Months before Saphienne stood in the parlour and answered the wizard, she had been examined for apprenticeship by another accomplished artist.

Gaeleath had arrived at her family home early in the morning, to be met by her mother, who brought the sculptor inside and called up the stairs for Saphienne. Descending toward them, Saphienne heard a causal offer of wine despite the early hour, along with the surprise behind the polite refusal that swiftly followed. She tried not to show any irritation toward her mother as she entered the living room and sat opposite Gaeleath, choosing to pretend that her parent wasn’t there. The only one she cared to speak to was her potential tutor.

Who was something of a mystery, smiling amiably, dressed in a weathered travelling cloak that had seen better days. Gaeleath’s hair was drawn up in a simple, masculine braid, framing lips that were painted in delicate, feminine style. The artist wore an elaborate earring that drew the eye, scandalously held in place by a piercing, yet the clothes worn beneath the fraying cloak were austere and utilitarian in style. There were no clear tells as to whether Gaeleath was an effeminate man or a masculine woman, for the sculptor contrived an appearance that was coyly androgynous.

“So,” Gaeleath asked, “what is it you want to sculpt?”

Before she could answer, her mother interjected. “Her heart’s been set on sculpture for over a year! She’s very passionate.”

Gaeleath didn’t so much as glance away, only kept smiling, waiting for Saphienne to speak for herself.

The question gave her pause. “What I want to sculpt? Not why?”

The sculptor nodded.

“I don’t know.”

Accepting this, Gaeleath stood to leave. Her mother choked, turning red.

“I won’t know until I see the wood, or the stone.”

That changed things; the artist slowly sat back down. “Why do you say that?”

“I’ve made books, clothes, jewellery, and shoes. What can be accomplished depends on what you start with.” She offered a small shrug. “Attempting to force raw materials to be what they aren’t… that doesn’t make for good work, and I imagine it’s the same for sculpture.”

“More so, I’d say. Why do you want to sculpt?”

“I’m meant to be studying magic next year. I want… I want to understand myself better, before I do.”

That pleasant smile deepened, amusement showing. “I hear you’re thirteen.”

“Yes.”

“Waiting a few years will teach you plenty about yourself.”

“Not in the ways that matter,” she replied. “There are people much older than me who don’t know the things I want to know. They know more about themselves, but they don’t understand themselves. Art is important for understanding.”

“Indeed. ‘To understand art is to understand oneself; to understand art is to make art.’ Do you know the quote?”

She nodded.

“Are you well read, then?”

“I’m told so. Very well, in fact.”

This satisfied Gaeleath. “What is it you want to sculpt, Saphienne?”

She studied her new tutor’s expression quite carefully; then, she slowly smiled. “What do you suggest I start with?”

* * *

“What is it about you that makes you worthy of the Great Art?”

In the parlour, Almon posed the question with all the formality and drama the wizard could muster, his tone severe yet pointedly emotionless.

Saphienne reflected back on her experiences with Filaurel, Gaeleath, and the rest of the elves who had tutored her in their arts. Each had done so for their own reasons, each maintaining a different style of student-teacher relationship as they educated her in the fundamentals of their discipline. Ninleyn had wanted company, Eletha to share her work, Gaeleath to help Saphienne discover herself, Jorildyn to prove his own worth by challenging her, and Filaurel… well, Filaurel had just been kind.

Although Almon seemed a little like Jorildyn in the way he antagonised her, Saphienne knew that the wizard must have another reason for taking students. Which didn’t matter, because his behaviour made her certain that he didn’t like her — and that meant she had to do more than win his approval. She had to make him take her on, against his better judgement. That would be difficult, given his pride.

Almon, she realised, didn’t want her to prove herself. He wanted to fight her off.

Which meant she had to fight back.

“That,” she said, “is a nonsense question.”

“Nonsense?” He kept up his impassive façade, but anger glinted in his eyes. “You think the question of worthiness is nonsense?”

“I think no art is a ‘great’ art. Magic is worthless.” She heard a gasp from the other children standing beside her, but plunged on. “Worthless, because all art is worthless. Art has no inherent value at all. The worthiness of art derives entirely from the artist and their audience.”

Stooping down, she lifted the page of calligraphy with which she had secured her right to be judged. “Show me the inherent value in this. Show me where it is worth anything, but for what it provokes when it is written, or read.” Taking it in both hands, she tore the page in two, and could feel the other calligrapher, Iolas, wince as she did. “Grind it into dust, and show me a single shred of value, a single speck of worth.”

She let the pieces fall from her hands. “So, don’t ask why I’m worthy of magic. You can ask why I’m a worthwhile person… but then, isn’t that the point? You’re deciding what I’m worth. Whether I’m deserving of your time, your effort. It’s not about magic at all. Magic is only as meaningful as the wizard who works it. I know my own worth, and so I know what magic’s worth to me. What’s it worth to you, Master Almon?”

