novelraw CHAPTER 124 – Wilful Acceptance
CHAPTER 124 – Wilful Acceptance
Happy were the days until Laelansa had to depart — undoubtedly the happiest Saphienne had ever known in the woodlands. They stayed together with Lynnariel, breakfasting with her in the mornings and then going for increasingly confident walks as she remembered her courage. In the afternoons they visited with friends, whether Filaurel and Faylar tending the library, or Laewyn and Celaena birdwatching in the forest, or Iolas taking tea in his family’s garden, or Thessa painting at the lakeside.
That last occasion gave Saphienne an excuse to visit the shrine raised by the spirits, where she hid her trepidation at the numerous prayers on the now-carved offering trees, tying in place her own carefully penned thanks that no one had been hurt. Thereafter she made an effort to be seen in her comings and goings, refusing to acknowledge the reverence in which many held her, determined to force the community to treat her normally.
Progress would be slow.
Throughout, she was uplifted by her deepened connection to Laelansa. They talked in bed at night before sleeping, as often they had before, yet now Saphienne abandoned almost all her reservations with her girlfriend, able to express her intimate longings without fear of rejection; she held back only her wyrd, the truth of her encounter with Parthenos, and her draconic heritage. Laelansa opened up in the moonlight, admitting the parts of herself that she had withheld for worry that she would seem too odd to be loveable.
They laughed frequently; they kissed tenderly.
“Why dragons?”
Saphienne continued to trail her fingers up and down Laelansa’s spine. “…You’ve waited four days, only to ask like that?”
Laelansa giggled and nuzzled into her cheek. “There hasn’t been a good moment. I’ve given up trying to think of a better way.”
Grinning as she kissed her girlfriend’s shoulder, Saphienne hummed contentedly. “There probably isn’t a delicate way to bring it up. ‘Beloved mine, why does the idea of being taken by a dragon thrill you? Is it perhaps trauma at your near-death experience? Are you dealing with your brush with mortality by transmuting the fear into lust, reimagining the threat as an expression of desire, and thereby making the horror manageable, giving you a way to approach the memory that feels safe?’”
Laelansa raised herself up on her elbows, silhouetted as she studied Saphienne. “…You frighten me. I’ve been taught about how people cope with adversity, and how to help them overcome what challenges them, but you figured that out yourself, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Saphienne canted her head. “Is that part of the doctrine of your goddess? Helping people face their fears?”
“Our Lady of the Basking Serpent restores those who are too wounded to help themselves, but Her fellow gods and goddesses are not idle.” The novice scrutinised her beloved as she recounted her lessons. “Those of us who have forgotten our own merit must be supported.”
Awkwardly in the narrow bed, Saphienne sat up. “Were you helped like that, after you were orphaned?”
Laelansa didn’t respond.
“…Sorry, you don’t have to–”
“My goddess helped me Herself.” She spoke softly — afraid of Saphienne’s judgement. “I ran away from Wynalia. I went out into the wilds… I was very young. I didn’t understand what I was doing, but I think I wanted… I wanted to stop being alive.”
Saphienne froze.
“I’d been going westward, and I came to the bottom of a cliff that I couldn’t walk around… it went on and on for miles and miles. That made me cry; I don’t know why.” She breathed in as she closed her eyes.
“Then,” she continued, barely audible, “I was suddenly afraid, more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. Someone was standing behind me. Just their presence turned my bones to stone, and everything around me was dark.”
Sensing her struggle, Saphienne reached out to clasp her shoulder.
“She told me to look at Her. I told her that I couldn’t; that I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”
For want of better encouragement, she squeezed.
“Then She came so close I felt Her brush against my ear. She whispered to me, and what She said… I can’t remember Her words. I just know what She told me to do.”
Glimpses of Laelansa as she’d appeared when their minds had touched returned to Saphienne, the undaunted girl perched upon a ledge. “She told you to climb.”
“I did what She wanted. Climbing was less fearsome than Her. As soon as I started my ascent She was gone, and the sun was setting.” She laughed. “Halfway up, I startled a bird in its nest — I remember it as an eagle, but who knows what it really was. A bird of prey with talons. It cut my arm… but I kept going.”
“…And what happened?”
“I reached the top.” She raised her head with pride. “I looked back, and saw how far I’d climbed, and then how far I’d walked. And She was there. Everywhere I looked, She was there, even though I couldn’t see Her, and She was asking me…” Laelansa struggled to find the words. “…She was asking me if that was all; She was asking me if that was the best I could do. I said no.
“Then I saw the torches in the distance, and I called out to the wardens.” She sat up and shrugged. “I didn’t understand any of it at the time. It wasn’t until I learned about Her that I knew who She was. My mother must have prayed to Her for me. Or at least, that’s what I feel is true.”
Saphienne didn’t know what to say.
Laelansa smiled sadly. “You must think I’m mad.”
“I don’t.” The goosebumps risen across her body confirmed it. “I don’t know what happened, but that doesn’t sound like madness to me — even if it was all in your head.”
The novice doubted… and yet chose to believe. “She’s never spoken to me since then. I don’t want Her to — and I don’t want to find out whether I’m right, so I haven’t told anyone before.”
“Exercising faith.” To her amazement, Saphienne realised she respected it.
“I have faith the gods are compassionate; They were to me. Everything that contradicts Their compassion can’t be right.”
Then whence came evil? Saphienne loved Laelansa enough to let that dragon slumber.
