Chapter Text
Steady footsteps echo off the walls, overlaying the eager scratching of quills on paper, the soft tinkling as one of the girls pauses to dip hers into an inkwell, wiping the ink off on the edge before continuing. Tissaia de Vries' eyes roam over her pupils' sheets of parchment as she silently moves in circles, a delicate rustle sounding whenever the hem of her dress brushes one of the floor tiles. However, all her attention is on what her pupils are producing. Not the content. That is prescribed, a brief explanation of the composition of the first Chapter of the Gift and the Art shortly after its founding.
Instead, she studies the writing, the movements of their hands, the regularity of the ink flowing onto paper.
That writing is an art is common knowledge. But few realise the true expressive power of penmanship.
Most would consider it madness, mindless superstition. But she is an archmistress. She has the ability to focus, the powers of observation it takes to deduce meaning from handwriting.
Sabrinas. Quick, neat, clean. A talented, ambitious girl, striving to impress. In fact, a hint of her own style of writing is evident in her movements. At least she keeps exceptionally straight behind her desk, glancing up in regular intervals without pausing her hand. Occasionally, single runes are a little crooked, but she will force them into shape as she grows older. Tissaia nods contentedly. This is what she can ask of a young adept. One who lacks an aptitude far beyond the natural ability to control chaos can make up for it with work, discipline. Sabrina is an excellent adept, an outstanding academic. But her magic will always lack the ease of one who does not have to force power, because her own chaos literally attracts it. After only a few weeks, she is completely sure that Sabrina will ascend, become an excellent sorceress. But she lacks the emotional energy. A fire burning deep inside her, a flame of true power, of true greatness. Some ignite it in old age, through strokes of fate and self-discovery, but with Sabrina she doubts it. A shame!
Her eyes continue to slide to Fringilla's handwriting. Elegant and even, clearly that of her colleague Artorius, which she could recognise among thousands. But another has mixed in, adding little flourishes, drawing the arcs a bit longer, tilting the writing slightly to the right. She nods as Fringilla lifts her eyes from the page, gives her a shy look. Poor child. Her uncle and a teacher taught her to write. Two styles blend into a third, to which, she doesn't doubt for a moment, her own characteristics will be added in the coming weeks. Fringilla does not develop anything of her own, she only fearfully copies those who are above her. Follows their orders, their instructions, without being able to act herself. Excellent for a lackey, dangerous for an advisor who has to stand between different authorities. No doubt power is inherent in her, but she must be careful to strengthen her character so as not to make her dependent on what her ruler will once whisper to her. A puppet of a whispered ideology. If she told her often enough that fire is cold and water is dry, sooner or later she would believe it.
And great power, bending to every will out of gentle shyness and cultivated restraint, is controllable. A potent weapon, willing to sink an entire fleet, to kill those closest to its heart. Her withered hand lies beside her on the table, a memorial of the one moment she used her power against herself without thinking about it. At her command, blind and deaf to any danger. She hopes it is enough to remind Fringilla that not every command benefits her well-being, she should think before she obeys any of them.
Just as Anica does. She narrows her eyes at the sound of the quill scratching as her student pushes too hard. Stubborn, unyielding, with a steady doubtful look in her direction. She would not allow any ruler to creep into her mind, to take hold with his crude ideas until he controls all her thinking. She has the willpower to resist heresies, she just lacks the clarity to recognise them. Her doubts waft throughout the room like a dense fog, perceptible as soon as she enters it. Anyone who doubts magic will never be able to cast it successfully. However much one might force oneself, one's own chaos is blocked, impossible to move, impossible to release. And the doubts are sown deep in Anica's mind. Her father is a professor at the Oxenfurt Academy, an intelligent man whose positions against blind faith in the gods and church rulers she holds in high regard. Yet she cannot help but think that he has poisoned her thinking this way. The girl is aware of her intelligence, has long considered what she now steadfastly believes in. Her angular, hard handwriting bears witness to this. Rigid, inflexible, unchangeable. If only it were the right faith, the right conviction. So she will have to change, otherwise she is not worthy of Ascention. Just like the two girls sitting next to her.
