novelraw CHAPTER 136 – Those Who Stay Behind
CHAPTER 136 – Those Who Stay Behind
Rushing to leave the woodlands would have been folly. Faylar had heard stories from his mother about people being caught by the wardens, and the majority had been intercepted because they hadn’t planned their escape. Many were stopped before setting out, having been indiscreet with their intentions or their farewells. Those reported to the Wardens of the Wilds by their families and friends were especially tragic to Saphienne.
She therefore committed to secrecy, arranging to regularly request restricted books when the apprentice librarian was available and no other patrons would be present to overhear them talking. She also studied her catalogue of enchantments for information on the scrutiniser within the underground collection, deducing that it was indeed inactive when no one was present and that the hour noted for each recording would be imprecise.
By her conservative estimate, they could spend up to fifteen minutes talking on the steps before anyone who scried on her to the door and then later checked the scrutiniser would notice that anything was amiss. She nevertheless made an effort to remove her outer robes and either carry them or throw them back on while browsing the shelves, creating a narrative to explain why they were sneaking around should the discrepancy be observed.
Faylar was entertained. “So it turns out you will sleep with me?”
Saphienne rolled her eyes. “Not even in fiction. Should we be interrogated, all we’ve been doing is consoling each other about how awful our lives are… and kissing.”
“If I might be asked questions, shouldn’t I know how good a kisser you– ow! Fine; you’re no fun.”
He was otherwise quite serious about leaving. While he couldn’t ask his mother about the successful escapees without arousing suspicion, he did get her talking about the protectorates. His excuse was that he was considering applying to temporarily apprentice under the elves who saw to the needs of the communities there — that he wanted to practice human languages while he awaited another chance at wizardry. What were the protectorates like, from the perspective of the wardens?
“They’re heavily patrolled,” he relayed to Saphienne as they sat in the dark. “My mother says ten times more wardens are assigned to guard the nearest protectorate than are present in the Eastern Vale; half again are busy scouting the wilds between here and there.”
Wormwood had once told Saphienne only twelve wardens watched the Eastern Vale. “That makes one hundred and seventy-two people between us and freedom.”
“That few?”
“Their concealment enhances their strength.” She waved off his questions. “We don’t have long. What else did she let slip?”
“They divide our territory into a grid, and groups of four rotate through assigned areas on an irregular pattern. Wardens never know exactly where they’ll be patrolling each day, only whether they’re in our vale, in the wilds, or in the protectorate.”
“Anything about magical obstacles?”
Faylar shrugged. “She said there are wards to raise an alarm if anyone enters the woodlands who isn’t an elf, and there are more on the border between the protectorates and the mortal world.”
Saphienne hummed. “I know from experience that an alarm isn’t raised if an elf goes into the protectorates from the woodlands, but I doubt the same is true for the latter. What about scrying?”
“There are wardens who are sorcerers, and they can scry where there’s trouble.”
“No passive scrying?”
“Not that she mentioned.” He hesitated. “…I did ask why they didn’t just use magic to locate runaways, and she said that took time: the wardens have to search their homes first.”
Searching for sympathetic connections? She nodded. “Good. Before we leave, I’ll eliminate anything that could be used to scry for us. I’ll need access to your house — under the pretence of helping you clean up.”
“You can always count on me to make a mess.”
Throughout the month, Faylar continued to probe for whatever Alavara might divulge, varying the ways he approached the subject with remarkable guile. One night, he complained to his mother that Saphienne was still upset about the goblins, and in the ensuing conversation he asked a very prescient question that Saphienne had pondered: how did the goblins get into the woodlands without immediately being caught?
He was obnoxiously pleased with himself when he told Saphienne. “My mother thinks there’s a flaw in the wards, and I might have figured it out.”
Saphienne smirked as she leant on the wall of the stairwell, arms crossed. “I think not! You lack for formal education in the Great Art, my future apprentice.”
Being called that made him grin. “You tell me, then: is it possible that the wards don’t distinguish between people entering or leaving?”
Her eyebrows rose. “…Interesting. You think goblins have learned to cross when someone else is leaving?”
“Either that, or the fact they’re not considered people plays a role. The abjurations can’t be signalling the comings and goings of animals — that would be chaos.”
She had to concede his conjectures were compelling. “…You may have something there, Faylar. Shame we can’t know for sure. I wish I could get a good look at the boundary that anchors the wards.”