“You never answered my question.” Laelansa was faithful, not foolish.
Saphienne crossed her legs. “I’m not afraid of Parthenos. She was beautiful, but I don’t feel desire when I think about her. I can’t say why the idea of you as a dragon arouses me…” Not yet. Not until she was sure. “…But when I understand myself, I’ll tell you.”
Disappointed, yet trying not to show it, Laelansa nodded.
She studied her lover. “…There’s something else I can share, now. I promised I’d explain myself after the festival.”
Laelansa mirrored her posture. “About that offering you took down from the tree? You were upset by it; I didn’t realise until the next day.”
If the child whom Laelansa had been could be brave, then so could Saphienne. “The prayer was left by Phelorna… Kylantha’s mother…”
* * *
Laelansa was stricken when she heard Saphienne had been suicidal, and for once she was angry with her when the magician confessed to having kept her suffering to herself.
Then they cried together.
And after? They made love.
Before they slept, Saphienne projected a silent wish to the world, hoping that, when the moment came to confess herself, Laelansa would understand.
No presence, fearsome or otherwise, responded.
* * *
Lynnariel gave her farewells in the house, not yet comfortable enough to join them up at the lake. Laelansa made her promise to walk every day, and to only drink wine when she had company — which Lynnariel said she would do, if Saphienne promised to eat dinner with her most evenings.
Saphienne rolled her eyes at them as she agreed, knowing full well she was being needlessly manipulated.
Even Filaurel joined their friends on the beach to wish Laelansa safe travels, though the librarian grew distracted as the chatter dragged on, aware that patrons of the library would be disgruntled if she returned later than her notice had promised. Eventually, she teased Laelansa about being reluctant to leave.
“Actually,” Saphienne slyly smiled, “we’re waiting on someone.”
Nelathiel’s arrival prompted an explanation, whereupon Laewyn inexplicably burst into tears – perhaps moved by the romance – and insisted on hugging both Laelansa and a slightly stiff Nelathiel as she wished them the very best of luck.
And so the magician, the novice, and the priest ascended to the overlook.
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Nelathiel called back as she headed for the wilds. “Don’t keep me waiting too long — we need to make good time. I have to be back a month before autumn to prepare for the season of Our Lord, so every hour counts.”
Saphienne held Laelansa’s hands where they sat together on the fallen log.
“…I’ll miss you, more than I can express.”
“We’ll miss each other.” Laelansa leaned her banded forehead against Saphienne’s brow with a sigh. “Make me a promise before I go?”
“Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll reconcile with Hyacinth?”
Of course she’d guessed they were estranged. “…I scared her very badly. It wasn’t– I said something to her I shouldn’t have; please, don’t ask me.”
“You weren’t well. Whatever you said to her, I know she’ll forgive you, if you’ll forgive yourself.”
Saphienne drew back, wide-eyed as she beheld the young woman she adored, struck by the indescribable sentiment of perceiving the whole of her: the bereft child in the wilds, the determined climber, the oblivious questioner, the headstrong competitor, the infatuated pursuer, the helpless attendant, the devout novice, the playful partner, the enthusiastic lover, the wise and kind and patient Laelansa to whom she was – in every sense – a familiar mystery. Behind that tangible impression stretched a future, wherein she spied the outline of an elf who was more than anyone expected, giving of herself to the woodlands despite its shortcomings, driven to prove the merit in all things to make holy her received compassion, whether conjured by her need or granted by divine grace.
There, reflected in the staring, grey-green eyes, she saw herself as well; and even in the absence of a draconic figment, she was no mere elf.
“I don’t know that she will.” Saphienne’s left hand reflexively clasped Laelansa. “But for you, I’ll have faith.”
* * *
Prolonged sadness would have been an impiety to Laelansa, and so Saphienne was resolute: she would mope for only one day. She requested wine and chocolate on her way home, along with the most saccharine, heart-wrenching romance Laewyn and Faylar could recommend from the library, then took to the couch to feel sorry for herself.
She nevertheless spent most of the next morning in bed.
Then she arose and bathed and put on her everyday robes that paired with tall boots and went out to make preparations for the future, starting with the necessary expansion to her house in order to accommodate Minina. This ended up becoming a saga that consumed the entire afternoon, Saphienne forced to argue with the overly enthusiastic village planners when they proposed opulent renovations to rival Celaena’s former dwelling. Eventually, she compromised with them, agreeing that they could move her to the top of the waiting list if they accepted that no more than a second tree could be added, and that she wouldn’t be given preferential treatment over anyone with urgent need.
She rationalised that the sooner the growing was finished, the sooner Minina would be free from her enclosure. At least her complaints entertained her mother as they ate their evening meal.
Arriving back at her house, Saphienne found a translocated letter waiting for her — and immediately cast her personal seal to unbind it. She read its contents with growing glee.
Elduin had honoured his word.
* * *
Almon showed up during breakfast with a bookshelf’s worth of volumes levitating behind him, grumpy as he knocked and showed himself in. “Good morning, Master Saphienne. I presume you received a letter last night?”
Staring at him in askance from where she stood in the doorway to her kitchen, Saphienne drank from her teacup to swallow her indignity. “Good morning, Master Almon. You presume correctly.”
“Then let us not waste time.” He set the books on the couch and cast the Second Sense, surveying her front door before shaking his head. “No, no: this won’t do. You’ll need to properly ward your sanctum before I can authorise you to proceed.”
