L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 17
🕑 Added 2025-02-11 13:00:10 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 17 – Look, and Look Again
Walking through the village while under a magic spell was quite unlike anything Saphienne had experienced before. She had never tried wine – despite the many bottles her mother kept under the stairs, she had never once been interested – and didn’t really know how it felt to be drunk; but the accounts of drunkenness she had read came back to her as she made her way toward the library. Writers described wine as being relaxing in small glasses, freeing in large ones, revealing when drank by the bottle, and thereafter deluding and destroying in greater quantities.
Saphienne didn’t feel relaxed, nor was she freed — yet she did feel the world around her was revealed more clearly than she had ever seen it before. Was this a form of drunkenness? Almost certainly not… and yet she wasn’t entirely herself as she stood in the middle of a winding grove and stared up at the early morning sunlight shining down through the boughs.
Sunlight was magical. She hadn’t noticed at first, the signs far less substantial than the bright colours she had seen in the wizard’s parlour, but the further she travelled the more she became aware of glimmers that dusted the ground wherever the sun shone. The trees, too, were magical, or at least the larger trees that had been grown into houses, all of which had green threads of magic barely visible beneath the surface of their bark. Saphienne paused for a time, mentally charting the lines in one such home.
“Can I help you?”
A bejewelled woman had opened an upstairs window, perplexed by Saphienne.
“Just admiring your house,” Saphienne called up. “I’m learning to be a wizard.”
“…Right.” The elf was unconvinced. “Would you kindly learn somewhere else?”
Saphienne waved, and walked on.
Some dozen steps further down the grove she paused, glancing back to where the woman was leaning out the window to watch; the rings on her fingers shone in the bright daylight.
Oblivious to how she appeared to the woman, Saphienne changed direction and hurried away. There was someone else she should stop in on, before the library.
* * *
Although it was early in the day, there was a very good chance that the woman Saphienne was calling on would still be awake from the night before, and so she knocked on the door to her workshop firmly.
Less than a minute later, the door opened a crack. “…Saphienne.”
Saphienne grinned. “Hello Eletha. Are you working right now?”
The jeweller let the door open slightly wider, revealing her dark, coarse apron, thick gloves, heavy shoes, and the elaborate braid that swept her hair up above her pointed ears. Though Saphienne couldn’t see, she knew the woman was otherwise only dressed in her drab underwear. “I am.”
“May I watch you work for a few minutes? I’m examining different types of magic.”
Eletha deliberated for a moment, then moved away. “I’ll dress.”
Saphienne walked to the back of the workshop as Eletha went upstairs, not even slightly surprised by her former tutor. Anything other than her jewellery was an afterthought to the elf, a distraction from pursuing her craft. There had been days when Saphienne had been forced to request they stop to eat and drink, and nights when Eletha would have thoughtlessly kept working through — until the next evening.
Fortunately, her singlemindedness meant that Eletha soon returned, decently attired, to settle back into place beside the small wood fire over which she worked. “Choker,” she explained to Saphienne, lifting a hoop of golden metal with her tongs, showing her progress as she selected a pair of long needles and lightly held them between the fingers of her other hand.
The detail was exquisite: the surface of the choker looked like woven fabric. Yet there was no magic to be seen, not at first, and Saphienne only nodded.
Eletha set her feet on the bellows beneath the fire, and began to rock them in rhythm, stoking the flames higher. Into them she thrust the jewellery, holding it so that the yellow tongues could taste and warm the gold.
Saphienne waited, watching the jeweller find her rhythm.
When Eletha began to sing, there was no change at first, her low notes sung so softly that Saphienne would have struggled to hear her over the bellows were she stood in the front of the workshop. Yet, as the song unfolded, the metal began to soften, its surface loosening, not quite flowing and not quite solid, able to be worked. Eletha set about doing this with her needles, and Saphienne was struck by the realisation that the surface wasn’t mere detail — the metal had been spun into strands, woven into a delicate braid, and was now being patterned through precise twists.
Another time, Saphienne would have been absorbed by the craftsmanship.
