novelraw CHAPTER 137 – Farewell to Summertime
CHAPTER 137 – Farewell to Summertime
Red were the leaves that clung to the trees and blanketed the grass of the groves, autumn letting down its auburn to winding roots, colouring too the braids worn by the elves of the Eastern Vale. Saphienne was no longer the blonde she preferred, appearing quite conventional in manner. Even the robes she wore were subdued to complement the brisk, crisp, yet mournful season.
Faylar brightened her mood when he arrived at the library. “I have it!”
Closing the ledger she’d been listlessly skimming, Saphienne grinned as he approached the desk, attention on the metal flask under his arm. “I’ll get cups!”
She hurried back to find him also setting down a small, paper-wrapped block, promptly ignoring the mystery as he unstoppered the enchanted container and tentatively sniffed. His face contorted. “…Rich.”
Saphienne was unwilling to delay. She pried the bottle from him, pouring milk into their waiting cups. “This is definitely safe to drink?”
“My mother says it’s strained and heated, and has been chilled since.”
They stared at their drinks dubiously.
“…Sod it.” Faylar lifted his. “Together?”
She mirrored him. “Let’s!”
They sipped in unison.
“…Has a resemblance to oat water,” Saphienne commented. She took another taste, swirling the mixture around her mouth, savouring the aftertaste, familiarising herself with its peculiar properties. “This isn’t as bad as I imagined.”
Swallowing reluctantly, Faylar retched. “Fuck! Speak for yourself.”
Her laughter couldn’t be restrained. “We’ve finally found a limit to your appreciation for human taste…”
“I don’t think I can finish mine.” He nudged his cup toward her before stoppering the bottle, grimacing and rubbing his throat all the while. “I’ve had my fill. You can try the fermented stuff.”
“Fermented?”
Faylar unwrapped the block, revealing a brown crust. “They make this from milk — my mother said a few wardens enjoy it. She doesn’t.”
Saphienne’s eyebrows lifted. “Cheese; Filaurel told me about this.”
Knife and plate duly fetched from the kitchen, she cut the block, recoiling with Faylar at the pungent smell.
He held his nose. “That’s awful! We shouldn’t have done this here.”
Sterner in constitution, she examined the pale yellow interior, then sliced herself a sample, cutting off the rind. “Too late now.”
“You can’t seriously–”
Saphienne took a bite.
“…Well?”
The more she chewed, the stronger the taste that assaulted her senses, her eyes soon watering from the flavour.
“I warned you.”
Yet she shook her head as she swallowed. “It’s not as disgusting as it smells. I believe this is an acquired taste?”
An unseen patron coming through from the stairs at the back audibly gagged in the distance, swiftly retreating.
“…If you say so.” Faylar was appalled. “You can acquire it.”
She covered the cheese and placed it in her satchel together with the flask. “Why don’t you open the windows, then show me to the restricted collection.”
“Fresh air? Sounds excellent. Don’t you dare eat any of that downstairs!”
Giggling, Saphienne carried the crockery and utensil through to the kitchen, glad Filaurel wasn’t present to admonish them.
* * *
“… That should be everything. We set out in sixteen days; Laewyn thinks we’re coming to see her.” Faylar leant back against the steps. “I feel guilty about misleading her. The letter she sent reads like she’s excited to see us.”
Saphienne wasn’t keen to disappoint her, either. “There isn’t another way.”
“I know. Celaena’s jealous of us; she said she’d have come along, but she can’t take time away.”
Consoled that Faylar and Celaena would be parting on good terms, Saphienne stepped down to sit with him. “She became a senior apprentice too recently: the year after donning the black is for intensive lessons. We’re fortunate to be doing this now.”
“You’re bringing Audacity and your spider with us?”
“Minina,” she scolded him. “She’ll be upset with you for not using her name.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll worry about causing offense after we’ve made it out.”
Her glower diminished. “…I’m going to walk them both the night before, and secret them in a shelter. We’ll collect them on our way out of the vale.”
“Will they be fine overnight?”