Bemused, Saphienne wandered over. “Apparently, your letter was more detailed than mine… care to enlighten me about what you’re to authorise?”
“Typical.” He folded his arms as he rounded on her. “This happens all the time; I’m convinced whoever writes them holds a grudge against me, you know.”
Her lips curled upward. “Always leaving you to explain?”
“You,” he informed the magician, “have been granted permission to store restricted works in your sanctum — provided sufficient security measures are in place. That necessitates locks on your entrances, a magically sealed door to your library, and permanent abjurations to impede Divination and Translocation spells at a minimum.”
Saphienne blinked. “…Doesn’t your personal library have–”
“Not of the same classification.” He smirked. “I contemplated increasing my security after a former apprentice ran amok… but I had better things to do with my time. I still do — so if we might move this along?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m having an expansion built; I’ll go talk to the planners about revising it. Can you recommend good references for the abjurations?”
“An appropriate request has already been made on your behalf — I expect Filaurel will receive them, along with the other books being transmitted.”
He’d come prepared. “Thank you. Meanwhile, if my house isn’t sufficiently warded,” she queried, gesturing to the tomes he’d brought, “what about these?”
Amused, the wizard held his lapels. “Why, Master Saphienne! Did you think I would set you loose on my apprentices without arming you with the prerequisite knowledge of pedagogy? This light reading is no more sensitive than what I typically keep on hand.”
She took a long sip of her dark tea as she stared at the pile. “…How very considerate; might I expect there will be a review at the end, to ensure I’ve sufficiently grasped the key concepts? Perhaps, I dare say, additional reading to follow?”
“You,” he gravely intoned, “have wilfully intruded into my domain, Master Saphienne — and you will suffer the consequences! You wish to further upend my practice? Then you must appreciate the art against which you would aggress.”
He was enjoying himself. “Did Master Taerelle undertake the same?”
“Sadly not. That would have been a distraction from her studies.” His petty vengeance was utterly transparent, as was his smugness.
She drained her cup. “Well played, old friend. For what it’s worth, I did try to discuss it with you before I publicly asked.”
“For what little it’s worth, I expect you’ll prove adept as a tutor. If Celaena and Iolas sufficiently benefit from your assistance, I may have cause to reconsider the value of tutoring in future.”
“‘If,’ he says.”
“Indeed! Your move, my young friend; call in on me when you’re ready.”
* * *
Filaurel was taken aback by the instructions that arrived: never before had anyone been granted permission to take notes on highly sensitive texts transmitted into her safekeeping, nor had she ever afforded a patron unfettered access to an entire shelf. Despite her trust in Saphienne, she demanded – and received – signed instructions from the head librarian of the Luminary Vale before she complied.
Saphienne thought better of telling her mentor about the personal library she would soon be keeping; one shock was enough for the present.
* * *
When came at last the moment to begin, Saphienne was anxious as she took her seat behind the narrow desk in the furthest section in the restricted collection in the village library, racing thoughts soon turned to pacing strides that increased without cease until she was walking full circuits of the shelves.
From whence came her shameful weakness? Learning had been her shelter, now become sunlight that might expose more than she could bear to gaze upon. Her distraction from her troubles threatened more.
…Was this the behaviour of a dragon?
She bade herself sit and ready her pen.
* * *
Saphienne would spend more than two months locked away, engaged in research with the same intensity as she had once studied magical theory in the prelude to casting her first spell. The insights she unearthed were scattered throughout verbose treatises, and to collate them she made dozens of sketches of draconic physiologies, annotated by passages about their traits that were often larger than her drawings.
…Dragons are distinguishable from drakes and wyverns by possessing four limbs, two wings, full sapience, command of magic, and formidable size…
…Adults, such as Parthenos, measure at least fifteen feet from shoulder to claw, and elder wyrms are attested to be larger…
…Efforts to create a draconic taxonomy have proven futile, for dragons vary in proportions, horn shape, ornamentation, and the semblance of their scales. No two dragons are the same — every dragon’s fire is unique…
She was sceptical as to how their wings could possibly support their weight, until she reasoned that their beating evaded natural law in much the same way as did elven footfalls — through inherent magic.
…They reproduce the conventional way. Dragons are incredibly fecund, able to mate with all varieties of mortals. Their offspring hatches from eggs whether or not both parents are dragons: fertilisation by a dragon is accompanied by transmutation, imparting recognisable changes to the body. Substantial discussion surrounds whether this is an effect akin to dragonflare…
…Dragonflare exerts an influence over the gestation of birds and beasts, chance causing their emergence as wyverns and drakes resembling the dragon from whom the dragonflare originates…
…Plants grow in unnatural shapes within territory claimed by dragons…
She recollected then the lively fear shown by the spirits; even Mother Marigold, capable competitor in crimson contest, had run from confrontation.
So too did she remember how Hyacinth had fled.
…Dragons resist fascinations of the mind and transmutations of the body that run contrary to their natures; close study indicates that their inherent magic emanates resonance that collapses the spells…
…They are uniquely attuned to the Great Art. Even the feeblest dragon is comparable to a wizard or sorcerer who has attained the Third Degree…
…Draconic magic relates to fire. Dragons hold fire to be the ‘ultimate reality from which all else unfolds,’ yet no dragons can agree on the meaning of this overarching philosophy…
Her reading confirmed that dragons were the original teachers of the Great Art. Saphienne duly reconsidered the primordial forests, hypothesising that the earliest cults had neither been led by elves, nor wholly constituted by them.
