CHAPTER 5 - A Bloody Contest

“What in the world? interruption?” The wizard had remained seated in his chair when the door flew open under Saphienne’s knock, though the three elves that stood before him had jumped, surprise written on their faces. Almon maintained his cool, sitting back. “I told you, girl, another time. You are far too young to begin–” Saphienne strode into the room, not caring that the door hung open. “You asked me the wrong question.” If before she had irritated him, now she annoyed him. Yet the wizard would not cede his dignity by admitting anger to a child. “Which question was that, girl?” “You asked what these three have, that I lack.” She swept her hand across the three would-be students, all older than her, all incredulous as they watched her antics. “You should have asked, ‘What do you have that these three lack?’” The younger of the two boys murmured, “Audacity?” The others laughed quietly. Yet Almon wasn’t smiling. His fingers had come to dig into the armrests of his high-backed chair, and he leant forward to stare her down frostily. “And what it that you possess, that you say these three fine young elves lack?” Saphienne ignored the indignant looks they gave her. “Nothing.” This confused the other children, but intrigued Almon, who spoke more lightly than before. “Nothing?” “I’m sure they’re disciplined, they’re motivated, and they’ve made something of their necessary intelligence. They surely have many virtues. They lack for nothing.” She paused, and breathed in. “But I’m their equal, and I’ve attained it quicker than them. I’m probably better.” The girl, Celaena, couldn’t restrain herself. “Cheeky bitch!” She flushed as Almon snapped his fingers at her, immediately muttering an apology to Saphienne that she didn’t mean. The wizard hadn’t even looked at Celaena as he admonished her, and he was still staring down Saphienne, smiling. “Is that so? Perhaps it might be. You arrived after everyone had finished giving their credentials.” His fingers drummed against his chair as he contemplated how to proceed, and then he made his mind up, whispering a word and waving his raised hand. Behind Saphienne, the door slammed shut. She tried not to flinch; she didn’t know whether or not he noticed. “A wizard,” he began, “must be prepared for the unexpected. And a wizard must be prepared to inform the ignorant wherever he goes, for wherever he goes, he sails his ship in a sea of ignorance.” Finally, he looked away, to the students. “Let us see if she is right. Faylar, please restate your credentials.” The youth he addressed was the one who had first spoke, and as Saphienne studied his appearance she was surprised to realise he wore his white hair short, which was very unconventional among elves. He responded confidently, and with a slightly strange accent, reminding her a little of the way Filaurel sometimes sounded late at night. “Certainly, Master Almon. I have spent the past four years preparing for the Great Art by studying languages, that I might fluidly pronounce the invocations you may teach me, and better memorise whatever texts you deem it appropriate I read from. I speak four languages, and write in five.” “Which are?” “Elfish, Dwarfish, the elder tongue of dragons, the tongue of the sylvan creatures, and the common trade language of humans.” He bowed his head. “I cannot speak the dragon tongue, for want of a teacher who is conversant. I understand you are.” “Most wizards are,” Almon answered, but he had already turned to the girl. “And you, Celaena?” “Only three years of study,” she began, “but I’ve spent them grounding myself in the philosophy of nature and the beginnings of the philosophy of magic. I’m capable with numbers, Master Almon, and have a very strong grasp of ciphers and geometry. While I haven’t yet studied any sigils, I’m confident I will take to them quickly.” Almon was nodding as she finished speaking. “Which only leaves us with Iolas. What about yours, boy?” Iolas was the eldest, yet he seemed self-conscious compared to the others, and squared his shoulders as he spoke. “Five years with Master Folwin, studying calligraphy.” Celaena was smirking, thinking little of his efforts. Catching this, Iolas forced himself to say more. “Calligraphy has taught me a steady hand and a keen eye, diligent patience, as well as how to not let myself be bored when working. I’m told that wizardry takes many hours of numbing, repetitive work, along with unfaltering focus. After five years, I know I have it in me to accomplish both.” The wizard hummed thoughtfully. “Well said. Calligraphy itself is also vitally important to magical study, as you may well go on to learn.” Then he shifted, and the fleeting warmth in his tone dropped away as he faced Saphienne. “And you, girl? What of your credentials?” Used to confrontation from her time with Jorildyn, she forced herself to project confidence she found difficult to feel. “One year learning the maintenance of books with Filaurel. Four months studying tailoring with Jorildyn. Another four months studying jewellery with Eletha.” Celaena and Faylar had begun to quietly laugh, but she pretended not to hear. “Three months with Ninleyn learning shoe making. Then a little under three months studying sculpture with Gaeleath, until today.” Faylar was grinning broadly by the time she was done. “Quite the dilettante, aren’t you?” “I learned what I needed to.” She