“…Just a look?”
His knowledge of the restricted collection proved helpful. Faylar loaned Saphienne an anonymously authored, luridly erotic comedy about a band of wardens behaving badly, restricted both for the sensitivity of the humour and for the fact that it contained multiple explicit woodcuts; one of these depicted an encounter right on the edge of the woodlands.
“So?” he asked the next day. “How was it?”
“This has to be the first time that being a pervert served a point…” Saphienne blushed as she passed the book back. “…I read it. Whoever wrote it must have been a warden, and must have made sketches while they were in the protectorates, because the markings on the stones in the illustration are ancient magical script.”
He almost danced in glee. “Were they any use?”
“Yes and no.” She sank down to steeple her hands. “I presumed the boundary would be formed by a physical wall, perhaps largely buried underground, but the reality is much more sophisticated. The boundary stones aren’t physically connected: they’re joined together by ley lines… which means spirits are involved.”
“…We need to sneak past spirits?”
“Worse: we need to evade sylvan magic.” She drummed her fingers. “If I’m right about what I deciphered, I’m going to need to do some research. Spirits keep their most powerful magic to themselves.”
Faylar fretted with his sleeves. “…Just don’t tell Hyacinth what we’re up to. The more people who know what we’re doing, the higher the risk we’ll be found out.”
Saphienne hadn’t yet told him Hyacinth would be going with them. Intuiting that he was presently too anxious for that discussion, she soothed him instead. “Don’t worry: I know just what to say to her.”
* * *
“You wish to learn our secret lore?”
Saphienne flicked her tail where she coiled around Hyacinth upon the snowy field. “No half measures: if we’re going to break from the ancient ways, you can’t hold anything back. I need to understand how the boundary stones were laid, and that means I need to know what the matriarchs contributed to their making.”
Hyacinth pouted, poking Saphienne in her thigh. “Did I protest? That was not what gave me pause; I lack for what you seek.”
“What do you know?”
“Little more than you. But give me a day, beloved of the bees, and I will see what cuttings I might trick my sisters into imparting.”
Come evening the bloomkith impressed Saphienne with how much she’d gleaned, and how quickly, having persuaded several sisters to educate her about the sacred glades. Why this was relevant became clearer as she shared, for understanding the floraliths within the glades illuminated the principles likely incorporated into the boundary stones.
Just as Saphienne had speculated as a teenager, ley lines connected locations of spiritual significance, being the physical manifestation of the invisible comings and goings of spirits in their immaterial realm. Where bloomkith or woodkin moved from one conceptual landmark to another, they established magical sympathy between the corresponding locations: the more frequent their journey, the stronger sympathy grew, eventually giving rise to ley lines.
Yet ley lines were not mere paths. Ley lines were akin to rivers, stirred by spiritual passage until they flowed with potent currents. Sylvan spirits agitated the ambient magic bequeathed to the forest by the sun, creating streams that channelled magical resonance over great distances.
Simplified, floraliths were enchanted stones that sat on the intersection of ley lines and emitted the magic they received in careful patterns, facilitating the arising of new spirits in the sacred glades. Spirits tended to the sacred glades by coordinating their dance across woodlands, regulating the ley lines and so the influences upon their future generations.
“Then… the border is traversed by spirits?”
“Sunwise, they tread between the stones.” Hyacinth slid closer on the library steps. “This gyre they take care to wind, for the purpose it serves does not relate to the warding that concerns the elves. Can you conceive of what I imply?”
Saphienne sneered. “The boundary ley line isn’t connected to the others, is it? Your sisters are keeping resonance from outside the woodlands from bleeding in.”
“Which makes for lonely work. I do not yet know when, but the dancers cycle between the boundary and the woodlands at auspicious times, mindful not to wear a path with steps too frequent.”
She fitted the disparate facts together. “I can guess at the composition. Wands can be crafted to recharge when exposed to sunlight; similarly, the boundary wards must be fed by magic drawn in by the ley lines. The constant flow between the stones anchors the enchantment…” Her slitted pupils widened. “…And that means the wards mirror that motion. They must pulse around the woodlands in tune with the ley line, made more potent the swifter your sisters dance. Very clever spellcraft.”
Hyacinth leaned in to whisper into her frilled ear. “My love, you have missed a beat.”