Green glimmers appeared along the metal, revealed by the spell that her master had cast before she left his parlour. Their specific hue was very similar to the living threads she had observed in the trees, a bright emerald, though the Second Sight showed the magic in the choker as less fixed in place, able to shift and sway. Prolonged study gave Saphienne the impression that the glimmers were like light reflecting off the crests of waves, and when Eletha sang different notes the imagined sea mirrored her tone, growing more or less animate in response to the song.
Perhaps ten minutes passed, Saphienne contemplating the mystery.
“I think I’ve learned enough,” she whispered, not wishing to interrupt Eletha.
The jeweller nodded, waiting for a lull in the song to speak. “See yourself out.”
But as Saphienne walked away, she heard the bellows stop.
“Saphienne.”
Reluctantly, she came back to where Eletha was studying the choker, conscious of her remaining time until the Second Sight expired.
“…You were good. I should have told you.”
Saphienne smiled. “You did. You told me I’d be a jeweller.”
Eletha turned, surprise in the dark seas of her eyes. Then she nodded. “Remember the songs. Return to them. Everything else will change, but the songs remain the same.” She lapsed into silence.
For once, Saphienne was glad Eletha was a woman of few words, for neither of them knew what else to say.
* * *
Filaurel was upstairs in the library when Saphienne found her, and dropped down from the top of a ladder with ease. “Aren’t you a little early?” she asked, clicking off the brakes and rolling the ladder to the end of the aisle.
“I need a favour.” Saphienne squinted at Filaurel as she spoke. “…I need to study the tome in your desk.”
“Oh!” Filaurel smiled broadly. “You’re under the Magician’s Sight, aren’t you?”
“Almon called it the Second Sight. He said there were many spells…”
The librarian nodded as they walked toward the stairs. “Humans call it the Magician’s Sight – except, well, in their own words. I suppose you’ll want me to write a message or two while you watch?”
Saphienne murmured an agreement. She was distracted, having noticed a steady orange glow under the top of Filaurel’s blouse, centred on the dip between her cleavage. Her mentor was wearing something magical.
In due course Filaurel brought out the tome, unbinding it and turning to the most recent page. “Please pay no attention to what’s written here,” she said, hand hovering over the page of neat script, “much of the discussion is frivolous and not intended for the eyes of children.”
That only made it more appealing. “I’m interested in the magic.”
“Thank you.” Filaurel lifted her hand away as she readied the pen that paired with the heavy book. “Pass me that ink, would you? There we are.”
Saphienne stole a glimpse of the passages written on the page, all in different hands, catching reference to an upcoming festival — and questions for what Filaurel had planned for an apparent next meeting.
“The pen is not essential,” Filaurel explained as she wrote a brief, coy reply, “but it helps speed the magic. I won’t pretend to understand how.”
Watching her write, Saphienne witnessed the magic in the pen at work. Indigo light brightened and dimmed with every mark she made, the intensity precisely varying in relation to the movement of the nib across the page. So too the writing on the page glowed with the same indigo, each completed word flashing briefly, the colour exploding outward before fading away.
“There.” Filaurel set the pen down. “Shouldn’t be long. Vaeril is always hovering over their tome. I’m certain they leave it open on their desk. Whenever someone spills ink, eleven times out of a dozen, Vaeril is to blame.”
Saphienne smiled. “It copies the ink stains?”
“Thumb prints, too.”
As anticipated, suddenly the tome began to glitter with a fainter indigo, the sparkles drifting across the page until they stuck in place below the paragraph Filaurel had written, trapped there, accumulating. White luminance – Saphienne supposed it was a Divination spell – flashed across the page, and then green fire snaked through the indigo points, ink racing after it across the paper to fill in the divined message.
“This looks complicated.” Saphienne bit her lip. “I think there’s… three disciplines of magic? Divination, and another two I don’t know.”
Filaurel was familiar with them. “If you can see green, that would be Transfo– excuse me, Transmutation. A deep shade of purple would be Translocation.” She tapped her bottom lip with the end of the pen. “I can’t recall anything else that would be particularly useful, and I don’t want to cause trouble with Almon by explaining more about the disciplines.”