…Elven magic is comprehensible to dragons, but each dragon effectively follows their own maddeningly idiosyncratic tradition…
…Draconic spells blur the lines between disciplines. Whereas elven spellcraft assembles the disciplines to achieve effects, dragons do not merely ignore such divisions — they resent their imposition…
…Their Conjuration spells can be Hallucination spells; their divinations can be fascinations; many disciplines can be as one. Yet distinct they remain, not alloyed…
Accounts of their spells set her imagination ablaze. One dragon was described as conjuring figments; another as cracking the sky with a translocation that invoked spirits; tales of roared prophecies captivated the magician as like the divinations had fascinated their subjects.
…Extremely territorial, dragons inevitably contest each other to establish who must submit to, depart from, or be killed by whom. They cannot be dissuaded through physical threat. Juveniles and their caretakers are exempted from this hostility…
…Almon was wrong. Their relationships are fluid, not wholly based on strength; they can coexist in hierarchies where their views of the world accord. These flights of dragons are fractious, dispersed across tremendous distances, united to pursue the singular vision of a conquering wyrm…
…Dragons are intent upon themselves. Their literalism does not preclude abstract thinking: their language connotes the subjunctive and interrogative through the interplay of word and deed as an extension of their self-expression. They are sensitive to symbolism, and highly literate in the definition and interpretation of symbols…
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She meditated on Parthenos’ fire — both a symbol and vessel, magical and physical, destructive and transformative.
…The minds of dragons are labyrinthian. No one intrudes uninvited, nor can spirits fill the spaces between their wheeling, undulating thoughts…
…Dragons do not distinguish between what they conceive and what exists, yet they will not willingly deceive themselves in their conceptions. Mercy is rare among them because mercy is a contradiction, requiring that dragons forbear to insist upon the world they embody…
…So central are convictions to the being of a dragon, any influences that would lead them astray from themselves cannot prevail but that the dragon concedes. Unwelcome fascinations and transmutations that surpass their resistances will either be overcome or lead to the death of the dragon, and they are likewise immune to unwanted spiritual influence.
Upon that line she concluded.
* * *
What made an elf an elf? What made a dragon a dragon?
Which was she?
Weighed upon the pans of a scale, the evidence for her being was evenly balanced. She had the semblance of an elf — and waves in her hair, sparkles in her blood; she sang the crafting magic of elves — and spoke with the tongue of wyrms; she had flourished in the study of elven art — and thrived when imparted dragons’ fire.
She could be both… yet that was precluded by the woodlands. Elduin considered her an elf with draconic characteristics — nothing else would ever be tolerated.
Nor could she accept the ambiguity.
She was what she made of the world; the world was what it made of her.
Should she simply choose? Why not choose what she wanted?
But then, who would trust what she defined?
* * *
Pondering what Saphienne wrote about this period of her life, another poem by my father is apt.
Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning — I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy’d satisfaction?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this façade — this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic elf?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all vapour, illusion?
She was afraid. More than afraid, I think.
All happiness contains within itself the terror of loss — terror that she felt more keenly than most. Her attempted suicide had been driven by her sense that the good would forever be snatched away from her, as like when Kylantha had been taken, or when she had been assaulted on the very day she made peace with her powerlessness; losing her mother afterward had devastated her. Hyacinth, too, had been estranged in the aftermath of joy.
Many have complained to me that her decisions – especially in her childhood – made no sense to them. Why did she lie and manipulate? Why couldn’t she trust? They are dissatisfied with the explanation: that Saphienne felt the way she was treated by life was her fault, that she believed she brought her suffering upon herself though an inherent unlovability that led the world to reject her.
That she, like Kylantha, was born to endless night.
These visitors cannot comprehend hiding themselves, and so they cannot see deceit as a protective mask worn over a countenance we feel to be contemptible. I suspect some refuse to comprehend, for they practice this art so skilfully they deceive even themselves…
What, then, must she have first felt when she imagined herself a dragon?
Parthenos had scorned the elves, and had told her she ought be angry; yet she’d only been relieved. In pretending to herself that she was a dragon she’d held at bay responsibility for all that the woodlands had done to Kylantha, further finding hope that her inability to be loveable could be overcome through might. She had substituted a self-aggrandising fantasy in place of her collapsed self.
Then, incrementally, she’d come to recognise that the differences between herself and the people around her were more than superficial. Saphienne had faced the possibility that she was a dragon in more than childish play.
Forwhy had she been slow to accept it was possible?
Place yourself amid those subterranean shelves, sifting treatises for fragments of a mirror, assembling your reflection but dimly from the scrawl. Envision your scattered self taking shape with each uncovered intimation of scale and claw and flame. Page by page, reenvision your past as the victim of circumstance, your foibles and failings shown to be flaws not of your character, but of your context.
Saphienne was long accustomed to rejection. That was not the substance of her fear.
She feared what would come after — feared her inevitable fury, her rage at the people she loved who ought have returned her love.
As she always had, deep down.
* * *
Ah, but Saphienne’s heart beat with more than anger and fear.
She walked the woods with her mother upon a rainy day, soaking in the autumnal downpour and exulting in the blowing of the wind through her hair — feeling as though she were gliding through clouds upon immense wings.
Lynnariel slowed. “I want to turn back.”
Saphienne glanced to her. “We can… but we’re not far from my house. Wouldn’t it be easier to press on?”
“I might not make it; I don’t– I don’t want to break down.”