Saphienne was lying to Faylar; Hyacinth would be bringing Minina to the meeting point, then going back and fetching Audacity. He remained very nervous that involving anyone else would invite ruin, having needed substantial coaxing before he’d accept Laelansa being included. “They will. I have a magical solution.”
“Then that really is everything.” He straightened. “In less than a month, we’ll be off on our grand adventures…”
“…Just you, me, Minina, and Audacity…”
They said nothing to each other as the reality of leaving sank in.
“Saphienne…” Faylar brushed his hair back behind his ear. “…How long do you think before we can see everyone again? Decades? Centuries?”
She rubbed her chest below her neckline. “…I don’t know.”
“How long until the Luminary Vale stops searching?”
A shrug was her only reply.
“If I can reach the Second Degree by then…” Faylar peered down the steps into the shadows below. “Filaurel was accepted back on her own terms. Maybe they’d be willing to make a deal?”
Saphienne blinked. “You’d want to return?”
“To visit. My aunt is allowed to come and go. Once I’ve built up enough connections with human merchants I’m going to make contact with her and try to support her trade.” He folded his arms. “If I can prove I have something to offer… my mother said that the rangers who’re sent to retrieve people sometimes start out as runaways. They spend more time away than at home. Wouldn’t the woodlands see my value?”
His admission made her lonely. “…Who knows: they might well be willing to compromise, if you can show you’re not a threat to the elven way of life.”
“What about you? Will you reach out in a few hundred years — after you’ve fostered a few generations? Maybe after attaining the Fifth Degree?”
She turned to him. “Faylar… I’m not coming back.”
His eyes widened. “Never? What if they recognise that you aren’t trying to tear everything down? Surely they’ll be willing to let you visit family.”
“You might be able to reintegrate. You’ll never be invited to join the Luminary Vale, but with something to show for your efforts, and your aunt’s support… maybe Filaurel’s… youthful indiscretion could be forgiven.” Crossing her arms, Saphienne exhaled. “I won’t be. I can’t return.”
“But why? You’re not that different to me. They don’t trust us now, yet in a few centuries…”
Didn’t he have a right to know? Saphienne began removing the jewellery that covered her left hand. “There’s a crucial distinction between me and you; I’m not talking about my arcana, or the politics, or my history with the vale.”
“…What distinction?”
Freed from the metal that masqueraded as an enchanted support, she raised her hand and wriggled her fingers.
“…Your injury…”
“Faylar, I need you to hear to the whole story before you judge me.”
* * *
Recounting her wyrd, her ancestry, and her self-discovery took up the time they had left before their delay would be noticed. They descended into the restricted collection – Faylar holding his stomach as though he was unwell from the milk – and Saphienne collected an unimportant book Thessa had once pointed out; they again paused on the steps during their ascent.
“…I don’t understand…” He spoke as though dazed.
“Laelansa didn’t either, at first.”
Faylar stared at his feet.
“I’m the Saphienne you’ve always known. Just because I have the mind of a dragon doesn’t mean–”
“Not that.” He met her gaze with dread. “You’ve always been strange; Celaena calls you odd with good reason. I don’t care that your grandmother – or whoever – fucked a dragon… Felipe said they’re not all raging monsters…”
Although partial, her relief was sublime. “Some of us just want to see the roses.”
“I don’t understand why you’re taking the risk.” He held himself as he backed away to slump against the wall. “You might be right about the… omen? ‘Destroy’ does have complex connotations in the sylvan tongue. But what if you’re wrong?”
She dismissed the thought with a flourish of her recovered hand, which was once more clad in weaving, floral gold. “I’ve proven my interpretation; I’d be dead twice over if it wasn’t accurate.”
“You don’t know that! You were in the woodlands. What if your final omen hasn’t resolved, and the next time you encounter a dragon…” His fear had raised goosebumps across his body. “We don’t have to go through with this — there’s nothing to say we can’t visit Laewyn after all. Saphienne, you could die out there.”