Saphienne’s eyes flicked to the magic Filaurel wore, then back to the page. “What about an orange colour?”
“Abjuration?” Filaurel frowned, and her hand unconsciously clasped against her bosom as she leant over the tome. “Why in the world are you seeing– oh.”
Saying nothing, Saphienne kept studying the book as Filaurel stepped away, the librarian now trying and failing to cover the orange glow with the palm of her hand.
“I should have realised,” Filaurel said. She didn’t look embarrassed, but there was an equally hot emotion in her eyes as she studied the wall. “I never really think about it. Yes, I have magical jewellery on me.”
“May I–”
“No.” Filaurel looked down. “Sorry, but no. Maybe another day.”
Saphienne hadn’t experienced being shut out by Filaurel so bluntly before, and for a moment she felt unspeakably frightened, like she stood on the surface of a frozen lake which had suddenly began to creak and ping as it cracked.
Then her mentor sighed away all tension, and gave her a soft smile. “Oh, Saphienne, you haven’t upset me.” She opened her arms. “Come here.”
They embraced. All throughout, Saphienne was aware of the magic that shone between them, so bright and warm, and yet so elusive.
* * *
There wasn’t enough time to visit Gaeleath, or the bakery, or any of the other places where Saphienne knew she would see magic at work. Rather than study the sunlight and the ground and the grass and the trees for a second time, she hurried back toward the parlour where Almon was waiting, thinking over what she had witnessed, considering what it might all mean.
Iolas arrived back outside the wizard’s home at the same time, coming from the other direction. He had a broad, happy smile on his face, and waved to her as she drew closer. “Saphienne. Did you find anything interesting?”
“I think so.” She drew to a halt. “What did you see?”
“I went out to a woodland shrine. One of the attendants called–” He stopped himself. “I should talk about it the right way. One of the attendants cast a spell from the discipline of Invocation, and summoned forth a spirit of the woodlands. We made an offering, and I took the chance to study how it looked.”
“And how did it?”
“Lots of yellow.” He blushed slightly. “Golden yellow, too, especially around the shrine. I’m not really sure what to make of it.”
As they were talking Saphienne had been only half-listening, her eyes trailing up and down his body.
“…Saphienne?” He was blushing more deeply now. “Is something the matter?”
“The Second Sight.” She walked around him slowly. “You have a very faint, white glow.” Standing in front of him, she stood on her tiptoes to peer deeply into his eyes, which made Iolas take a step back. “But it’s brighter in your eyes. Can you see the same in mine?”
Hesitating, Iolas moved closer. His flush slowly faded as he examined her pupils; she noticed his eyes were more cyan than blue. “You’re right,” he said. “I think I can see two dots in the centre of the white, too. A deeper white. Brighter, I mean.”
“Really?” She focused — and saw the same in his. “They seem to move a little.”
The pair stood gazing into each other’s eyes, both now oblivious to appearances.
“I think,” Iolas said, “that’s a reflection. The spell in your eyes is responding to the spell in mine.”
Saphienne squinted, then nodded. “That’s interesting. Can you turn to the side, and keep your eyes trained on me?”
Iolas duly did, and she watched the pinpricks within the glow move, confirming that they were mirroring the spell cast upon her. “I think you’re right.” She dropped her heels to the ground and stepped away. “I’m impressed, Iolas. I would never have noticed this.”
“I could say the same. Perhaps we’ll impress our master. ” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
Another thought had occurred to Saphienne. “…Go on ahead. I’ll follow.”
Not expecting her refusal, he politely bowed, and went back into their classroom.
Saphienne walked away from the flowerbeds outside the wizard’s home, then sat with her back against the nearest tree, stretching her legs out before herself. There she concentrated, studying her arms and feet, trying with all her might to see the same glimmers that she had spied around Iolas. Yet, no matter how she studied herself, the only sparkles were from the sunlight, too insubstantial to be mistaken for the divination.
Gradually, the sparkles began to waver. Nodding, Saphienne stood up, brushed herself down, and went in to meet the challenge.
* * *
“So she returns,” Almon noted as she came into the room.
Peacock perked up. “Hello Saphienne! Did you have a nice walk?”
