L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 73
🕑 Added 2025-08-19 12:00:15 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 73 – Revelations
Summer crept slowly into the Eastern Vale, announced by changing flowers and the dryness that came with the heat. What mild rains fell were refreshing to the grasses as they turned from verdant to golden green, and the trees flourished and grew splendid in their leafy gowns. So too the elves transitioned from pallid to sun-kissed, though Saphienne was among the last to turn blonde, too close to the solstice festival for her to experiment on her mismatched strands with dyes.
She didn’t have time to dwell on her misfortune. Although the fittings Taerelle demanded were completed ahead of schedule, the clothes she had promised to her friends took longer, especially when Laewyn reset her progress by gifting her beautiful bolts of silk.
Yet Iolas was not oblivious to how hard she was working, and he offered to help with the embroidery. This ended up drawing the attention of his mother, Mathileyn, who was dissatisfied with his work to the point that she insisted on lending a hand, which led to her revising the patterns and then embroidering them herself.
When Faylar teased that he must have intended this, Iolas flicked two fingers at him.
Nor was she the sole adult to assist. Jorildyn found Saphienne asleep at the table in his workshop one morning, and when she later awoke the tailor was halfway done with sewing the seams she had been struggling to align. He refused any offer of compensation, asking only that Saphienne learn one last lesson from him: to always under-promise on what she believed she could achieve.
“If you find yourself in difficulty, you will have room to breathe; if you perform exactly as you anticipated, everyone will be impressed by your ease.”
Saphienne would forever remember that advice — though would struggle to follow it.
Together with Iolas and their friends she celebrated his birthday with much revelry, and then during the week before the solstice Nelathiel guided him through his ceremony at the shrine to Our Lord of the Endless Hunt. When the singing was done Saphienne waited for him; he emerged from the cave completely sober and thoughtful, obliged to admit he had more in common with the priest than he’d expected.
* * *
Night and day, whenever Saphienne wasn’t busy crafting, her mind was on the scroll she had been given by her master.
Almon spent every session before the festival teaching the notation in which elven spells were written. Some parts were easy to follow, explaining pronunciations and gestures and conveying their precise timings. What was harder were the other elements, more representation than instruction, depicting mental and emotional states that served as proxies for the knowledge and comprehension on which spellcasting depended.
Saphienne quickly grasped that she was learning a symbolic language, intended to capture nuances that were simultaneously very specific yet highly subjective. This was complicated by her master refusing to illustrate what he taught with actual sigils — for he claimed they were too alive with magic to deconstruct.
In fact, frustratingly little of what he shared was related to the act of spellcasting. The wizard was merely teaching his students how to identify what they were to accomplish — and were to accomplish without conferring.
Almon was blunt. “To cast your first spell, on your own, is your trial of initiation.”
Throughout, the sigil in blue ink compelled Saphienne, eager to be cast, frustrated by her ignorance, reaching for her whenever she stared upon its mystery. The Hallucination spell wanted to be understood.
She just wasn’t ready. Not then.
* * *
Concluding his final lesson before the festival, Almon offhandedly told his unproven apprentices that they would be participating in an old solstice tradition on the morning of the first day. Indifferent to their anger and dismay, he commanded them to visit him early, and to come prepared for monotony.
All five friends had been planning to meet at Iolas’ home, where they were to finally see each other in their festival garb. Laewyn was particularly unhappy to hear the news. “He might be your master,” she huffed, “but fuck Almon.”
They agreed a new plan: Faylar and Laewyn would wait at the house until Iolas returned with Saphienne and Celaena, forgoing the festivities until everyone could enjoy them. The apprentice wizards would appease their master as quickly as possible, and then the group would get ready together.
* * *
Benches reappeared from storage, pavilions were raised, and floral garlands were everywhere hung about the village. Travellers arrived and were given temporary accommodations to the south, where spacious tents were pitched, the early visitors assisting with preparations, good cheer spilling out from them as they brought news from the neighbouring villages. Thousands of elves soon flooded into the Eastern Vale from the north, merriment swelling in the valley as the days grew longer and the night lost its impenetrable darkness.
But when at last the festival commenced, Saphienne was in a terrible mood.
“We shouldn’t be at his beck and call like this,” she seethed to Celaena as she stalked out of her family home. “Our master is a huge prick.”