That he was still a sweet boy at heart earned her fondest smile. “Faylar… so could you. I’ve already left the woodlands once, and I wasn’t immediately struck dead. Every day that’s lived freely is worth the risk. You’re willing to wager; can’t I?”
His eyelids fell shut. “…Of course. You’re never afraid about getting hurt. Not physically.”
“I’m a dragon.” She faced the faint light shining around the door above. “I’m going to have scales that show who I am; I’m going to grow horns that announce myself to the world; I’m going to make a life worth living. What does it matter if my time is limited? We’re all going to die one day.”
“What if you could live forever?”
“I can’t live like an elf; that’s hardly living at all, for me.”
He rubbed his burning eyes. “…You’re right. You’ve tried, haven’t you? You did your best to be who everyone wants.”
“You needn’t be sad. Leaving is sorrowful, but staying would be worse, and there’s happiness to be found out there.”
He drew a shuddering breath, then willed a smile. “Don’t make fun of me for saying this: you’re the bravest person I know. The kindest, too.”
“And you’re the softest.”
He laughed sorely as he started up the steps. “Just balancing against you… though you’re a better person than I am, Saphienne, you don’t go gently. I suppose that’s why we became friends. I’m grateful you didn’t let me give up.”
She rose to take his hand, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I’m grateful you listened.”
* * *
Composing a spell to conjure milk was no challenge at all, several existent sigils providing inspiration. Saphienne was finished by midafternoon, and when she imbibed her own creation she couldn’t discern any difference compared to the sample she’d been given.
…Still, she didn’t move on. The house was quiet; Laelansa grieved.
Faylar had spoke truly: she could choose not to leave. She could defer her departure, increasing her odds of success when she did. Wouldn’t giving Laelansa opportunity to find a better alternative be sensible? Or at least kinder, granting time to come to terms with the inevitable.
Was Saphienne acting rashly?
As she sat gazing upon her elven reflection, a memory answered.
Heavy and heavy, Saphienne set about composing another spell, innovating on a spectacle she had witnessed years before.
* * *
Was the moon waxing or waning? She’d lost track of its phase.
Saphienne took her place on the fallen tree where she’d often sat in childhood, stroking the space beside herself where Kylantha ought be sitting. She could still see the girl smiling, toad held behind back–
“…It’s a frog…”
Saphienne laughed with the spectre who haunted her.
“You weren’t wrong.” She peered up at the sky as she spoke. “I’ve studied them. I wanted to get the details right on the stepping stones. Toads appear to be a variety of frogs… we just insist on the distinction. I wish I could have told you that. I wish you could hear me now. I wish it was you, keeping me company.”
She’d taken the coin from her pocket, and held it against her breast.
“I’m afraid I’ll forget you…” After she left the woodlands. “…Being here reminds me of who you were. But this place won’t last, will it? The tree is gradually rotting. Try as I might to tend the clearing, this glade is not the same we played in, and never will be. We can’t go back; there’s no path that leads to the past. I can’t be who I used to be.”
Lowering the coin, she balanced it on her fingers. “I choose what I want to happen, then call which side the coin will land. If it lands the way I called, I win… or else…”
Saphienne tossed the coin, watching it tumble edge-over-edge in the moonlight — before snatching it from the air.
“…Enough play. Childhood is over.”
Arising to contest the darkness that lingered in the clearing no matter the hour, the magician commanded a sigil in pallid yellow conceived in a grief that far exceeded her own, invoking the departed through eyes that glowed more silver than the half-circle that hung upon the starry sky. She did not speak, for she had no need to call the wraiths that learnèd magicians dismissed as mere echoes; ever were they condemned and consoled to watch the joy of children, and so forever did they dwell in the place into which she strode.
Made an echo herself, albeit living, again Saphienne beheld translucent figures that crowded the glade, men and women and children now gathered before her. They watched in stark detachment, their otherworldliness only deepened by the archaic, unadorned clothing they wore beneath heads braided with timeless styles. None of them talked, not even to each other, though some of the children fidgeted restlessly, and the smallest crawled about in everlasting wonderment.