glared at him. “Did you?” That caught him off-guard, and he opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it as Almon coughed. “Your lack of devotion to a single subject of study,” the wizard said, “does not inspire confidence in your ability to see the work through. In comparison–” “I wasn’t studying to become a librarian, or a tailor, or a jeweller, or a shoe maker, or a sculptor. I didn’t grow bored of them; I was very deliberate. And none of this matters, because the point stands — I can do as well or better than at least one of these three.” Celaena almost sneered. “Really? Which? Which one of us can you best?” Almon raised an eyebrow, then nodded, and he folded his hands together as he waited for Saphienne to meet the challenge. Who, thoughtfully, looked her competition over. She simply lacked the study of languages to contest Faylar. While she might rival Celaena in knowledge of her chosen subjects, the older girl would have more practice in performing calculations, which would doubtlessly be their battleground. Which left only the eldest of the trio. “Iolas,” she asked him, “did you start studying calligraphy when you were twelve?” “Yes.” If Filaurel was right, when Saphienne was twelve her calligraphy had been excellent for an elf of twenty-four… though she was sure she had improved since then. Assuming he was similarly talented, his ability would be excellent for someone of seventeen, and possibly excellent for an elf of thirty-four. She couldn’t be sure she could best him. Stolen story; please report. But the coin she held in her palm wouldn’t let her back down. “I’m a better calligrapher than you.” He stood a little straighter. “No, you’re not.” “Then I’ll prove it.” * * * Almon stayed in his chair, directed Faylar to find a writing board behind a pile of books near the window, and gave Celaena the task of retrieving his writing set from up the stairs that wound up against the far wall. The girl seemed delighted at being trusted with entrance into his sanctum — a little too obviously, and so wilted when he sternly told her to touch nothing else and to be quick. While they fetched the necessary components, the wizard decreed the terms of the forthcoming duel. “I will provide each of you with passages to transcribe, and you will reproduce them in fine style.” To Saphienne’s surprise, Iolas shook his head. “No, Master Almon. That wouldn’t be fair.” “No? Whyever not?” “If it’s to be a fair comparison, we should work with the same words. Anything else would make the judging subjective.” Almon narrowed his eyes. “Yet, will be judging. What’s to say I won’t just favour you over the girl? Or perhaps her, over you?” Iolas held firm. “Our skills will speak for themselves, if it’s a like-for-like comparison. You’re the judge of who would make the best student, but this is between me and her.” Almon laughed, and he glanced up at the back of his chair, speaking as though addressing someone standing over his shoulder. “Ah, the boy has pride. What do you think? Does he have the right of it?” He paused, then nodded as he looked back. “Very well, Iolas. I will choose a passage, you will transcribe it, and then she will try to improve upon your work.” Slightly unnerved by the way he had spoken to empty space, Saphienne pushed down her rising anxiety and inclined her head. “That sounds fair to me.” “Not really,” Iolas answered her. “It would be kinder on you to do it the other way around.” “She has accepted.” The wizard overruled him. “Now, show her why she was wrong.” Celaena had descended with the writing kit, and Faylar held out the board. Dropping to the floor, Iolas sat cross-legged, accepting the board to lay it across his lap, then took the kit and set it down beside himself with obvious reverence, opening the lacquered box and examining the pens and nubs and bottles of ink. He chose a very fine point, elected to write in a deep blue, then ran his finger across the rolled up sheafs of paper, nodding as he selected one to lay out. Then, seeing he was prepared, Almon whispered again, and his ritual gestures were slightly slower than before. Celaena recoiled as a slim book slid from the shelf near her, and Faylar gasped aloud as it hung on the air and slowly floated over to where Iolas was waiting, opening as it glided toward him, coming to rest on the floor with a certain page exposed. The wizard was pleased by their reactions. “This poem, ‘When I Heard the Learn’d Magician.’ Quite beautiful.” He sat forward. “Make it more so.” Swallowing, Iolas lifted the book, read the words, closed his eyes. Then he lay it back down, and lifted his pen. Celaena and Faylar stepped closer, to watch. Saphienne scowled. “It’s rude to watch over someone’s shoulder while they work.” “I don’t mind,” Iolas answered, absently, his eyes now on the page as he wrote. Almon chuckled. “Uncomfortable with performing before others, girl? What did you say your name was?” Her scowl stayed in place as she faced the wizard. “I didn’t say. You never asked. And I think you remember that you never asked. Either you didn’t care to know, or you already know my name. Whichever it is: I’m as comfortable with performing as you are with rudeness.” “Quite the mouth on you.” He was unfazed. “You’ve certainly learned a lot from Filaurel, haven’t you? Still, point taken. Give him space, children.” They shuffled back, but both looked at each other, and then at