The older girl had passed through the festival grounds on her way to meet Saphienne, and their gaiety shone in her eyes as she kept staring overhead. “Good morning! And don’t let him ruin your day; he has us for a few hours, but the rest belongs to us…” She pointed to the window that held her gaze. “…Are those the same flowers as last time?”
Saphienne didn’t stop to look up. “On my windowsill? Hyacinth has been tending them. She keeps changing their colour.”
“Odd to see hyacinths out of season…” Celaena fell in beside her. “…Can she keep them blooming year-round?”
“So she told me.” She let her arm be held. “We’ll see if she actually can.”
Celaena giggled. “You’re prickly today.”
“Am I really?” Saphienne scowled at her. “I hadn’t noticed.”
But Celaena refused to take offence, her voice softening as she instead took Saphienne’s hand. “I remember the trouble you caused, at the last festival, when you and Kylantha ran off together. Is she on your mind?”
Grief closed Saphienne’s eyes. “I woke up like this. I nearly screamed at Lynnariel when she knocked on my door; she was bringing me breakfast.”
Celaena pulled her closer. “Would you like a hug?”
“I don’t need–”
“Saphienne,” her friend persisted, “do you want one?”
She stopped retreating. “…I would like that.” She swallowed uncertain, unshed tears. “I don’t want to spend the whole day this way.”
They embraced at the bottom of the grove, Saphienne choosing not to think about the blonde hair against her cheek — so similar to the unchanging tresses of another friend, long-departed, much-missed.
A group of older children – adult men, she corrected herself – were approaching from the south. Self-consciousness made her try to pull away, but Celaena clung on as though she, too, needed to be held. Saphienne resigned herself to being wanted, and the figures dressed in silver paid the girls no mind as they went by–
Whereupon Saphienne heard a voice she hated.
“Here we are.” His tone was different — less forced cheeriness in the way he addressed his companions. “I’ll come find you when it’s time to leave.”
One of them was dismayed. “No chance you’ll sneak away early?”
“Not happening…” His tone became knowing. “…Not that I mind: Lynnariel’s always insatiable.”
Lascivious laughter made Saphienne pry herself from Celaena, and she turned to see him handing his silvery cloak to one of his friends — and that his braided hair and pastel clothes were otherwise in adult style. He was tall and well-groomed, fastidious about his appearance yet carrying himself effortlessly, and under his arm he held a basket with several wine bottles — and a doll intended for a younger child.
“Delred, how old is your daughter now?”
“About nine or so.” He was visibly uneasy. “She’s a sweet girl. She’s very much like her mother — likes to keep to herself. Saphienne never wants to spend much time with me.”
“Then she’s not that much like her mother!”
As her father and his friends snickered, Saphienne realised her fellow apprentice was paying close attention; she dragged Celaena after her as she hurried away.
* * *
“Was that your–”
“I don’t want to talk about him.” Saphienne’s mind was whirling. “He’s awful.”
“But his friends were all still children?”
“I know.” She hadn’t known; she hadn’t known at all. How had she never known? The clues were all there. “He’s very immature for his age. He doesn’t take an interest in me at all. The only reason he’s visiting is to fu– to see my mother.”
“How old is he?”
Saphienne took solace in the fact that she wasn’t technically lying. “He’s an adult; he’s old enough to know better.”
Yet she knew she was misleading Celaena. Saphienne had understood what her father had let slip — and it explained why he took no interest in his daughter, why he wanted nothing to do with her. He shouldn’t have been a parent, not at all…
For Delred hadn’t reached social maturity.
And that suggested–
She quickened her pace. “Let’s not keep Iolas waiting.”
* * *
Though the hour was so early that the crowds had not yet gathered, going through the village and feeling the disconcerting happiness that radiated from every passerby was enough to pierce the cloud that enshadowed Saphienne.
She was angry at her parents. Had she been sad because of Kylantha? Were the two really one and the same?
Her guilt over the life she lived had been rising ever since she met the humans and helped the goblins. Buried under the justifications and rationalisations that she professed aloud, deeper than the apostacy which she kept hidden, Saphienne was aware that she was worse than the joyful people who surrounded her. Even when considering the most heartless and selfish of elves, as much as she detested how Danyn treated mortals? The warden was not living hypocritically. Nor was her mother; nor was her father.