They were no hallucination. The spell she’d cast was Invocation and Divination conjoined, enhancing the resonance inscribed by the deaths of elves and weaving together forms that made it tangible. They were not alive, and not merely because they lacked flesh.
She didn’t bow. “…Will you speak with me?”
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The expression of their intent was bequeathed by the magic that loaned them form. “We will speak with you,” said the closest.
There was much Saphienne wanted to ask, yet she had to assume the Luminary Vale was spying. She contemplated what she dared pursue, and then whether any question could frame the nameless desire that had brought her to visit them.
Eventually, she trusted her intuition. “How old are you?”
The same ghost responded, “Over six thousand years.”
“What age were you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“And you?” she continued, facing another.
The woman was bleak. “Twenty-nine.”
“And you?”
“Forty.”
“And you?”
“Eighty-three.”
“…And you?”
“Seventeen.”
She asked every seemingly adult figure the same, too unsteady to ask the obviously ungrown; she nevertheless was crying by the end.
Were she ever capable of matching the High Masters with the Great Art, Saphienne couldn’t bring herself to contest them. She wouldn’t repeat the devastation that opposing them had wrought. Life was too precious.
* * *
Restored to the bosom of his best friend, Faylar convinced Celaena to host a revel on the night before he and Saphienne were to set out ‘for the Vale of the White River.’ Aware that Celaena shared her home with Vestaele, Saphienne was initially opposed, but Celaena explained that the sorcerer would be absent from the vale.
“She wants me to look after Calamity. Do you have any advice?”
Bidding farewell to her friends without revealing her intentions was too attractive an opportunity to let pass. Saphienne assented.
* * *
Other goodbyes were due.
The day before the gathering, Saphienne went to visit her mother, amused that Lynnariel wasn’t home when she stopped by. She wandered through the house accompanied by her recollections, foremost among them a short, blonde girl.
Were she to close her eyes and inhale as she stood upon the landing, familiar scents suggested that Kylantha might come racing from her bedroom, scrawled pictures in hand, babbling fables of knights and dragons.
“…I don’t even know what knights are…”
She vowed to find out when she reached Hareña.
In the chest that sat at the foot of Lynnariel’s bed, Saphienne found her mother’s copy of ‘The Girl and the Gulls,’ smiling to realise the corners of the cover were dented by frequent use. That led her to the cupboard in her own room where supplies from her first apprenticeship were still to be found. She could have cast a mending spell, but the once and always apprentice librarian repaired the damage by hand, finally understanding what Filaurel had said about simple tasks like scrivening – and bookbinding – being soothing.
Her mother still hadn’t arrived when she was done. To occupy herself – and before she put the book back – she laid out her writing kit.
* * *
Dinner with her mother was plain yet delicious. She would miss this.
“Saphienne? You’re quiet tonight. Are you planning for your trip?”
“I’ve been thinking about grandmother.” She set down her cutlery, explaining herself with exaggerated cheer. “About how she wanted you to be happy.”
“You deserve better. Forget about me, and be happy.”
Lynnariel paused while drinking from her glass of water. Where her oceanic eyes met her daughter’s green, receding tide, she wasn’t misled by superficial sentiment. “…She did…”
“This might be silly to ask, but… do you want that for me?”
If ever the anguish of a loved one could have bade Saphienne stay, the ebb in her mother’s gaze came close. “…Of course, my darling. I want you to be happy.”
“I’m glad, and glad she told you. I would have liked to have known my grandmother. She must have loved you so very much, to give you up so you could flourish.”
“…I miss her.”
“While we don’t know her the way we deserve… I miss her, too.”
Saphienne hugged her mother for a very long time before they separated; Lynnariel was just as slow to let her daughter go.
* * *
“Good evening, Saphienne! The last patron just left — I’m getting ready to close.”