Saphienne, as though they were sharing a joke at her expense. A quarter of an hour passed in uneasy silence, Saphienne’s anxiety growing, her grip on the coin in her hand tightening. At last, Iolas sat down his pen, and there was contentment in his blue eyes as he held up the page for the others to scrutinise. “I could do better with longer, but this will stand.” Saphienne knelt down to study his work closely. Behind her, she heard Faylar giggle, but her eyes stayed on the page, taking in every grand majuscule, how each stroke ascended and descended above and below the writing line, the elegant flourishes that comprised each serif. Almost every letter was well proportioned, every hairline confident, and the embellishments he had placed inside many of the counters were small, tasteful renditions of the stars with which the poem was concerned. “It’s beautiful,” Celaena whispered over her shoulder, and her voice sounded childlike in her sincerity. Saphienne nodded. “It’s good. You’re a talented calligrapher.” Then she shifted to sit, crossing her legs as she took the page from his hand and laid it on the ground before her. “I like what you did with the stars.” In her mind, she was deconstructing his strokes, working out how he had danced the pen across the page. “You have a very light hand.” Iolas took the compliments well, and his voice was low. “Still think you can do better?” She could feel Celaena’s mocking smile beside her cheek. Wordlessly, she held her hand out for the board, then waited as he returned the pen and nib and ink to the writing kit before sliding it across to her. When her turn came, she lifted the nib he had used and the cloth he had wiped it on, carefully polishing it to make certain there were no remaining traces of blue ink. She needn’t have bothered; he knew what he was doing. Then she lifted the same pen, and similar paper, though in selecting the ink she held several bottles up to the light, finally settling on one that ran red when she swirled its contents around. Readying her materials, she returned her eyes to the page. “Keep the time for me?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Iolas nod. Saphienne slipped the coin into her other palm, and set to work. The room around her faded away as bloody ink curled across the page. There was still time left when she set the pen down, and she didn’t hold the page up, simply sat back as Celaena and Faylar leapt to her sides and bent to read. Both of them started laughing, quite loudly, and Celaena crossed her arms as she straightened up and addressed Almon. “She’s just copied him!” Faylar looked equally unimpressed as he stood. “It’s the same. All she’s done is change the stars.” But Iolas knelt down before her and reached out to the page, gently turning it around so he could read. His expression froze as he saw what was written there, and then his lips parted, his mouth slowly falling open. Sliding to the floor, he sat heavily, his demeanour compelling silence from the two still standing. Eventually, he found his words. “Those stars, are they one stroke?” Saphienne nodded. “I wanted to capture their halo, like they have on a misty night.” “…And they become sharper at the end of the poem.” He finally met her gaze. “That’s… beautiful.” Faylar moved behind Iolas, looked down at her art. “Still, she’s just reproduced your work with a slight change. You did most of it.” “No,” Iolas said, sadly. “No, she’s much better than me.” He lifted his own work, and laid it out beside what Saphienne had done. “Look again.” “Well, like I said, she’s copied you.” Now Iolas was smiling at Saphienne, as though sharing a wry joke with her. “She hasn’t just copied,” he admitted. “She’s reproduced my hand. Perfectly. Even the mistakes. Apart from the stars, which she did better than I could.” Stunned silence filled the parlour. He rubbed behind his long ear. “How old are you?” “I’ll be fourteen in the spring.” “Who taught you calligraphy?” “I learned the basics the same as everyone else,” she said. “Then Filaurel taught me how to practice. The rest I learned from scrivening — from copying.” “So you’re self-taught.” He laughed as he spoke. “Astonishing.” Before she could argue, Iolas leapt to his feet and stretched, all the tension flowing out of him. “If magic doesn’t work out for you,” he declared, “Master Folwin will want to teach you. But I think you’ll do just fine with Master Almon.” He bowed to the wizard. “I concede. She’s the better student. I’ll go.” Yet, as he turned away, Almon spoke up. “No.” Indignant, Saphienne slid the board from her lap and climbed to her feet. “He admits I’m better.” “At calligraphy,” Almon announced. “Yet, he also admitted this: I’m the judge of who would make the best student.” Smoothly, the wizard stood. “All you’ve done is earn yourself a place in the running, young …” He grinned as he acknowledged her by name. “…For what little that’s worth.” Iolas slowly returned to stand beside her, shame on his face, hope writ in his eyes. Sensing what was expected, the others fell into line as well. Almon walked behind his chair, and he leant his elbows on the back, shifting his arm as though he brushed against something the four children couldn’t see. “I have heard from the other three, Saphienne. So, now, will answer.” All hint of humour fled from his face. “Tell me: what is it about you, that makes worthy of the Great Art?” End of Chapter 5