She ignored them both as she sat before her writing board, took out paper, pen, and ink, and wrote down her thoughts.
Peacock grumbled.
Beside her, Celaena had written four pages of observations, and Iolas was approaching the end of his first.
A moment later, the wizard shook his head. “Time enough. Pens down.”
Iolas and Celaena dutifully complied, while Saphienne kept writing.
“Saphienne, I told you to put your pen down. That you didn’t take the time to record your observations doesn’t mean–”
She didn’t look up. “These aren’t my observations. I can write those down later.”
Intrigued, Almon stood up to hover over her, reading what she was writing. “And what are these, then?”
“My contemplations on the significance of what I saw. I’ll share my observations when you ask.”
Peacock laughed, a rapid and wooden imitation of his master’s laughter. “She’s got you there, Master.”
“Yet,” the wizard insisted, “your direct observations matter, and should be written while they are still fresh in your memory. Will they remain so sharp later today?”
Saphienne stopped writing, and set down her pen. “No,” she answered as she looked up, “but that won’t be a problem. Peacock is going to remember what I say, word for word, and I’ll check what I transcribe against his record.”
Almon and Peacock looked at each other; the bird held his beak open again, grinning at his master.
Who accepted her plan with a shrug. “Very well, Saphienne. Let us put your methodology to the test.” He wheeled around and addressed Celaena. “Apprentice! You have been sitting here the longest, and I see you have plenty written. Summarise your findings for your peers.”
Nervously, the elf lifted her first page. “About the colours of magic…”
* * *
Much of what Celaena summarised had been clear to Saphienne after the first few minutes spent under the Second Sight, but there were some details that were interesting. The colours emanating from Peacock remained steady throughout, neither brightening nor dimming, though Celaena had noticed that the flecks of violet diminished in number after Saphienne and Iolas left the room. She had also noticed that the magic was more clearly visible the closer Almon was to Peacock, though the difference in visibility was so very small as to be easily overlooked.
She offered no proposal on what any of it meant.
Iolas’ summary was shorter, and focused on the differences in the shades of yellow that he had seen at the woodland shrine. Curiously, he had observed that the summoned spirit was not itself comprised of magic in the way Peacock was, but that magic had surrounded it — a fiery nimbus in brilliant yellow that lingered after the spirit departed. As an aside, he wondered if this explained certain stylised depictions of various servants of the gods, many of whom were commonly painted with halos.
“Perhaps.” Almon brushed the matter off. “Is that all?”
He glanced at Saphienne. “…For today, Master, yes.”
“That was more than sufficient, Iolas, have no fear.” He stretched, and shifted around to Saphienne. “And what about you?”
Saphienne threaded her fingers together, and stared up at the ceiling. “Let’s see…”
Recounting everything in as much detail as she could manage, Saphienne told them about her journey from the parlour to the grove, to the workshop, to the library, and then back to meet with Iolas. She held back her analysis of what it might all imply, but even so, she could tell Celaena and Iolas were both fascinated and intimidated by what she had noticed in their short time apart.
“…Which was fruitless. I couldn’t see my own Second Sight using that same Second Sight.” She looked back to the others. “That’s all.”
Peacock laughed. “Would you listen to her? ‘That’s all!’ You could learn something about understatement from this one, Master.”
Almon ignored the jibe. “A full account. Sharply observed.” He stood and paced toward one of the shelves, checking the spines as he searched for a book. “And what,” he addressed his apprentices, his back toward them, “might we suppose from these combined studies?”
Although she had intended to let the others speak first, Saphienne was surprised to see they were both mouthing encouragement to her — asking her to speak up.
“Well? One of you, hazard a thought.” At last, he found the book he wanted and came back to his chair.
She lifted her notes. Nervousness made her clear her throat. “Taking into account everything I described…” Saphienne took a deep breath. “…I think what we saw today wasn’t magic.”
Almon held her gaze. He slowly sat.
She swallowed.
“…Go on, Saphienne. Explain the basis for that conjecture.” Almon leant forward. “Justify yourself to us.”
Peacock chirped. “This ought to be good!”