Then, to emphasise her defiance, she folded her arms.

The moment stretched as they all stared at her.

Slamming the back of the chair with his hands, Almon stood taller. “Annoyingly well put,” he conceded. “Arrogantly, insolently, but brilliantly well put. It makes me no more inclined to teach you, girl, but I can’t deny — you have the sense of self required to work magic.”

Lifting his arm, he gestured as though inviting the empty air to take him by the hand, and then his arm shifted downward, as it would have done had something alighted upon the back of his wrist. “Come.” He turned and stalked toward the door, which opened ahead of him to reveal the snowy night beyond. “All of you, come! Follow me.”

* * *

The four young elves walked together some distance behind Almon, the eldest hanging back a few paces further as he mulled over his defeat. It was clear from the way he carried himself that he didn’t believe he should be there, and yet he still wanted to be, so he held himself apart and kept quiet.

Faylar, meanwhile, could hardly contain his whispered questions. “Where do you think we’re going? And why’s he holding his wrist up like that?”

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Celaena seemed unsure, but answered anyway. “He might have a familiar — a magical creature, to help with his spells? It could be invisible to us, but he was speaking to someone earlier, and it may be roosting on his arm now. As for where we’re going… I don’t know.”

Saphienne spoke up. “There’s a glade a little farther on. I think we’re going there.”

That made Faylar smile. “I remember it. We used to play in it, when we were little. But why is he taking us there?”

“He must need the space,” Saphienne guessed.

Celaena nodded. “Saphienne is right. He must have a magical trial planned.”

The younger girl looked at the elder, recognising that she was now being taken seriously by her. Saphienne thought about being prickly, responding with sarcasm, but the night was cold and dark and the suggestion of further trials made her nervous. Instead, she returned her acknowledgement. “You know more about magic than we do. What sort of trial?”

“I don’t know.” The moonlight through the trees slid across Celaena’s face, and her anxiousness was momentarily clear. “I know a few things about wizards and sorcerers, but nothing about actual magic.”

“Weren’t you studying the philosophy of magic?”

The girl flushed. “I might have exaggerated a little. Didn’t you?” She looked Saphienne over from the corner of her eye. “Well, maybe you didn’t.”

They continued the rest of the way in silent anticipation, brushing soundlessly across the surface of the snow. Saphienne had wondered whether Almon would be heavy enough to leave impressions there, but the glittering drifts were undisturbed by his footfalls. Idly, distracting herself from her worries of what lay ahead, she wondered how much heavier than elves humans would have to be, that they would leave their footprints.

When they reached the clearing they paused, finding that the snow lay untouched where it had fallen late in the evening, unblemished and now set aglow by the light of the full moon. The wizard proceeded on to the very centre of the glade, where he turned and waited for them to attend him.

Faylar squared his shoulders. “Let’s find out who’s got it, then.”

They arrived together, as a group.

* * *

Almon watched them inscrutably, perhaps testing their patience, perhaps examining some other quality. Saphienne took the opportunity to examine him in turn, realising that he looked thinner when he was standing, the layers of his silvery robes hanging to form a series of vertical lines that balanced out his weight. The style he favoured was unconventional, his clothing far from traditional, and her keen, elven eyes saw that his innermost layers showed contrasting shades of blue where they reflected the pale light.

“What,” he finally asked them, “do you see around you?”

When no one immediately replied, Celaena took a deep breath. “Boundless potential.”

The wizard gave her a withering look. “Potential for what?”

“…Magic?”

He sighed, and she looked as though she wanted the snow to fall again, to cover her.

Sparing her from more awkwardness, Iolas reclaimed his voice. “We’re in a field, Master Almon.”

“Good. And what do you see in this field, Iolas?”

“The snow. And us. The season of winter?”

“Correct.” He gestured around them. “Winter is upon the forest. There is nothing to be seen here but water, turned to ice, arranged as snow. But is that all that is here?” He pointed to Celaena. “You girl, try again.”

She swallowed, and Saphienne saw her clasp her hands together behind her back, squeezing her fingers quite hard. “Though we can’t see it, there is also magic here, Master Almon.”

“And so?”

Her voice was very quiet. “…And so there is also… potential?”

“For?”

“…Whatever you’re about to show us?”

Pitying her, he smiled. “Close enough. If any of you should prove suited to magical study, learn from Celaena’s mistake. You must first begin with what is in front of you, before you consider what might yet be. Saphienne…” He fixed his gaze on her as he spoke her name. “…Why is this so?”

She hesitated. “Minimum effort.”

“Interesting. Continue.”

“If magic involves change, then knowing what is being changed saves time and effort. Working with the world, rather than against it, makes for easier art.”

Almon glanced at whatever spectre hung over his wrist, and he smiled unguardedly as he did so. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? And you would be correct. But you would also be quite wrong.”

“Is this a riddle?”

“Magic is indeed a riddle. Faylar! What is the definition of magic?”