She squeezed her hand. “What if you don’t? Don’t you want to see?”
Reassured, Lynnariel kept her gaze on Saphienne as they continued. “…Your hair is still blonde…”
“I kept the colour. I want to live in summertime a while longer.”
“…You’re always brunette in my dreams…”
“And I’m forever a little girl, I’m sure.”
Lynnariel shook her head. “No. Not since we got drunk together. You’re not like you used to be — we’re both trying to find our way out.”
Saphienne blinked; her eyes watered in the rain.
“…Is that your house? With the hill behind? And that small tree beside?”
“Yes,” she said, swallowing. “Yes, that’s my house. We’re making more space than there used to be — space for me and Laelansa and all the people we love. I want this to be a home for us. I want us all to be happy.”
* * *
Trust was a choice.
Saphienne could earn the trust she needed, if she had evidence to show she was what she would claim. Yet extraordinary claims required extraordinary proof, and obtaining the proof she needed would be perilous — there was every likelihood she was still being watched by the High Masters.
Elduin had called her paranoid… yet she couldn’t risk herself being lulled into a false sense of security. She needed a way to evade being scried upon.
Almon had given her pretext to study abjurations, and the slow growth of the expansion to her house was excuse to practice fashioning enchantments for the wards she would need. Still, however was a magician of the Second Degree to resist the scrutiny of the High Masters?
* * *
“You accept I’ve fulfilled my part of our accord?”
Turning the weird, blue quartz over in her hand, Saphienne held the crystal up to the sunlight streaming through her sitting room window, postulating that the otherwise ordinary mineral was blue due to strange patterns refracting the light; divination would later confirm her suspicion.
Vestaele raised her eyebrow. “Saphienne?”
“I’m satisfied.” She lowered her gaze to the vial of dragon’s blood which accompanied the first sample. “You didn’t happen to find any of her scales, did you?”
“…Only one.”
“Which you understandably want to keep for yourself.” Pocketing the quartz, Saphienne bowed to the sorcerer. “I apologise for not being able to share everything that happened–”
“We’re fine. Curious as I am about the secret you hold, instructions from the High Masters are not to be trifled with. I’m contented by what I read in the report…” Vestaele allowed herself a tight grin. “…And I was pleased to see that your talent for Fascination hasn’t been wasted. Having a former pupil who fascinated a dragon is quite distinguishing.”
“Technically, figments are hallucinations.”
Her smile was undiminished. “I’ll share credit with Master Almon, then.”
Saphienne mirrored her as she straightened. “Would you perhaps be willing to share a little more with me?”
“You wish to borrow the scale…”
“That, and I’d also like to take some samples from Calamity, for comparison.”
Vestaele crossed her arms, lifting one hand to tap her fingers on her jaw. “I’d be willing to trade — a favour for a favour.”
That was reasonable. “So long as it isn’t political.”
“Keeping a low profile? So would I.” Her expression remained mildly amused. “No, the favour I need isn’t of that sort… but it will involve playing games…”
* * *
Calamity was well-behaved when he came to stay with Saphienne, though he did persist in dropping his shiny trinkets in her bed. He didn’t so much as whine when she drew a sample of his blood, and he scratched loose two scales before Vestaele returned from her travels, more than sufficient for her purposes.
Excited to see his owner, the drake was howling when she forced him to leave.
“If he threatens to slumber again,” the sorcerer sighed, “I may need your help rousing him.”
Saphienne politely promised her assistance — inwardly contemplating her next steps, having completed her studies of the minute resonance left behind by Parthenos’ fire. Crafting the spells and enchantments she needed would take another three weeks.
* * *
Faylar was intrigued. “I’ll tell her… but why are you really going all the way out there? You’re not–” He peered from the aisle where they stood, lowered his voice. “…You’re not going into the protectorate, are you?”
Saphienne chuckled at the plea in his eyes. “I’m not — so no, you can’t come along.”
“Then, why? You can’t actually be going on a pilgrimage.”
He wasn’t wrong; nor was he entirely right. Had her scrying not pointed her there, Saphienne wouldn’t be visiting the shrine. “Haven’t you heard? The gods love me. I need to stay on good terms with them.”
Faylar scoffed. “Fine: keep your secrets, but my mother’s not going to like it.”
“Tell her that I’m staying in the woodlands, and that if she or any other wardens try to follow me to make sure I’ll be extremely irate.” She softened. “This is personal. I’ll be back within the week.”
* * *
More than five years had passed since Saphienne had last visited the Shrine to Our Lady of the Balanced Scales, and autumn made the view of the protectorate behind the icon all the more striking, fields of green replaced by golden brown, distant figures at work tilling the earth in preparation for a late sowing.
She studied the colourful garb of the distant men as she bowed to the statue, wondering whether any of them were married to the girls – now women – she’d chatted with. Could she have even recognised Elisanna? Or Tomidia?
Keeping the hood of her forest-hued cloak raised, she brought the prayer she’d written to the offering trees, tied it in place, then turned to survey the blooms growing before the plinth, the Second Sight glimmering in her eyes.
Yellow light faintly flickered among the black hyacinths.
Resolute, Saphienne dropped the hood–
And the bloomkith she’d sought quit her flowers, vanished beyond the material world.
“That’s fine,” she said aloud as she approached. “I’m not going to pursue you. I don’t even need you to talk to me. I just want you to listen; I know you can hear me, now that you aren’t embodied.”
Though the wind stirred, it was but a breeze.