The hopes she held for Lark were purely sentimental. A girl with a name similar to the one she once bore, with long, thick, dark brown hair that she wears braided into a neat plait. Alert eyes, an impeccable posture that is not forced like Sabrina's. The young blonde Adept, on the other side of the room makes an effort, pays attention, slumps every now and then and straightens her back again when she notices. It's different with Lark, who holds herself straight, whatever comes. A posture that is innate to her, or at least has been taught to her since early childhood. She is almost ridiculously similar to herself. Even in her writing she can recognise traits of her own without the girl having had enough opportunity to study it. Her namesake could have become quite something if she had even a fraction of the talent she showed back then. She will end up in the pond, she knows it. And maybe Lark knows it too, because there is a quiet dignity in her whole demeanour, as if she has already come to terms with this circumstance and accepts it. Understanding that one must accept a fate against which resistance is futile. The resemblance is indeed striking.
Duralis was a hopeless case from the start. Even when she took her from her parents' home, she knew there was no future for her, that Aretuza would be her only home for the rest of her meagre existence. Her handwriting is large and unclean. That of a child struggling to scribble her first lessons on paper, her rag doll pressed tightly against her as always, as if she were afraid of losing it. Ridiculous! Too powerful, too dangerous to be left in her parents' house, too weak to become a sorceress, her meagre talent will make her nothing more than a conduit.
And then there's...
"Piglet." Tissaia's voice is hard, sharp, as she leans over the blank page, shooting Yennefer a penetrating look. The girl raises her lilac eyes timidly, straining to stretch her back, to sit as upright as possible. In the play of her jaw muscles she recognises the pain it causes her to even try it. Yet, a fire burns in her tear-filled eyes. Temperament hidden under years of suppression, layers of despair, pain and fear. An interesting girl. If she could be trained.
"The task was to copy what was written on the blackboard, Piglet," she explains so loudly and piercingly that the other girls look up from their work, their gazes turning to Yennefer. Yet the lilac eyes remain fixed in hers, glittering with the anger that comes from fear. "Apparently you don't see any need to learn the Chapter's history?" She raises an eyebrow, muses at Yennefer with a piercing gaze. A look that would make a Duralis or Fringilla tremble at the very core of their being. Yennefer, on the other hand, shakes it off, instead her gaze merely intensifies. She is defiant. Offended, like a toddler. But with a fascinating strength behind it, a determination that has already won her grudging admiration when she tried to slit her wrists and damaged her tendons in the process. Heavily. It took her tremendous efforts to ensure the girl would be able to cast spells one day. The attempt was foolish, but unquestionably serious. Courage and determination are important for a young sorceress. If only they did not combine in such a petulant young thing!
"I'll keep it in mind," Yennefer returns through clenched teeth.
"The entire write-up?" Tissaia pierces her with her gaze. But Yennefer only nods stiffly and closes her eyes.
"The Chapter of the Gift and the Art, commonly referred to as Chapter of Wizards, Chapter of Sorcerers of just the Chapter, is the higher chamber in the Conclave of Mages. The most distinguished practitioners of magical art first founded it to institute codified rules on the use of magic, but the creation of a new hierarchy of order sparked brief civil war, costing the life of Raffard the White, who opposed its formation. Amongst said famous sorceresses and sorcerers..."
"Enough, Piglet," Tissaia interrupts her sharply. She doesn't need to listen to her own recital, however accurately it may be delivered. Or however well Yennefer reads it off the blackboard behind her.
"Since you can apparently keep everything in your head without writing it down, the lesson is hereby concluded," she announces to the room, raising a hand, whereupon the writing on the dark grey slate disappears. Five feathers fall on wood, an inkwell is carelessly knocked over. "I expect your written elaboration on the Chapter's history tomorrow afternoon. It should contain a minimum of 4000 words and particular focus is to be placed on the Chapter's legislation from its founding to the present days. The paper may be general or on a specific case, concrete reference to a particular lineage of a particular Chapter composition is possible but not required."
"But...", Anica is the only one who dares to speak.
"Yes?" She turns her head in her direction. She knows well enough that all this was written way down on the blackboard and none of her students had gotten that far.
"We haven't copied it that far yet, Rectoress," Anica tells her. Politely and calmly, though she doesn't flinch from her gaze.
"Then I would suggest you turn to Piglet. She seems to have internalised the entire write-up, while the rest of you have copied only half of it."
Five pairs of eyes turn their gaze in Yennefer's direction as the black-haired adept returns hers. Full of anger, full of hate, full of contempt. She nods in satisfaction. All her students understand that Yennefer has crossed a line. And so they should. They should know exactly whose insubordination got them their punishment. And if she's lucky, Yennefer won't forget it so quickly either.