Saphienne frowned. “…An assumption?” She hunched forward, drumming her claws together in clicking calculation. “If I were wrong about what I’ve deduced, you would have corrected me… whatever I overlooked doesn’t contradict what I’ve described, but rather extends it. Going back to the component parts, the boundary stones draw in the magic travelling on the ley–”
The spirit giggled as Saphienne realised.
“…Ley lines.” She shifted to stare at her blooming lover. “Plural! If they move from stone to stone, then each step is an individual ley line, which means the boundary isn’t one giant enchantment, but many interdependent enchantments.”
“And so?”
“I see the flaw. The ley lines flow at approximately the same rate, slowing whenever your sisters swap out with their relief… but the coordination of the dance is imperfect, which means how much each stone is fed constantly varies.”
“Maple-blooded,” Hyacinth purred as she climbed onto her lap, “I do not know how this was sung into being by my ancient sisters, but confess I am the most beautiful bloom in all the woodlands, and I will share a thought sure to win your smile.”
Enthused, Saphienne slid her claws about Hyacinth’s waist, her tail entwining with both petaled legs. “If you tell me you have a way to exploit this, I’ll confess your peerless beauty with more than words.”
The bloomkith flushed in skin and blossom. “…This is but hypothesis…”
“Go on.”
“My sisters bicker about the dance that fuels the floraliths. Anticipating imperfection, the spells set in each stone are arranged by precedent. When dispute arises, and pilgrimage is not maintained in the proper way, only the most fundamental enchantments are sustained… I therefore suppose the wards woven by elves are alike…”
Saphienne stared.
Then, overcome with passion, she kissed Hyacinth with heartfelt fervour.
The bloomkith was ashiver when they parted. “…Saphienne…”
“Hyacinth, that’s brilliant!” She squeezed her tightly. “We know the wards repel dragons; we can infer they exclude other dangerous entities; and we know they raise an alarm when breached. Which non-elves would be least important to ward against? Goblins. They’re sneaking through gaps when the wards are weak!”
“Still, how does this serve our flight? ‘Saph is goblin,’ in conviction, but in semblance she isan elf.”
Unoffended, Saphienne nevertheless nudged her with a curling horn. “Saph appears an elf in semblance — but point taken. The question is–”
The magician laughed at her own enduring preoccupation.
“…The question is, ‘What makes an elf an elf?’ How did the magicians who created the wards conceive of an elf? I’m willing to wager that an elf crossing the boundary is more important than a non-elf… and if the wards are directional, then a non-elf leaving shouldn’t matter much at all.”
“But how does that help? You are no goblin. You are–”
“–A transmuter! And a hallucinator.” She grinned. “Hiding our presence from powerful wards would be exceedingly difficult, but misrepresenting ourselves? That is much simpler — especially if we can impede the wards by waylaying your sisters.”
Hyacinth was adorably moody when embarrassed. “Assuming we guess true.”
“Filaurel made it through without magic: that implies there is a flaw, whether or not she deliberately exploited it. I’m confident we’re not far off.” She raised her eyes to the sun blazing in her inner sky. “From what Faylar’s determined, I’m not worried about evading the wardens; if you can bring me word of the spirits who stride the boundary, I’ll make ready to disrupt their dance. All that remains is thwarting surveillance by the Luminary Vale.”
“A fearsome foe. My proposed scheme will no longer suffice; they are surely more attentive to you now.” Hyacinth tenderly traced the scales framing Saphienne’s face. “How shall we slip their scrying spying?”
That was the crucial – and challenging – question.
* * *
Gaeleath set down their chisel and wandered over to Saphienne, examining the small likenesses she sculpted from granite. “Ah, now surely this is a self-portrait?”
She lowered her tools and stepped back. The racing pair she was coaxing from the stone resembled herself and Laelansa, dressed for the summer solstice, hands joined, about to leap, one with long hair floating behind her on the air, the other with shorter locks banded, both crowned with hyacinths. Together they were wild and carefree.
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“Perhaps; less about myself than who I am with Laelansa and Hyacinth.”
“Your happiest piece.” The artist pondered the blank rock from which their faces were yet to emerge. “Or so I would hope. What expressions do you intend?”
“I’ve not settled on them. I don’t know how we’ll be.”
Gaeleath shied away. “Troubles of the heart? I have no wisdom there.”
