difficult did he make your test?” Given pause by the memory, and to prevent them spilling, Saphienne closed her eyes. “Does using his magic to fake setting me on fire count as difficult?” Filaurel drew in a sharp breath. “That ass–” She let go of Saphienne and composed herself, flushed with hot contempt. Faylar ignored her, his attention on the new apprentice. “You sat through that?” “Barely. And I wouldn’t have managed it…” She reopened her eyes to give him a thankful smile. “…If I hadn’t put up with your interruptions every morning.” He blushed and shook his head. “I’m sure Gaeleath’s chiselling helped too.” Filaurel was less quick to move on. “That shouldn’t be allowed,” she sniffed. “Using magic to distract is part of the test, even making you feel endangered, but to have you believe you were on fire–” “You could have warned me,” Saphienne said. “If I’d know about the test, I’d have expected something like that from him.” The librarian pursed her lips, conflicted. “I couldn’t. And anticipating the interruptions would have made it harder; or at least, that’s what I found.” Faylar glanced at Filaurel. “You underwent the same?” “I did.” She shrugged. “Twice, actually. I failed the first time. Water was conjured over my head and– Saphienne! Don’t laugh! I was worried about my books!” But Saphienne guffawed loudly, all the tension and worry evaporating from her chest as she pictured her mentor, drenched, scrambling to save her books from damage, likely swearing at whoever had dared imperil them, circumstances be damned. Faylar laughed as well. With a put-upon sigh, Filaurel rolled her eyes and hugged Saphienne a second time, smothering her laughter against her shoulder. The librarian’s words were quiet in her ear. “Well done.” * * * Later, as they sat on the sunny grass outside the library, Saphienne shared everything that had happened, including the high standard to which her master would hold her. Faylar complained that it was unfair to expect her to never arrive last, not even once, especially since no such rule was being applied to the other students. Filaurel was more practical about it. “Befriend the others,” she advised, “and ask them not to enter until you’ve already gone inside.” The thought of depending on their sympathy made Saphienne uneasy. Faylar nudged her. “Prickly.” “Fine,” she accepted. “Celaena maybe. Or Iolas — he cared about fairness.” “Do you think,” Filaurel wondered, “either of them would be willing to hold back, if you need more time with your studies?” Faylar giggled. “Come on! If anything, Saphienne will have to go a little easy on .” Filaurel hesitated, and then nodded. “You’re right. I’m sure you’ll be fine, Saphienne. Just promise me you’ll ask them for help if you find yourself struggling, and that you’ll offer them whatever help they need. You’ll learn quickly on your own, but you’ll learn better if you study with others.” Pondering this, Saphienne glanced at Faylar. “…That might be true. I will.” He gave her a smile of encouragement. Rather than let herself worry about how she would win her peers over, Saphienne looked up at the sky, and fell back on the ground. “Anyway,” she concluded, “the hard part’s done. I’m an apprentice to a wizard now. Just how difficult can it be — learning magic?” Filaurel answered after a pause, her voice distant. “That… depends on the person.” A cloud drifted across the sun, dimming the day. Saphienne let her eyes close, and touched her pouch where it nestled in her robe. “I’ll learn quickly. I’m certain. Don’t I always?” End of Chapter 14