L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 23
🕑 Added 2025-03-04 13:00:12 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 23 – What Distinguishes
In retrospect, Saphienne realised she had made an assumption: she had counted on the fact that Peacock would be able to read her notes. She realised her oversight while walking with Iolas to their second day of lessons, but said nothing to him, preferring instead to practice small talk about the weather; she didn’t want to give him any further reason to think less of her.
As they came within sight of the wizard’s home, Iolas changed topics. “Which discipline do you think he’ll show us first?”
Saphienne opened her mouth to correct him, then stopped herself. “…Iolas, am I being too literal if I say he showed us Hallucination first, and then Divination yesterday?”
His sigh – which ended in a laugh – told her she was. He patted her amiably on the shoulder. “You’re a quick learner.”
“I’ve been thinking about how I seem to others, which made me think about how I see others, and I wonder if sometimes I…” She trailed off as she saw the mirth in his eyes. “…Am I saying too much?”
“For most people. You can share with me,” he promised. “What did you wonder?”
“I wonder if I sometimes discount the possibility that people might be speaking figuratively because I don’t pay enough attention to the person. That I’m the opposite of what our master said; that I pay too much attention to what is being said, rather than how, or by whom.”
Iolas mulled over the thought. “I could see that. You’re too busy, I don’t know — too busy taking apart the words to notice the person who spoke them?”
Saphienne nodded. “I can read people when I pay attention to them.”
Humming to himself, Iolas stopped walking. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday, how you struggle with groups. About how I can explain it to you. I think…” The older boy looked up at the trees as Saphienne waited for him. “…I think the problem is that you need to be reading people as they speak, and also reading everyone’s reaction, all at the same time. You don’t look around the room much when you’re talking to someone, I noticed. I mean: you don’t look at the other people who’re present.”
She squinted at him. “That’s… true.”
“And the other thing,” he went on, “is that you need to compare how someone’s speaking, to how they’re being received, to what it was they said on the surface. That’s how you understand the full message. You understand sarcasm, don’t you?”
“Of course.” She felt slightly indignant.
“I’m not trying to offend you. And irony?”
“Ironically, your asking that offends me.” But she smiled. “Yes; and I know the difference between verbal irony, situational irony, dramatic irony, and the irony of feigned ignorance.”
Iolas was wide-eyed. “Right, and I only know two of those. Which doesn’t matter right now!” He raised his hands to stop her explaining. “The point is, sarcasm requires you to be able to read tone, and irony requires that you compare what’s said to what you know. Both need you to understand that the other person can mean something different from what they literally say. And all the rest of talking in a group is doing that sort of thing,” he waved his hands vaguely as he lowered them, “but also comparing what’s said to how people respond.”
Saphienne followed the logic. “I think I can do all of that.”
“Then you can read the room,” he said, “which means all that’s left is… can you match your response to the response you read from the room?”
That made her blink. “You mean, hide what I feel? Disguise what I think?”
“More like… moderate it. To fit what people expect.” He scratched his head. “Obviously, if someone is saying something that you disagree with on principle, don’t change who you are as a person for convenience. But if it’s not a matter of principle, going along with the mood is what endears you to a group. Everyone’s looking to everyone else, to decide how they feel.”
Realisation made Saphienne’s jaw drop open. “Wait, people decide how they feel about things — by seeing how everyone else feels?”
Iolas looked both pleased with himself for figuring her out, and surprised. “You really don’t do that, do you?”
“No.” She felt queasy. “No, not at all.”
“Which is why you’re fine in individual talks like this. You’re not expected to blend in, not unless you’re making an effort to ingratiate yourself to someone.” He smiled and glanced at the wizard’s home. “Which you don’t have much experience with, I think it’s fair to say.”
“But how… if you feel one thing, and everyone else feels another–”
“Think of it like the tea you ordered. You add oat water on top, and it changes the flavour. You can still taste your tea underneath, the taste is just diluted by… everyone else’s oat water?” He grinned sheepishly. “Not a great metaphor. Sorry.”