“I know why you’re avoiding me,” Saphienne admitted as she crouched down. “It’s not because of what I said to you that night. I should never have threatened to change you… but you know me well enough to know I was unwell.”
She reached out to stroke a bloom.
“I’ve been thinking about you ever since we last met. Thinking about the courage it took to try to stop a dragon; thinking about how it wasn’t really courage at all. I can’t imagine how frightened you must have been for me, and how, in the moment, trading your life for mine seemed like the answer.”
Saphienne’s hand fell to the grass; she exhaled softly.
“We were both trying to die.”
Above her, the icon was impassive, waiting.
“…I love you. I know that, now. I love you as deeply as I love Laelansa. I love you as purely as I loved Kylantha.”
There came no reply.
“I expect you’re sorrowful. I expect what you glimpsed when you tried to save me has tormented you night and day.” She rose. “I expect you’ve been trying to find the strength to leave the woodlands… to leave me far behind. But you can’t, can you? Because you love me just as much, no matter who – or what – I really am.”
Saphienne smiled sadly. “What I said was true: you belong to me. Even if I am what you think, we both know your roots are mine alone. May it console you to know that I remain who I have always been.”
She turned away.
“I’ve given you space — but I’ll soon have need of you. I’ll call for you when I’m ready to do as I must, and proceed with or without you; I’d feel safer with you. Farewell for now, my Hyacinth.”
* * *
Abjuring divinations by the High Masters was impossible: they could pierce any resistance she might raise.
But how closely would they scrutinise her wards after they did?
There was only one way to find out.
Saphienne walked the perimeter of house and hillock at sunset, setting cut quartz crystals in place along a temporary boundary she’d demarcated with rope. Parthenos’ fire had germinated the idea, for it had been a conjuration that performed a transmutation upon the sandy shore. Saphienne had intuited that their material would be perfectly formed, and so enchantable with the multifaceted spell she’d composed, their still-lingering draconic resonance obscuring her subterfuge. Perhaps Taerelle would have struggled to account for the embers of Parthenos’ fire when deriving the spell, but Saphienne had beheld the dragon’s breath firsthand.
Once the last was in place, orange shimmered upon the rope before fading — and sand began falling in the hourglass behind Saphienne’s gaze. She had limited time.
In her ritual space she conjured a gale to drift the sand on the floor toward the far wall, revealing the spiral hidden underneath, packed with dead moss. She paced around its edge in meditative contemplation, abandoning her habitual urge to address the mark as though it were an elven sigil, opening herself to whatever she saw or heard or felt as she clutched her coin.
Intuition led her to wind along the spiral, and then she stood in the middle; her eyes drifted shut as she made everything around her a whorl. “I am what I make of the world…”
Saphienne poured herself into the gyre that the world made arise from boundless and brilliant green, making a vessel of herself to hold herself apart, and so beheld for the second time the draconic sigil of her fire.
Embarrassingly, she had been quicker than anticipated, and had to wait before she departed for the house. She couldn’t rush ahead, lest an observer notice that the position they were scrying was moving away from the magician their scrying supposedly showed — that risked collapsing the subtle hallucination.
Upstairs, in the studio, she reviewed herself in the mirror, resplendent in her enchanted robes and tall boots that matched well the golden hair tumbling free and fair to her ankles. Behind her the wall was dominated by the notes she had taken, sketches of draconic anatomy pinned to a board upon which hung the warped dragon scale of Parthenos along with the other dragon scale – made into a pendant – bequeathed by her mother.
Written straight across the board in rich, emerald ink were two ominous phrases:
Either live out her life in the woodlands, or be destroyed by dragons’ fire.
Those whom the gods most love, they will one day destroy.
She needed Laelansa to be right: dying to a mistranslation would be mortifying.
Checking the potted bulb on the floor by the window, Saphienne cast the Second Sense to confirm that her enchantment on the pot was concealed. Then she moved to the dresser where the vials of blood waited, reassuring herself that the sample from Calamity remained fresh.
Her stage was set — let the curtain be raised.
“Hyacinth, I love you. Hyacinth, I need you. Hyacinth, I call you.”
Although the time was ultimately her own, she gave it willingly to the bloomkith.
* * *
Unable to resist, the moth finally obeyed the call of her flame.
Hyacinth flowed through the cracks in the window and down into the potted plant, sprouting the blub to raise black petals that shivered and creaked as she spoke. “…Hello, Saphienne. Forbear I shall to rhyme tonight, save this; before I change, bestow on me a kiss.”
Her master smothered a smile. “I’m not going to hurt you, Hyacinth…”
No sooner had Saphienne said her name aloud for the fourth time than the enchantment sprung to life around the rim of the pot, orange light turned inward as the script of a binding coalesced.
“…And I’m sorry for this.”
Bleak, rattling laughter emanated from within. “You have trapped me? Why?”
“I don’t want you intervening too early. What I’m going to do will distress you, but I need the spell to have time to work.”
“…You intend to remake me.”
“No.” Saphienne held her hands behind her back as she stood over Hyacinth. “I’m not going to do anything to you. But we are going to talk. You know what I’m going to ask.”
Wilting, the flowers were silent.
“You possessed Parthenos. Or tried to, anyway.”
Hyacinth’s stems trembled.
“She toyed with you, but she didn’t hurt you. Am I wrong?”
“…I was tormented all the same…”
“By what you realised.” Saphienne drew a calming breath. “By what you witnessed without, and then recognised within.”