Their reluctance to offer comment made Saphienne giggle. “None at all? And you’re usually so quick with pretty lies…”
“Where neither lies built upon a truth nor truths built upon a lie will stand, I let my work speak for itself.” They patted her shoulder before departing for the safety of their plinth. “Best not seek inspiration in my romantic pieces — they’re all abstract.”
Saphienne studied her handiwork. “…And unfinished…”
* * *
“… What do you think?”
Saphienne blinked. She hadn’t been paying attention to whatever Celaena had said, too absorbed by her own dilemmas; she sipped her tea to cover for the lapse, wishing that Iolas or Thessa were with them on the upper level of the teahouse.
“You think I’m being unfair.” Celaena folded her arms. “Of course you do: you’re far too forgiving of people.”
Was she talking about Faylar? “I’m not going to offer my opinion, not until I understand your position.”
“If she wants to talk to me she can come to visit. I’m not going to reply to her letters after she’s broken my heart.”
No, Laewyn. “Are you hoping she’ll quit her apprenticeship to be with you?”
“I’m not hoping for anything.” Celaena stared up at the skylight, her studious indifference giving the lie to her declaration. “I’m just not pretending that I’m fine with her leaving. She chose acting over me.”
“Technically, she’s making costumes–”
“That’s not the point!”
Saphienne inwardly sighed at herself. “Sorry. Have you thought about how it might appear to her? Your silence could be interpreted as being finished with her.”
The senior apprentice wavered. “…Well, we are finished. Unless she comes back.”
“You,” her former tutor asserted, setting down her cup, “are acting like the Celaena I knew when we first met. You’re hurting, you’re lonely, and you’re withdrawing rather than trying to reach out.”
Celaena lifted her own teacup to mutter into it. “Odd bird…”
“You want to know what I think?” Saphienne leant forward. “I think she loves you more than you’re prepared to accept — so much so that she’d love you from afar for centuries. I also think you’re selfish.”
“Selfish?”
“Have you thought about going to see her?” The magician raised an eyebrow. “Or moving out there? Master Almon might be reluctant to pass apprenticeships to his peers, but your father has enough influence that you could relocate without issue.”
Celaena flushed, uncomfortable with the suggestion. “…My father was always cool about my relationship with Laewyn…”
“I recall Thessa telling me your father was very happy for you both. Your father is probably just awkward about relationships.”
That observation won a small smile from Celaena. “He is, isn’t he?”
“How many letters has Laewyn sent you?”
“…Two dozen. Not counting the letters she sent to Iolas and Thessa that were really intended for me.”
Saphienne glared at her friend. “That’s not the behaviour of someone tormented by the need for forgiveness. She misses you fiercely.”
“So what if she does?” Celaena sank into the cushions. “She’ll move on. Someone else will catch her fancy, and I’ll be forgotten.”
Inordinate anger surged in Saphienne, who had to restrain herself from snapping, aware that Celaena didn’t deserve rebuke. “What about Thessa?”
Celaena frowned. “What about her?”
“She’s like Laewyn — even more so. Yet she’s still in love with Taerelle, despite only seeing her infrequently.”
“That’s different, Taerelle has portals to–”
“So could you.” Saphienne tapped the low table between them. “Your father has enough influence that he could arrange portals for you if you asked him — Taerelle says they’re not uncommon for members of the vale.”
Changed since they were fellow apprentices, Celaena squirmed. “That would be receiving special treatment…”
“For the sake of love. I know Athidyn and Mathileyn would approve.” Exasperated by her evasion, Saphienne stood and went around the table. “You just don’t want to speak to her for the same reason you don’t want to hope: because you’re afraid you’ll be hurt. Haven’t you outgrown this?”
Celaena avoided her looming gaze.
“And you’ve been an ass to Faylar, too.”
“…He betrayed me.”
“By not getting between you and Laewyn?” Saphienne snorted. “Wasn’t that what you used to resent him for? He’s just convenient to be angry at. You really feel betrayed by Laewyn, but you love her too much to treat her with the contempt you’re showing him.”
When Celaena didn’t respond, Saphienne crouched down and clasped her wrist.
“…Odd bird…”
“Maybe you’ll lose her. Maybe Laewyn will wait for you.” She squeezed. “Rationally, shouldn’t you try for the best possible outcome? She might surprise you.”
Her blue-grey gaze glimmering, Celaena faced Saphienne. “She chose her art over me; how am I meant to forget that?”