“I don’t think I can do that.”
“Can you read it, and fake it?”
Saphienne considered this. She slowly nodded. “With practice, I think so.”
“Well, here comes a chance to practice.”
Panicked, Saphienne turned — and saw Celaena waving to them from across the grove as she hurried closer. Her relief made her smile… and then she caught Iolas’ eye, and read his amusement at her, and that he knew she read him. They both laughed: at her undue concern, at her obvious relief, and at the irony of it all, in context with they had just discussed.
Celaena slowed as she came closer, looking puzzled. “What’s so funny?”
Iolas beckoned for her to walk with them. “You wouldn’t get it.”
* * *
Their master wasn’t home when they arrived. Peacock was perched on the back of the wizard’s chair, and chirped as they entered. “Almon is waiting for you. You’ll find him in the back garden.”
As Iolas and Celaena went out the way they had entered, Saphienne reached into her satchel and drew out her observations from the day before. “Peacock,” she asked, feigning certainty that he could, “would you mind reading over my words? I’d appreciate any corrections.”
Peacock bobbed his head. “Are they double-sided?”
“…Yes?”
“Then I’ll read half of them.” He gestured with his talons, which looked wickedly sharp. “Can’t touch anything that doesn’t believe in me.”
Remembering that he was illusory, Saphienne accepted his obvious limitations — and then felt a weird sense of dislocation, as though she were simultaneously seeing the bird and not seeing him, the dissonance growing the longer–
“Hey!” Peacock leapt forward and beat his wings in her face as he bounced off her shoulder, the shock of which drove her back. “Quit it! I know that look!”
She shook her head as both she and the bird settled back down, Peacock reaffirmed in her mind as entirely real. “Yes. Sorry. You can check the other sides later. I’ll write single-sided for you from now on.”
He gave her an appreciative whistle, and opened his beak in a smile.
* * *
“Conjuration,” Almon said, having finished a lengthier casting of the Second Sight on each apprentice, “is the most impressive discipline to the novice. Saphienne: using everyday language, define for us what it means to conjure.”
Still adjusting to the glimmer of magic swimming before her eyes, Saphienne spoke without opening them. “To conjure something is to cause it to suddenly appear, as though from nowhere; or to call an image to mind; and long ago, it used to mean to implore someone to do something.”
Celaena was surprised. “I didn’t know that last one.”
Adjusted to her magically enhanced vision, Saphienne glanced beside herself, to where Celaena stood next to her, upon a gravel circle in the centre of the garden. “Some of the writing that’s attributed to elders describes them as conjuring others. I had to ask Filaurel what it meant.”
Having returned to the midpoint of the circle, Almon was stood behind a small lectern, and lifted an empty glass from below. “Saphienne is correct. In ages far past, Conjuration and Invocation were confused as the same discipline, and an ancient wizard or sorcerer would conjure a spirit — that is, implore the spirit to intervene. Celaena,” he gestured to her with the empty glass, “in the same way as Saphienne did, define for us what it means to invoke.”
Celaena’s eyes flicked nervously to Saphienne, but she squared her shoulders. “To invoke is to call upon someone, in the sense of requesting their assistance or presence, or to appeal to an authority in support of something.”
Almon nodded. “Mostly correct. Saphienne, correct her.”
Saphienne gave Celaena what she hoped was an apologetic look before she did. “Everything Celaena said is right, except it specifically means to call upon a higher power. That may be a spiritual power, or just an authority one serves. In normal language, invoking a spirit – like a god or goddess – might take the form of requesting they bear witness, or provide inspiration, or render aid; and invoking an authority is to act under that authority, with the support of that authority. You might invoke a god to witness an oath, or invoke a scholar to support an argument.”