Anticipating being called upon, the youth was ready. “I think magic is defined as that which accomplishes the extraordinary through extraordinary means, Master Almon.”

“Say it another way.”

The request caught him by surprise, and he reflexively ran a hand through his short locks as he stuttered. “Um, well, I think, the gist of it is… magic does things… that are extraordinary…”

Celaena spoke up, more confident beside his fumbling. “Magic breaks the laws of natural philosophy, and it does so using principles that lie beyond the scope of natural philosophy. Magic cannot be measured, and isn’t subject to logic. By definition, it is extra-ordinary, super-natural, beyond and above the world we know.”

The wizard nodded. “Someone else, give me an example.”

Saphienne wouldn’t be outshone. “The law of cause and effect. Magic can make things happen that shouldn’t happen, cause things to appear from nothing and disappear into nothingness.”

“And yet,” Almon tested her, “even though you know this, you find it puzzling that magic can be contradictory?”

“If I wasn’t puzzled,” Saphienne answered, “then I wouldn’t need to be taught.”

Almon laughed. “You tire of my theatrics.”

“Only your needling. I presume the theatrics serve a purpose.”

He bared his teeth as he smiled, his expression both angry and pleased. “Indeed they do. And Iolas will tell us what that purpose is.”

The calligrapher had been frowning throughout. “You’re testing us. The theatrics are part of the test. My guess is…” The realisation dawned across his face as he spoke. “…You’re keeping us off-balance. The better to read us.”

“One of the reasons, yes. You all might have been told what to say. Saphienne might have been forewarned about wizards by Filaurel, and have come with her answers prepared.”

She shook her head. “Filaurel would never do that.”

“Wouldn’t she?” His smile took on a superior edge that told Saphienne he knew her mentor better than she did, or that at least he thought he did. “Mm, apparently not. Your clever answers are obnoxiously unrehearsed.”

“What are the other reasons?”

“There is only one other reason,” he answered, and stepped back from them all. “The simplest of reasons, and by far the most profound.”

Exasperated, Saphienne shook her head. “And that is?”

He grinned at them all. “I like it. It feels right, to be theatrical. What is the point of being so quotidian, so everyday and ordinary, when I can do this?”

And the wizard gestured delicately with his fingers and spoke a single word, though the word was not in a language any of them knew, and his fingers moved in ways that their eyes were too slow to follow. Yet they saw the sapphire sparkles that glittered before his fingertips, and Saphienne’s eyes widened as the glimmering lights expanded, watched them become a field of stars that spread out across the snow, stars that warmed and thrilled her where they ran by and through her to blanket the clearing. Then those stars exploded, blinding her–

Someone whispered a profanity.

Saphienne opened her eyes to find she was standing in a summery field, overgrown in every direction with impossible, riotous colours. Flowers had sprung up around her ankles in every imaginable hue, were springing up still as she watched. The moon remained overhead, but new stars shone all around them in the air, lighting the greenery revealed by the still-melting, sizzling snow.

“This is amazing,” Celaena was saying, turning around and around, joy beaming from her eyes as she quite forgot herself.

Faylar was grinning nervously. “Beautiful work, Master Almon.”

Iolas had knelt down, and was running his fingers through the stems, leaning close to inhale from a bloom.

Saphienne crouched also, feeling the coolness of the still-growing plants, watching them twine through her fingers as they struggled toward the sky.

Almon watched them all with a smug expression, making no effort to hide his sense of accomplishment. “Magic,” he told them, “is the Great Art, because it most perfectly expresses what is within us. The awe you feel now never wholly goes away, not even for the greatest wizards. What can possibly compare to power such as this? Who among you doesn’t remember every single time they witnessed magic, great or small?”

He pointed to Celaena. “What did you witness, that you remember most clearly?”

“Watching an abacus keep its own count.” She was grinning. “I was only little, but I knew it shouldn’t move like that. I stared for so long…”

“And you,” he indicated Faylar. “What do you remember most?”

Faylar shrugged. “Your own work, Master Almon. You conjured coloured stars to celebrate the new year. I’ve never forgotten them.”

“And you, Iolas?”

“My father was hurt.” He looked up, and the memory both pained and enlivened him. “There was an accident, and he was bleeding badly. I remember he was very pale. Then a golden light washed over him, and he was healthy and hale. I remember how he laughed, as he picked me up.”

“The work of a priest,” Almon murmured. “Yet, magic all the same. You are not religious?”

“No more or less than most. I don’t have the faith for that kind of magic. I kept wondering… if the gods cared, why would they have let him be hurt? To prove they could fix him? Seemed wrong.”

“Well reasoned.”

At last, as though an afterthought, Almon turned to Saphienne. “What about you, girl? Which act of magic do you recall most clearly?”

Saphienne remembered, and the memory froze her in place.

Though no one else saw, as she dwelled on that memory the green in her eyes became far, far darker than the glade before them.

End of Chapter 6