The bloomkith’s blossoms withered.
“She said your secret name, didn’t she? She saw straight to your roots, and spoke aloud what she read there.”
“…Her translation was incomplete.”
“I won’t use it against you.” She very deliberately chose not to remember it. “I won’t compel you. Not now, not ever.”
“She says, having bound me.”
“‘The willing cannot be enslaved.’”
Faint rattles met the imitation. “You have my resignation; I cannot do other than consent to be yours.”
Saphienne’s heart ached. “I would that you trust me a little further, and that you answer this honestly: had you seen the like of her mind before?”
“You know I had.”
That was when her course was set. Saphienne bowed. “Were there differences?”
“Of content… and scale.”
Despite the seriousness of their parlay, she giggled at the pun.
Hyacinth was not amused. “What are you doing, Saphienne? What necessitates my imprisonment?”
She’d delayed long enough; Saphienne took from her pocket a choker wrought in rosy gold, into which fragments of Calamity’s scales had been incorporated. “We both know what I am on the inside. Yet it isn’t sufficient. I need proof.”
Dread crept into the singsong voice. “What is that?”
“This,” she said as she slid the metal around her neck, “is an extremely dangerous, highly unstable enchantment, incorporating everything I know about the anatomy of dragons — and their regenerative capacities. It expands upon my previous thesis, with which I applied to the Luminary Vale–”
Now horror. “Transmuting the spider?”
“Minina is fine. I’ll be fine, in theory.”
“Saphienne,” Hyacinth quailed, petals rippling through countless colours, “I implore you: desist from whatever you intend.”
She paced to the mirror once more. “…I can’t do that. I’m sorry. The binding holding you back will fray — if my attempt hasn’t worked, then you’ll be able to heal me as best you can.”
“As best?”
“Syndelle caved my skull in,” Saphienne murmured, “but it was Gaelyn who damaged my brain. His healing spell wasn’t made with an understanding of dragons. When he repaired the injury, he didn’t do it like you do, accelerating my natural healing… he simply transmuted things back into place…”
“Saphienne! Listen to yourself!”
“…Into place for an elf. But I’m no elf, Hyacinth. His spell scarred my brain.”
“Saphienne–” The flowers stretched, curled back, invisibly contained by the abjuration. “–You know scarred wounds cannot heal!”
Her eyes in the mirror were clear, sharp, and steady. “You’re correct. But a dragon can recover from any wound that isn’t made to scar… and beneath all the scars, my wounds yet remain.”
“It cannot work! Your semblance, your identity — they have incorporated the scars! You cannot return to the way you were!”
“…Probably.” She grinned as she looked at the reflection of the flowers. “But the brain is an interesting organ of the body, capable of new growth. And you’ve confirmed what I suspected about the structure of mine.”
The spirit lashed from side to side, wobbling the pot. “Saphienne! Please!”
“My mind is made of endlessly repeating patterns, above and below. You said it yourself: everything is in reach of everywhere.”
“You cannot– you must not–”
She tapped the centre of the choker, feeling it hum as green light shimmered across the metal and into her skin. “I will. This way, and no other way. I love you, Hyacinth; if I have erred, give my love to Laelansa as well.”
“Saphienne!”
Opening the vial of drake’s blood, she gulped it down, tossing the empty container aside as she grimaced at the taste. “…Awful. Now we’ll see whether–”
The pain in her chest was immediate, excruciating, and unendurable.
* * *
As the searing subsided, Saphienne found herself clutching the edges of the mirror with her good hand, her left made into a fist that had cracked the glass, her reflection distorted into a thousand permutations of agony.
Hyacinth was thrashing back and forth, wailing.
“…I’m all right…” Her throat was raw; she tasted burning.
“You fool! You selfish, monstrous fool!” Hyacinth was overcome, would have wept had she the flesh to do so. “Free me!”
Saphienne gathered herself together, placing her hands atop her head. “…I can’t. That was just the first step.”
“…The first?”
She roared, conjuring verdant fire within her–
* * *
The steps of the library were cold and cracked in the night.
Eventually, she tried to sit.
Eventually, she rolled onto her chest.
Eventually, she struggled to her feet–
“Your pursuit has led you astray.”
She swayed, but refused to topple. Her gaze fixed on Nelathiel where he sat further up the steps, holding the scythe across his shoulders as he examined her with a canted head.
“A hunter cannot be her own quarry.”
Her lips twisted into a snarl as she lurched up the steps. “…Not even real…”
Thessa-Hyacinth was perched a little further on, collar of gold and silver glimmering, blooms ghostly white, sickle glittering with the blood of a dragon. “What do you expect from us? What will balance this offering?”
She stumbled on. “…My own accord… no other…”
Before the doors to the ruin, Lensa stood, her blue eyes compassionate. “Did it have to be now? Couldn’t you have waited?”
She lurched to a halt. “…Get out of my way… you’re not who I’m here for…”
“Go back, Saphienne. This isn’t the right time.”
“…My time is my own.” She shoved past Lensa, pounding on the door with her closed left fist, once, twice, thrice, and again, and–
On her fifth knock, the library collapsed.
* * *
Kylantha sat behind her, braiding her hair.
Saphienne kept her eyes on the red, draconic scale she held in her lap. Her heart was light. “You’re not Kylantha.”
“No,” Kylantha answered.
“And you’re not a god.”
Giggling, the girl threw her arms about her friend, and pressed her mouth to her ear. “You remembered! You really have grown.”