“Yes.” Almon leant against the lectern. “When the two disciplines were properly separated, names for the newly fashioned disciplines were drawn from the words used to describe the different types of spell. Invocation, to call upon a ‘higher’ power.” He set the glass on the lectern and stood tall. “And as for Conjuration…”
Red light flashed as Almon whispered a syllable and cupped his hands together, and suddenly water poured from above his palms, filling the glass in an instant. Yet under the scrutiny of the Second Sight, Saphienne had watched an explosion of red appear in the same space, pulsing out before collapsing inward, turning into a torrent of sparks that tumbled down into the glass, sparks which quickly diminished until no magical colour remained.
The wizard gave them a moment to savour the experience. “Iolas,” he then said, “will you hazard a guess as to the definition of the discipline of Conjuration?”
Shaking his head, Iolas smiled from where he stood on the other side of Celaena. “To cause something to come into being by magical means?”
“Be more precise.”
Iolas thought carefully. “A spell which causes something to come into being within the natural world, which otherwise would not exist.”
“Excellent!” Almon smiled broadly. “A spell of the discipline of Conjuration causes something to come into being within the natural world, which otherwise would not exist — whether permanently, or for the spell’s duration.”
Saphienne spoke up. “The distinction being, that Invocation spells call forth things which already exist in the world?”
“Well reasoned.” His smile for her was thinner, but still sincere. “The two disciplines were confused before this distinction was apparent. But make no mistake: what seems simple to us today once took the labour of great minds to uncover.” He gestured the three of them forward. “Come. Examine the water.”
Duly, they did. To all their senses, it appeared entirely mundane. Celaena put her hand in the glass, which the other apprentices copied. Then, thoughtfully, Iolas lifted the glass, sniffed, and took a sip.
Celaena winced. “Couldn’t you have done that before we stuck our hands in?”
Lips twisted in a smile, he swirled the water around his mouth to tease her, then swallowed. “I trust my fellow apprentices to wash their hands.” He set the half-full glass back down. “Tastes bland.”
Almon nodded. “Well noticed. Conjured water is entirely pure, unless care is taken to conjure minerals with it. I did not.” He grinned cruelly. “Which, Iolas, will cause you physical harm… if you drink only this water, and consume no minerals from other sources, such as everyday food and drink.”
Iolas had turned pale, and now blushed. “I assumed you’d stop me from doing something dangerous.”
“I will not. Going forward, assume I will only temper the harm.” The wizard looked over his apprentices with severity. “Magic must always be treated with caution. Respect the Great Art, for it does not respect you. I will, however, answer any questions before you act.”
Rolling back his sleeves, the wizard conjured again, this time flicking his fingers upward, and the word he whispered was different. Again, the Second Sight showed an explosion of red, but this explosion shot upward and blazed brightly — as brightly as the tongue of fire that appeared at Almon’s fingertips.
Celaena and Iolas had stepped back; Saphienne peered closer, though was careful not to lean too close. “This is different,” Saphienne said. “The red remains in the fire.”
“That is because the fire is sustained by the magic — the fire uses magic for its fuel. Now: watch closely.” Gathering the flame onto his left hand, he dipped his fingers into the remaining water, and at once the burning tongues disappeared… but to the Second Sight, the red blaze continued, and when Almon withdrew his hand from the water, the fire reignited. “Would anyone care to offer their conjecture?”
Celaena raised her hand and spoke. “The fire cannot be conjured where it would not normally burn.”
“Ah,” Almon countered, “but would it normally burn on my fingers?”
Hesitating, she glanced to Saphienne. “Saphienne?”
Thinking it through, Saphienne tilted her head. “It would burn on your fingers if there were fuel, but it wouldn’t burn underwater even if there were fuel. Celaena is correct.”
Almon smiled. “Yes, Celaena, you are. Next time, think carefully, and then either amend your conjecture, retract it, or stand by it. Do not abandon it when pressed.”
Recognising her error, Celaena bowed.
Almon ducked down at the same time, but it was to retrieve a small bundle of kindling, which he held up to the flames in his other hand, letting the fire catch. Then, while it smouldered, he held the two apart. “Further observations?”
Iolas spoke up. “The fire you summoned is smokeless.”
Almon flicked his blazing fingers, nearly catching Iolas with their fire. “What did we just discuss, at the start of this lesson?”