“By accepting you’re wrong. She hasn’t chosen her art over you: Laewyn chose becoming who she wants to be over forever regretting that she never tried.” Saphienne rose. “You can’t control what she chooses, but you can decide what her choices mean to you. Make an informed decision: write back to her.”
“…I’m still angry with Faylar. He could have prepared me.”
“As could I; you’ve forgiven me.” She collected her cup. “Life is too long for grudges. How would you feel if something were to happen, and you never got the chance to make peace with him? We both know you love him. After all,” she added as she departed, “you shared Laewyn with him, and you love her…”
Saphienne descended the stairs, leaving Celaena to ruminate. Whatever the outcome, she could only try her best.
* * *
Unveiling the mostly finished statue, Saphienne was touched by the gasp Laelansa gave as she surveyed the stone, glad that the grin creasing her cheeks reflected the thrilled expression reproduced in the gold-green granite.
“This is gorgeous!” She paced around the kitchen table to better see the details, enraptured by the lifelike depiction of their happiness. “How did you make this? With magic? Your eyes align with the green grain, and mine with the golden.”
Saphienne was proud of that detail. “The only magic I used was to peer through the stone — I planned the design around where the eyes would be, and the rest took shape.”
“You look so peaceful.”
So she did: whereas Laelansa’s imitation was exultant, Saphienne’s was serene, her smile demure where she raced on long legs. “I wanted to capture both parts of how we feel together, the peace and the joy.”
“…You made all the blossoms on me face the same direction.” The novice traced her crown with a fingertip. “Emphasising Hyacinth is with me. This is how we make you feel?”
“Almost.” She stepped behind Laelansa and slipped her arms around those strong yet supple shoulders, pressing her cheek against a tall ear. “Don’t laugh, but I was inspired by Athidyn’s old bench. I wanted to make a piece to be tested by time — to place this somewhere that the elements could reach.”
“In the garden?”
“That would be too public. People would think we’re vain.”
Laelansa laughed as she twisted around. “Where, then?”
Saphienne conveyed her intent with her gaze. “I’m not sure. It would have to be somewhere outdoors, where no one but us will stumble across it. Somewhere secluded and peaceful; somewhere unobserved; somewhere special to us.”
Laelansa understood. She continued to smile, but there was seriousness where she returned her loving stare. “I know just the place. Let me call for Hyacinth, and then I’ll show you.”
* * *
Behind the veil that hid a hill, beside the pond in which Saphienne had washed away her own blood, the magician lowered the statue onto rocky ground in which the nearby trees would not take root. As Laelansa watched with yellow eyes, she then sat and called upon the first of two sigils, one hand on her artwork, the other touching the fertile earth.
A rumble rolled through the ground as a patch of dirt hardened, become the very same material from which she had sculpted.
The second sigil was a lighter shade of green than the first, more delicate, and twinkled as she aligned herself to its supple curves, replete with the tenderness she felt as the spell dissolved the new granite and completed her design.
“…There. A shame I couldn’t do it properly.”
Laelansa knelt before the sculpture of Saphienne, admiring the horns and claws and tail that had been added, tracing the texture of the scales that emphasised the grain of the rock that composed them. “I wish everyone could see this the way I do.”
“What do you think, Hyacinth?”
The spirit borrowed the novice’s voice. “Among your finest works; and the finest art you have made that lies not within the mysteries of the Great Art. I too wish the woodlands would see you.”
“Would you humour me? Could you take a cutting from the briars that anchor the veil and plant them around this? They should take here: we’re still on the ley line.”
“With delight.” Laelansa shivered as Hyacinth departed on the breeze, the bloomkith gone to weave a form from her blooms and complete the task her master assigned.
Saphienne patted the unbroken ground at her other side. “Sit with me?”
Aware that they had come to talk, and of what, Laelansa acquiesced with solemnity.
Yet not without demand. “Cast your figment: I want to see your face.”
How far they had come together; how deeply Saphienne was moved. The magician called forth the violet-tinged cerulean mark, and thereby was transfigured to match what she had fashioned with hammer and chisel.
Laelansa didn’t hesitate to take her hand, brushing her thumb across the scales as she interlinked fingers with claws. “You’ve come up with an answer; and you’re scared to hear what I think about it.”
“I have. I am.” Saphienne set her other claws atop the palm she held. “Hyacinth agreed I should be the one to tell you. She’ll rejoin us when I’ve explained for us.”