That pivoted her anger toward herself, and her fury was clarifying.
For the first time, Saphienne allowed herself to think the questions that had consumed her all along. She wondered what Kylantha was doing. She wondered where she was. She wondered how she was, and how she felt, and what she thought about the mother who had given her up, and the friend she had been taken from, and whether the wardens had explained the truth to her, or whether she had been left in ignorance as well as heartbreak.
…If they had left her…
Saphienne wondered whether Kylantha was still alive.
Walking the early morning, surrounded by boundless warmth, she was frightened.
Yet she was not alone. “Saphienne?” Celaena squeezed her palm. “Are you alright? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this upset…”
She wasn’t. “I’m fine.” She wouldn’t be. “I’ll be fine.”
“…I can tell when you’re lying.”
How she wished that her friend couldn’t. “There’s nothing I can do.”
But Celaena stopped beside an as-yet empty stall and made Saphienne stare into her grey-streaked eyes, holding the younger girl’s gaze as she whispered “Then put it away until you can.”
Saphienne blinked.
“Stop trying to fix things you can’t fix.” Celaena lightly shook Saphienne’s shoulder. “You’re not responsible for everything that makes you unhappy. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Yes I–”
“You didn’t choose your parents.” Celaena took a steadying breath. “You didn’t choose who your father is. You didn’t choose a distant mother. And you didn’t choose what happened to Kylantha.”
“You don’t–”
“I do.” Celaena glared. “I fucking do, Saphienne.”
At that, all Saphienne could do was weep.
And all her kin could do was hold her.
* * *
Before, I told you that Saphienne was but a child. I told you that Saphienne was not responsible for the evils she bore witness to. I told you that no one expected anything from her — no one, but her.
…Except, that isn’t wholly true, is it? Everyone expected so much from her. Filaurel expected her performative conformity; Almon expected her surpassing excellence; all the elves expected her to belong within the woodlands.
Haven’t you expected things from her, in your own way? All who come here yearn to hear the story they have imagined from its title — to be entertained by the transformation of the elf who, one day, so they had been promised, would become a dragon. How eager so many are for her change…
…I have told this story very slowly, until now. Some imagine it is because I am an elf, and so inclined to patience in all things. That is not the case. I tell it so out of respect: both for you who come to listen, and for Saphienne herself. I have not glossed over any pertinent details. You have heard her lie, deceive herself and others, betray her word, act impulsively and with overconfidence; you have also heard her speak truth to power, show more than was wise, uphold her justice, and act passionately and with brilliance.
Are you ready to judge her? Have you already been judging her?
If so, then it gives me no pleasure to say: you are a fool.
Speaking about me, my father once said “Give me the boy and I will show you the man.” He intended to make me in his likeness — to partial success; another improved upon his work.
That I might give you the woman to judge, I have shown you the child.
Saphienne, as you yet know her, is still but a child. Where she has done wrong, the wrongs are not hers. Where she has failed to be the perfect girl that too many people have demanded she be, the failure lies not on her part.
As she exists in this moment of her story, for all that she has been deprived of her innocence, Saphienne is wholly and eternally an innocent.
And on that morning, on the first day of the festival of the summer solstice, when she sobbed against Celaena’s shoulder without restraint?
That was when Saphienne believed it.
* * *
Years after Kylantha was taken away, Saphienne forgave herself.
There was still so much wrong with the woodlands, and so much that was unfair about her life, but she accepted what Filaurel had told her on the steps of the library: she had done nothing wrong. She couldn’t have prevented what had happened.
That she hadn’t been able to accept this was why, she supposed, she was always upon those steps whenever she met with Hyacinth. And her rage at herself had driven her onward — through all the good she had done, and all the bad.
Intellectually, she had tried to let her anger go. Ever since she had understood what Filaurel was teaching her, she had tried to reconcile herself to her powerlessness, and so to put aside desires she couldn’t act upon. There was no point in fighting battles she couldn’t hope to win. Yet, until she doused her burning self-recrimination, such attempts were futile.
Futile, until she saw herself in Celaena. Futile, until her sympathy for Celaena reflected back upon herself.
Iolas had called it correctly: Saphienne was only fourteen. So why not be fourteen? Why did she have to make the problems of the world her personal problems? That way lay madness, she knew too well.