Having sprang back, Iolas slunk forward. “…Excuse me, Master. I meant to say that the fire you conjured is smokeless.”
“And why is it conjured, not summoned?”
Iolas sighed. “The fire you hold is created, not brought from somewhere else. I’ll be careful in future.”
“Be not careless in word or deed, young apprentice. Today, you are embarrassed. Years from now, the outcome could be far more gruesome.” Almon flashed him an encouraging smile. “But, yes, the fire of my spell emits no smoke.”
Saphienne could see why. “Under the Second Sight, the fire that’s on the kindling doesn’t show as magical. Based on what you said earlier, you’re not sustaining that fire with the spell — it’s sustaining itself.”
“Correct.” Where the magical fire danced, Almon closed his fist, and the spell collapsed. “Impress me, Saphienne. Explain to me the laws that govern Conjuration spells.”
The challenge made her freeze. “…I can’t do that. I haven’t observed enough.”
“Good. Then explain the laws you can infer, from what you have observed today.”
Beside her, Iolas folded his arms. “This is unfair. You can’t hold her to a higher standard than us.”
“Are you prepared to explain in her stead?” Irritation showed on the wizard’s face. “Do so, then, or content yourself with–”
“Conjuration,” Saphienne interrupted, “has limits. You cannot conjure something into the natural world where it could not exist in the natural world. And where the conjured thing would require specific conditions in the natural world to sustain its existence, if those conditions are not present when the spell is complete, the conjured thing once more ceases to exist. Therefore, to conjure something where it cannot sustain itself and keep it there, you must concentrate on maintaining the spell.”
Almon grinned. “See? She was capable. And that was, to your credit, entirely correct, Saphienne.”
Celaena shook her head. “Saphienne, how in the world did you do that?”
Smiling to herself, she turned to her friends. “I remembered the definition he gave us, and then compared it to what he’d shown us. And his left eye twitches when he’s concentrating on spells.”
Iolas and Celaena both stared at Almon, whose mouth hung open.
“He’s not concentrating on a spell now — you won’t see.”
“Saphienne,” the wizard sighed as her friends chuckled, “that will more than suffice.”
* * *
After a dry and in-depth explanation of the development of Conjuration spells as a discipline of magic, for which Almon had the apprentices sit on the nearby grass and take notes, they finished the day by meditating on the sight of another spell — a summoned spear of lightning, which danced where it stuck into the gravel, the stones into which it was plunged hissing and melting over time.
Saphienne found her eyes ached after staring at it for too long, and so she closed them, focusing instead on the spell as seen through the Second Sight. A fountain of red lines poured out of the ground; and the shape they made twisted and danced, an abstract silhouette, suggestive of other things in the same way as she had once read pictures into the shape of clouds. She lost herself in pondering them, and in the memory of staring up at the sky with Kylantha, and had to make an effort to clear her mind, all the while feeling that she had seen something similar before… that the impression of Conjuration magic was familiar.
When they were done, she returned to the parlour, surprised to see that Almon had flipped over her pages already, and that Peacock was done reading. “All good,” the bird chirped. “What did you say to Almon? He was peevish. More than usual.”
From upstairs, Almon called down. “I can hear you! Blasted bird…”
Saphienne tried not to grin, and kept her voice low. “I pointed out how he squints when he concentrates on spells.”
Peacock danced and flapped his wings silently, then twisted his head around to do a very good impression of Almon’s twitching eye.
Saphienne covered her mouth to smother her laughter as she retrieved her notes, and waved wordlessly to the bird as she went out to meet her friends.
“There we are,” Celaena smiled. “So, shall we go to my house?”
Iolas shrugged. “As long as we won’t be a bother to anyone. Will there be enough room, to not get in anyone’s way?”
Celaena smiled strangely as she started walking. “What an odd thing to worry about.”
Behind her, Saphienne looked questioningly at Iolas — who shrugged.
But when Celaena led them to her home, her friends understood her response.
In fact, they quickly came to understand quite a lot about her.