That was when the novice knew: Saphienne saw the day dim in her fearful pupils.
* * *
“There has to be another way.”
“I don’t think there is. The Luminary Vale will not consent to the woodlands changing to be kinder, and fighting them is pointless. Even were we to prevail through divine intervention? The trees would be ashen, and the groves would run with blood. A pyrrhic victory; a pyric victory, burning what we sought to save. You can’t tell me you want that.”
“Running from a confrontation isn’t you.”
“We’re not running away — we’re running toward an alternative. The woodlands can’t be the home that we deserve, but we could make one for ourselves. Not just for us: I want to offer a sanctuary to outcasts, and save the children abandoned by the ancient ways.”
“You weren’t responsible for what happened to Kylantha.”
“Yes. But I am responsible for myself, and for the people around me. I can’t stop them from doing harm, but I can mitigate the harm that they do.”
“We talked about children. You said you shouldn’t be a mother. You told that to Hyacinth, too.”
“I won’t be a good mother… but an inconstant mother who cares is better than none.”
“Then stay with me! We can adopt orphaned children. Don’t the children in the woodlands deserve help just as much? You’ll be abandoning them to the cruelty here.”
“Laelansa, however poorly they are provided for, they aren’t abandoned. The children we exile have no one who cares for them. My mother’s story betrayed the horror: the humans only took her in because her mother traded them coin. We bribe them to take our unwanted children, and what happens after…”
“You can’t spend your eternity like that.”
“I can spend my life. We don’t have an eternity; we’re each going to die eventually. To be ageless isn’t to be immortal.”
“Your life will be spent grieving.”
“What does my grief weigh against their lives? Ought there not be someone who cherishes their memories? Can there not be solace in the happiness I give them?”
“The Luminary Vale will find out — they’ll come for you.”
“Can’t you see? That will happen if I stay. I’m a dragon! To stay within the woodlands means hiding who I am, and I can’t hide forever. I’ll be found out eventually, and they will kill me… or do worse…”
“Then the risk is the same either way.”
“Not quite. If I leave on my own terms, I can grow my mastery until the pain of fighting me isn’t worth the effort. Over time, they’ll slowly concede that I’m not actually a threat, and come to tolerate my counterbalance to their failings. Perhaps they will one day recognise that the ancient ways needn’t be enforced so heartlessly… though I doubt that.”
“Saphienne, we may have failed this time, but the protectorates could still be reformed. You could work to change their mind while playing by their rules.”
“A High Master already tried. I won’t be another Elduin.”
“But there are good people here! Kind people! Loving people! They’re misguided, but they’re not wicked at heart. I believe there’s more of us than you think, including among the wizards and sorcerers who aren’t members of the Luminary Vale. And what about Ruddles? She’s committed to doing what you say is impossible, and she’s been in the woodlands for a very long time.”
“Mother Marigold doesn’t threaten anything. Were she to grow too tall they could prune her back into shape. She doesn’t have the power that the Luminary Vale does… none of the spirits do. Even all the spirits together couldn’t mount a challenge.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Hyacinth let slip that she and her sisters are bound by the High Masters. My intuition is that they’re required to keep silent about subjects that fall under Luminary Privilege, but the fact they can be bound says enough. Every game of chess admits it: elves and spirits are beneath the Luminary Vale, which is beneath the High Masters.”
“There has to be hope. There has to be a way to make people see. There has to be a way to resist — not through violence, but disobedience.”
“My love, listen to me: the Luminary Vale would sooner fascinate the entire woodlands than bow to opposition.”
“…They wouldn’t…”
“I’m certain they have. We won’t mention her name out of caution – I suspect they divine for its utterance – but someone else tried to change things, and I’m confident history accuses her and her allies of doing what her opponents did. I think she won the argument, Laelansa; the woodlands were on her side, until the Luminary Vale intervened with force.”
“That’s… you’re speculating!”
“Not at all. I agree with you: there are so many good people here, and they can be won over to the cause of justice. We don’t disagree about that. I don’t think Fascination is necessary to make people act with kindness, but I’ve seen how fascinations – magical and mundane – uphold evil. Which is more likely? That the people arguing for compassion had to resort to compulsions? Or that they fought back against them?”
“…Saphienne…”
“I know. I love you for who you are. You don’t have to justify yourself.”