Saphienne reflected Filaurel’s smile as she shut the door and crossed to the desk where the librarian was amending index cards. Wordlessly, she produced a plain cup from her satchel and set it on the desk, rousing her mentor’s curiosity as she slipped the hyacinth-decorated wand from her sleeve and pointed the tip within.
Red glittering accompanied a cascade of creamy white.
Filaurel was grinning in disbelief. “…You didn’t…”
She set the wand down. “Taste and see.”
Cards discarded, Filaurel collected the milk, inhaled its aroma, then sipped.
Saphienne beamed as she downed the full measure.
“…Fresh from a cow.” The nostalgic librarian inspected the enchantment, then activated the conjuration to pour herself another cup, drinking to savour the taste she’d gone without for years. “This is perfect; well done.”
Satisfied that her gift was well received, Saphienne followed it with the wedge that Faylar had rejected. “Would you like this as well? The flavour is a little strong for me.”
Filaurel laughed. “I thought so! I had complaints that my apprentice had been eating something foul at my desk, but Faylar denied it.”
“He wouldn’t try it. I ate a little, but then I thought you might enjoy it more. I wasn’t sure how cheese should be stored, so I used magic to preserve–”
“As long as there’s no mould, it’ll be delicious.” Filaurel came around the desk to embrace Saphienne. “Thank you.”
As they held each other, slowly the moment became sombre, both women aware that Saphienne would soon be departing for distant climes. Neither was quick to draw away.
“…I know it’s late…” Saphienne breathed in across Filaurel’s shoulder. “…Would you be willing to let me into the restricted collection?”
“Of course!” Filaurel wiped her eyes as she turned. “Let me lock the door first.”
The former apprentice stayed close. Saphienne’s heart was pounding, her thoughts wild and undisciplined as she contemplated what would soon occur. She didn’t want to worry Filaurel like she’d worried Faylar, but she did need to explain herself, which meant she needed a convincing justification as to why she was what she claimed. Would her line of descent be enough, without outlining her wyrd?
The librarian held Saphienne’s hand as they walked to the door under the stairs. “Do you have a specific book in mind? You never did choose one to be copied.”
“…Could I have a title that isn’t restricted? From the children’s section?”
“Yes. I can guess the one. Vaeril is always near their tome; they’ll help me copy it.”
Through the doorway, Saphienne conjured light for them, waiting for Filaurel before starting down. What if she didn’t believe her? What if she thought her mad? What if her last memory of the woman who had saved her was a rejection?
If, if, if: so many questions swirled around her as Saphienne steadied herself. The only way to answer them was to tell Filaurel.
“Here should be good.”
She blinked. “…You knew I wanted to talk privately?”
“Who do you think told Faylar about the blind spot?” Filaurel sat heavily. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice how frequently you were written in the log by him? Or that I wouldn’t check the scrutiniser? You two put on a good performance.”
Be brave. “I want to tell you something.”
“I know you’re leaving. You were asking me for my approval, when you came to talk about my past.” Filaurel didn’t conceal her sadness. “I think leaving is a mistake, but I won’t stop you from making it: I’m not quite so hypocritical. Some lessons we have to teach ourselves.”
“…That isn’t it…”
“Saphienne, I know why you’re going, and I know how you feel about–”
“I’m a dragon.”
Filaurel faltered; she studied Saphienne, who didn’t waver.
“…Pardon?”
Two strides brought Saphienne to sit beside Filaurel, there to remove the deceptive jewellery before squeezing her mentor’s palm with her healed hand. “You’ve always known I’m different, and always believed in me. Please listen to me. I need you to know who I am.”
How did she respond? She nodded, and squeezed back.
* * *
“…A dragon…”
“I have the scale.” Saphienne fumbled to lift it from around her neck. “There’s no doubt at all: this belonged to a dragon. I think my grandmother’s claws were the same colour. Felipe said humans paint their nails for fashion, so from a distance they could have been mistaken–”
“I follow.” Filaurel brushed her fingertips around the burned edge. “I know how meticulous you are about research. You wouldn’t lie to me about this — about your blood, and what happened at the lake.”