She pulled away and shifted around, staring down at the young girl. “I remember everything. When I drank the holy brew; when I lay injured in the grove; when I sought you out in the library; when I had a fever. You’ve always been with me.”
“Wherever we go, there ever we are.”
Her thoughts were slow yet deep. “Are you my curse?”
Kylantha laughed, holding her sides as she guffawed.
In spite of herself, Saphienne cracked a smile. “I miss her laugh.”
“You miss her!” The girl with short ears stuck out her tongue. “But you aren’t cursed, Saphienne. You’ve never been cursed.”
“Are you my wyrd?”
“As much as your wyrd is you.” She folded her arms. “I’ve told you what I am.”
Saphienne closed her eyes. “…You’re half the elf I think I am…”
“Not any more.” Kylantha was smug in her childish vindication.
Meeting her brown eyes, Saphienne couldn’t speak.
The girl stood up, rising to equal vantage as she studied Saphienne. “You’re like a sunflower, all grown up! Thin and tall, and yellow on the top.”
“How much did Tyrnansunna imprint on me?”
“No more than anyone else has.” Kylantha unfolded her arms, smiling sweetly. “You know that already. You know everything I can tell you. Saphienne, if you want to play games with me, there are more fun ways to play than this.”
“I’m scared.”
The girl she had loved and lost slid her arms around her shoulders. “You’re brave. Ask me; I’m ready.”
Cradling the memory that had become herself, Saphienne exhaled. “…What are you?”
As Kylantha answered, endless night became vivid green, verdant green, the colour of winter’s death and the first, most tremulous fingers of spring that reached and reached and–
* * *
Twenty minutes after Saphienne had collapsed to the floor, the binding fell apart, and Hyacinth whistled formless across the room to dive into the magician–
Who was stirring.
* * *
An unending field of hyacinths stretched from horizon to horizon, gilded with ice beneath a blizzard that covered the sun.
“…Saphienne?”
Hyacinth spun around, seeing no structures.
“…Saphienne?!”
Then the field beneath her feet fell apart, and Hyacinth plummeted through constellations of suns and skies and clouds and snows and flowers, intricate patterns that repeated in undulations that could never rest. She landed gracefully upon steps that took shape to receive her, and raised her petaled head to see the fulcrum that awaited her where the rising stones aligned.
“I didn’t remember before,” said Saphienne, silhouetted by blazing green. “When my sorcery first manifested, and my mind was sundered, there were desks and shelves and books…”
Hyacinths sprouted around the bloomkith’s feet.
“…And flowers. Your flowers.”
Awed, Hyacinth was transfixed by the woman who emerged as the patterns aligned, seeing her stride forth with horns upraised, scales glimmering, her tail flicking through the air restlessly behind her sharp smile.
“You wanted to be my familiar, Hyacinth. You wanted to become a part of me. But though we aren’t bonded in that way, we are bound together, and you already are.”
“…Saphienne? What…”
The body they occupied stretched and rose from the floor, startling Hyacinth, who couldn’t have controlled what Saphienne was doing — and who perceived that the magician was possessing her. Stunned, Hyacinth was a passenger as Saphienne slipped off the finger rings and bangle worn on her left hand.
“…I feel you are behind me…”
“I am,” answered Saphienne with a giggle, arms encircling the startled bloomkith, kissing her neck.
Redness spread through Hyacinth’s blooms.
In the studio, Saphienne held up her left hand, unclenched her fist, and dropped the coin she held to roll across the floor. Weakened from disuse, her fingers trembled as she moved them.
Hyacinth gasped.
Within, Saphienne released the spirit, and the field sprouted underfoot as she sat on the steps before the restored library, the sky aglow and calm as spring rain fell upon them. “I’m sorry I put you through that… I had no right to.”
“…I have done worse…”
Saphienne inclined her head. “So you have. You needed me; I needed you. You decide whether this was fair.”
Hyacinth sank down upon her knees. “…You are fairest, and cruellest…”
“Of elves?”
The bloomkith was lost. “I… I do not know…”
“I do.” Saphienne leant forward. “I know exactly what I am, Hyacinth — what I’ve always been at heart. You don’t need to be afraid of me, for I’m still who I was…” She raised her claws, her pupils thin slits of merriment. “…Only more so. I’m growing into myself; and when I finish, if you still desire to become my familiar, I will entwine myself with you, and share my fire with you. Until then, we can walk.”
“But,” Hyacinth hesitated, “if I do, then over time I will magnify–”
Saphienne was grinning.
“…Will I not?”
“You cannot change me in any way I do not embrace; and I wish for you to be more than merely a shadow of my scales. I will not subsume you. You’re beautiful as an elven spirit, Hyacinth.”
In the tenderness of that moment, Saphienne felt Hyacinth reciprocate her attraction.
“Child of elves… yet not an elf… I do not know if we should–”
Rolling her eyes, Saphienne wrapped her sinuous tail around Hyacinth, pulled her close, and kissed her as a lover.
When they found their breath, Hyacinth slipped herself onto Saphienne’s lap, enfolded by her arms. “I submit. To what am I submitting?”
“To being my beloved among blooms.”
“And what are you, Saphienne?”
Upon the bloodstained steps, and within her sanctum, Saphienne repeated the answer she had received from herself — said now with certainty in spite of the unclear future that awaited her in the woodlands.
See Saphienne:
“A dragon.”
End of Chapter 124