“…I’m sorry. I have to– I have to keep trying. Win or lose, my faith demands I try.”
* * *
After the crying was concluded, they settled on what would unfold.
Saphienne would take Minina and Audacity; Inky would stay with Laelansa, having grown independent from his sister as he matured. Their home would be left to Nelathiel to decide on occupancy, with the understanding that whoever she chose would be keeping the house warm until the priest’s promise to Wynalia was fulfilled and Laelansa was able to move in herself.
In allowance for Laelansa changing her mind, Saphienne would leave her an unmatched emblem for a Tome of Correspondence. The medallion would be secreted in the garden tended by Athidyn and Mathileyn, under a plant pot near where the bench had stood, and would not obviously show as magical until the magician enchanted its counterpart. A year and two months from the day of departure, at noon, Saphienne would check for messages; if none were received she would then disenchant her emblem and try again when another year had passed, repeating every subsequent anniversary.
What Saphienne didn’t expect was the pledge Laelansa made. The novice swore before the gods that she would quit the woodlands if she reached her century without any sign of hope. She was adamant that they would be reunited.
Young as they were, Saphienne knew: hers was not an empty promise.
They hadn’t stopped loving each other. Nor would they.
* * *
Saphienne sang with tears in her eyes, breast bared before the anvil, hammering the silver ingot that she forged, making ready for the division. As the rings were made one by one, into them she poured all her passion, her sadness, and her will for flourishing in strife.
Six bands she fashioned as silver ferns; these six she enchanted, making of them the likeness as adorned the hands of the Wardens of the Wild.
Yet in this act she deceived. Six the magician enchanted, four to conceal from sight, two to mislead and abjure against the scrying that was certain to seek their wearers. Whoever spied upon her craft would see the monotony of a wizard making good on what she owed to the woodlands.
One more creation awaited. Hyacinth swept away most of the sand that covered the floor of her chamber, leaving a layer through which bare feet could discern the spiral that lay below. This her master walked as though pacing in contemplation, disguising meditation upon the draconic sigil that held a verdant flame.
With fire in mind, Saphienne made firm the floor with conjured clay, then took up gold and silver, striking from them a masterpiece.
* * *
In her austere workshop, Eletha surveyed the jewellery surrendered by Saphienne, tilting pale gold to better catch the lamplight. “You doubted this would come to pass, but these are indeed improvements on my work.”
Saphienne blushed. “I’m no master jeweller.”
Her former teacher lowered the horned headpiece, setting it back in the box beside the scaled belt and pointed finger rings. “Not everything I make is masterful. You’ve exceeded the skill I showed in the pieces I gave to you. Why give me these?”
“I don’t need them any more.” She shrugged. “You taught me, so it seemed fair to offer them to you. I won’t be upset if you choose to reuse the metal — they’re unenchanted, safe to melt down.”
Eletha closed the box. “I will see they find a good home. What about that new work?”
Saphienne raised her left hand, threaded over with metal that matched the lustre of the scales she desired, coiling across palm and around fingers in finely interlinked flowers that obscured a disassembled, draconic whorl. “My dexterity is much better thanks to this.”
“Your skill is formidable. Unrecognised though your mastery may be, you’re deserving of more accolade than you have received.”
“You’re too kind. Thank you, Eletha.” Saphienne bowed, then turned to leave before her sentimentality betrayed her.
“Wait.”
She hovered before the door. “Something else?”
Eletha was dressed in simple white, made starker by the reddening of her hair, and her pallor was a winter tiding where she clasped her hands behind the anvil. “You will tell my daughter before you go.”
Refusing to panic, Saphienne found calm in her commitment to Faylar. “Tell her what? And go where?”
“I’ve seen your mien twice before.” The ancient elf was undissuaded. “I cannot prevent what will come to pass — nor do I wish to. You will speak to Filaurel before you set out. Nothing will be left unsaid between you.”
She swallowed. “…She knows. We spoke.”
Eletha wouldn’t relent. “You haven’t told her everything.”
“You speak with certainty.”
“She didn’t tell me; nor did Kythalaen share her whole heart.” Wearied by millennia of memories, the elder bowed her head. “I’m resigned to fighting no longer. I’ve learned there’s no avoiding the consequences of ourselves: we are who we are, and who we are will find balance against the world.”
“…I’ll talk to her.”
“Be better than who preceded you, Saphienne.”
End of Chapter 136