“Parthenos recognised it; then Hyacinth glimpsed her mind, and it resembled mine.”
Her fingers dropped. “Your ancestor was a dragon.”
“Yes. He mated with a wizard, named Kythalaen–”
Filaurel flinched as though punched. “Kythalaen? You’re sure? You’re sure that was the name? You’re descended from Kythalaen?”
Warily, Saphienne affirmed that it was so. “…Eletha told me about her. They were master and apprentice.”
“More than that.” Filaurel was overwhelmed, wonder and resentment twisting her features into a perplexed scowl. “My mother taught Kythalaen her arts, mentoring her before she studied at the Luminary Vale. They were very close. Her death hurt Eletha worse than any other; she blamed herself for what happened.”
“…Were they lovers?”
“No, more like family.” The librarian leapt to her feet, too agitated to rest. “She was terrified that what befell Kythalaen would happen to me. That’s how I found out about her: my mother used her story to try to persuade me to be contented here. All she could imagine was that I’d be killed if I left, just like Kythalaen.”
Saphienne remained seated. “She had a child before she died. I don’t know whether that child was my grandmother, but that’s from whom I descend, and that’s where my magic comes from. Nobody but Hyacinth and Parthenos have learned the whole truth. They’re the only ones who know I can wield dragons’ fire.”
Filaurel paled. “You can?”
“I would never loose it on anyone.”
“That’s not what…” The failed apprentice wizard shuddered. “…Then you really are a dragon, Saphienne. Powerful wizards and sorcerers can mimic a dragon’s fire, but the flame itself belongs to dragons alone.”
No ward could abjure against the radiant smile that shone in Saphienne.
“Is that what happened at the lake? They said that you’d used trickery to fight.”
“Parthenos demanded I show my fire. She saw me as a hatchling, confused and lost among elves.” Her eyes closed. “She was right.”
“…You always did want to know what makes someone an elf. I thought you were just coping with how you felt about what happened.”
Saphienne’s gaze was accepting. “You mean, the evil done to Kylantha? That was part of it. I might have gone on believing I was an elf, and felt comfortable, if she’d also been allowed to belong. But she wasn’t; and if Kylantha isn’t an elf then – no matter how I look on the outside – neither am I.”
Filaurel peered down the steps. “…We don’t have much longer. Saphienne: you need to leave the woodlands, and never come back.”
“That’s what I plan–”
Filaurel spun around and reached out to hold her by the shoulders. “Never. If the Luminary Vale finds out you command a dragon’s fire, they will kill you.”
Saphienne trembled, unfamiliar with the intensity her mentor showed. “Why?”
“Because if you can wield a dragon’s fire, you might be able to learn draconic magic; and there isn’t a wizard alive who doesn’t wish they could.” Filaurel spoke with weight. “Dragons who master the Great Art are capable of unleashing cataclysms, and their spells are nearly impossible to comprehend, which means wizards struggle to counter them.”
In retrospect, the magician realised she’d come perilously close to execution by order of High Master Elduin. “…All I want to do is make a home for the people who aren’t welcome…”
“Then do that. Tell no one else, and take Hyacinth with you.”
Saphienne swallowed. “…I love you, Filaurel. I’ll miss you.”
Filaurel’s tenuous hold on herself broke, and she pulled Saphienne to her shoulder with a choked sob.
* * *
Alas, they were too distraught when they exited to remember to copy the book.
Perhaps that was for the best.
* * *
“I can’t attend the revel.” Laelansa held a pillow to her chest where she was curled on the bed in the dark, eyes yellowed by the vigil of Hyacinth. “I can’t pretend I’m happy. Please don’t hate me.”
Saphienne shed her outer robes to fall where they would as she came into the room, kneeling on the bed to reach out for her beloved. “I couldn’t ever hate you. You don’t have to be there.”
Fragile, Laelansa held her fingers. “I love you.”
Hyacinth flowed through their touch, bringing with her the complicated feelings with which Laelansa wrestled. As the bloomkith draped herself against Saphienne, the magician understood:
The novice priest yearned to go with them.
Her heart belonged to the dragon and the bloomkith. Her intellect told her that Saphienne was more than likely right about the prospect of change — for she was graced by the gods with insight that exceeded Laelansa’s. Remaining behind was folly, and her bones shrieked for her to flee the woodlands.
Yet, if all was hopeless, then the gods were unkind. And if the gods weren’t kind – or weren’t real – then what did that make of the life Laelansa had lived? What did that make of the loving devotion that had led her to Saphienne? What did that make of her?
If Saphienne was belovèd by the gods, then there was no hope; if there was no hope, then Saphienne couldn’t be belovèd by the gods. Whichever way the coin fell, despair was impressed on both faces.
“…Could you learn to live without faith in the gods?”
Laelansa withered. “What would be the point? Everlasting life without meaning, fighting against cruelty wrought not by people, but by indifference… I can’t.”
Stroking with her thumb, Saphienne wriggled her boots off and held the woman she adored. “I don’t know how to console you.”
The novice sighed. “…Maybe Tolduin is right. Maybe time alone can heal.”
“You don’t believe that.” Saphienne lifted her chin. “I don’t believe that.”
Laelansa lost herself in pools of midnight forest. “Then kiss me.”
* * *
Saphienne, tongue praying for forgiveness.
Laelansa, giving herself to ecstatic mystery.
Hyacinth, bringing blossoms to fragrance the bed.
Saphienne-Hyacinth, making love with Laelansa.
Saphienne, Hyacinth, and Laelansa, saying goodbye.
* * *
Much can be inferred about Saphienne by what wasn’t written.
She never recorded the moment of their parting. Even though she wrote on the wrenching grief that came to pass when Kylantha was dragged screaming from the vale, and despite all the pain she endured and later summarised with brutal candour, I have repeated the scant detail of her separation from Laelansa.
What were her pleas? Her aches, her regrets?
We will never hear her answer. Few though they were, some moments in Saphienne’s life were too sacred to profane with art. They shall remain in the stilled centre of the place of the solitaires, where even I dare not trespass.
* * *
Saphienne felt the absence of the pendant around her neck, finding solace in having transmuted it from a talisman of abandonment into a pledge of reunion. Her mother would understand: she hadn’t surrendered the scale because it was unvalued, nor would she be eternally dispossessed of its comfort. What it now symbolised was sorely needed by another.
Wine, chocolate, and laughter were plentiful around her. Syndelle was peacefully sketching everyone else, upturned lips telling how intensely happy she was to be included in the gathering; Thessa bickered with Faylar about his tolerance for alcohol; Celaena was writing a drunken letter to Laewyn; a Hallucination spell maintained by Iolas livened the room with sentimental strings.
How often had they chatted there? The door to Celaena’s bedroom was closed and repainted, but Saphienne beheld again the furore in the aftermath of their first lesson on Invocation — and on the couch she glimpsed everyone crowding around her when her hand had been numb.
“Not bad, Iolas!” Faylar swayed over to sit with her on the windowsill. “But Master Saphienne can do better.”
She glared as she sipped her wine. “Don’t set us against each other.”
At ease, Iolas let his hallucination lapse. “There’s no contest; I wouldn’t mind Saphienne showing us what she can do.”
Thessa perked up, echoing her brother, and then solidarity with her adopted family obliged Celaena to join in, accompanied by Syndelle.
Outnumbered, the magician drained her glass then thrust it into Faylar’s hand. “You’re fortunate I came prepared.”
Celaena set her letter aside. “When don’t you?”
“Quiet, apprentice.” She buttoned back her sleeves. “I shan’t be distracted.”
Iolas sat on the floor. “What are you going to show us?”
“Good question.” She glanced at Faylar. “Well? You called for it. What shall I do to entertain you, Our Lord of the Imposition?”
He was shameless. “Show us something we can’t see otherwise!”
His challenge was a welcome distraction.
Flowers throughout the room bored Faylar; jeers erupted as a racing herd of deer startled him; Celaena tested Saphienne’s depictions of birds, furiously blushing after belatedly realising she had switched to using figments; Thessa had her turn the wall into a canvass on which she composed, Syndelle joining in with suggestions; Iolas proposed a game of disbelief, wherein Saphienne wove conjurations and hallucinations together, challenging them to catch her fakery.
Her tiredness grew with exertion, fed by Faylar refilling her glass whenever it emptied, and at midnight her concentration faltered, Thessa victorious in identifying which of the floating trays belonged to their host. Saphienne bowed to applause, then snatched up an open bottle as she stumbled to the bathroom.
* * *
She walked the halls jostled by memories. Her feet carried her into Celaena’s study, where she mischievously found the key to unlock the desk in its old hiding place.
Within, a Rod of Repulsion lay ready.
“…Silly bird…”
Saphienne left the weapon alone, locking the drawer and returning the key.
Then she surveyed the room, shrunken from the days when she had studied with Iolas and Celaena. Despite her youthful discontentment, in retrospect she saw now those had been happy times, filled with promise, framed by friendships that shone bright as mythril, enchanting as orichalcum, and untarnishable as adamantine.
She had loved, and been loved. What more could she have wished for?
“…For you to have had the same…”
She drank from the bottle, staggering to the window. Outside the moon was again evenly divided, and once again Saphienne couldn’t recall whether it waxed or waned. She searched among the stars for a sigil that would tell her, and then for any that cared to speak to her, to soothe her sorrows, to alleviate her rueful woe at losing her home.
That was why; that was why she hadn’t accepted. Almon had invited her to leave behind the people who mattered to her, thinking nothing of her doing as he had done. If only he could see that bonds were not made by choice, rather forged from every feeling… perhaps then he would–
“There you are.”
She swung to where Iolas loitered in the door. “Looking for me?”
He strolled to stand with her, absorbing the stars. “I was. Faylar was drunk enough to make a pass at Celaena; I left while he was denying his intentions.”
She squinted at him. “…You’re still sober?”
“I want to remember tonight.” He faced her, casually pulling the curtain across the window. “You’ve been avoiding me ever since the Luminary Vale intervened; that tells me how upset you are; and I know you, Saphienne. I know what you’re planning.”
She deflected. “More drinking?”
“You aren’t going to see Laewyn.” Iolas smiled wistfully. “I just want to understand. What do you see out there that’s more bearable than here? What will give you peace?”
…She was too intoxicated to explain with words.
The wine hit the floor as Saphienne raised her hands.
* * *
Waves of green barley were stood on the threshold of summer gold, wind carrying clouds that glided like dragons across a boundless sky. They lay together peering up from amid the caressing fronds, perhaps for an hour, perhaps for an eternity.
Iolas was tranquil. “Where will you go?”
“…Hareña… over mountains… across seas…”
“I’ll miss you. I wish we’d met in a kinder age.”
She held his hand as she drifted into sleep. “…We will…”
To whom did she swear?
* * *
Faylar woke her while the others were still asleep. They took their leave as planned, changing into red travelling clothes before they set out into the woods.
Saphienne was weary, but she intended to sit and prepare her spells while they waited on Hyacinth bringing Audacity. She led Faylar toward the hidden clearing where the bloomkith would have left Minina, absently listening as he talked about the letters to their friends and families he’d stashed where Filaurel would find them; the rings on their fingers concealed his speech from divination.
“Did you sleep well? You looked cosy with Iolas. How do I look in red?”
“Too many questions… wait until I’ve cast a–”
Pain.
Saphienne clutched her shoulder where she knelt, confounded by the protruding arrow that had appeared. Her wound throbbed and buzzed, vibrations suffusing her, drowning out her magical proprioception.
“Faylar, step away from her.”
She raised her head, seeing Alavara in camouflaged armour. “…No…”
“Come here, now!” The Warden of the Wilds beckoned her son.
Then a heavy blow struck Saphienne’s head, and their journey was over.
End of Chapter 137