So she forgave herself.
But Saphienne didn’t forget herself: she made herself a promise as she accompanied Celaena to meet with their teacher. Once Saphienne mastered the necessary magic, and once she was in a position to do something about whatever she would discover?
Saphienne would scry for Kylantha.
* * *
Until then, it was summertime.
“Celaena! Saphienne!”
They kept holding hands as they looked across their shoulders, seeing Iolas jogging along the grove toward them.
He smirked when he came closer. “I’m getting better at timing this…”
Celaena tutted playfully. “What’s the point of walking Saphienne here, if you’re just going to meet us on the doorstep every day?”
Saphienne spoke without thinking. “…I like your company…”
The older girl flushed deep red, misty-eyed and speechless.
Iolas, too, was surprised by her abrupt sincerity. “It’s been a while since you’ve taken things so literally… wait, have you been crying?”
Celaena was protective, and stepped closer to Saphienne as she recovered. “She’s fine. Her father’s visiting, and he’s a colossal prick. I’ve never disliked someone so instantly, or intensely.”
Saphienne surprised them both again by throwing her arms around Celaena — though not in sadness.
Chuckling to himself, Iolas walked on. “Saphienne told me he was awful. I’ll admit, I wondered what he was like. That seems conclusive; sorry for doubting you.”
Celaena quietly fumed as she and Saphienne followed. “He thinks she’s still nine!”
“A lot of people forget how quickly children grow.” Iolas couldn’t help but try to see the good in everyone. “How old is he?”
Laughing at the absurdity of her own answer, Saphienne shook her head. “Not old enough… believe me…”
“He’s so immature,” Celaena sniffed. “I won’t repeat the awful things I heard him say to his friends. I hope you and Faylar don’t talk like that, when we’re not around.”
Now Iolas’ lip curled in distaste. “That kind of man, is he? We don’t. My mother and father taught me manners.”
Still holding Celaena’s hand, Saphienne skipped forward to catch Iolas’ palm as well. “You’re nothing like my father. You’re a better man than he is.”
Iolas snorted. “Kind of you, but you’re nearly a century early.”
She laughed again. “…You’re more mature than you realise.”
* * *
The door to the classroom was locked, and the three apprentices went around the house to seek their master in his garden.
They arrived to find a tremendously large, elegant pine had incongruously arisen in the middle of the gravel circle, stretching so far upward that it made a dwarf of the mighty tree which housed the wizard’s sanctum.
“…That’s new,” Iolas murmured.
Frowning, Saphienne released her friends and strolled forward, crossing her arms as she wandered around the trunk to see it from all angles. “…This is a Hallucination.”
“How in the world,” Almon sighed loudly from within the tree, “could you possibly be so confident — or did you resort to guessing?”
Before the students, the tree wavered and became transparent, threatening to collapse as their master paced from within. All at once the tree reasserted its reality, leaving the wizard standing before them with a carved pine staff in his hand; his robes for the festival were hallucinatory ultramarine, within which swam colourful fish the likes of which Saphienne had only seen painted in books.
Her smile was sly. “The needles–”
“They are correct!” Almon was peeved. “Those needles are perfectly convincing. You cannot possibly tell me that you–”
“They are entirely accurate to the best of my knowledge.”
Her master was momentarily thrown. “…Well, yes; of course they are.”
“This is a figment, isn’t it?”
He glanced to his spell and then glared at Saphienne. “…You are correct again. Explain yourself.”
Saphienne shrugged. “I’m seeing exactly what I’d expect to see, but only what I’d expect to see. I didn’t learn as much about evergreen trees as deciduous trees, so I should see details that I don’t recognise.”
Almon let his staff fall to the ground as he went back into the figment.
Celaena and Iolas had been quietly laughing, and the younger apprentice approached with a broad smile. “Master, why hasn’t the spell ceased to exist for us?”
“Now there is a useful observation, Celaena,” Almon declared from concealment. “This is a form of figment I have been working on for the past five years. It is trivially easy to disbelieve, but will not wholly disappear, not so long as at least one observer maintains belief — and it will even recover, absent wilful disbelief.”
Saphienne let the Hallucination stand uncontested. “I’ve seen Hallucination spells like this in Celaena’s house, in the form of enchanted scenery in rooms. Is your innovation that the details are provided by the viewer?”
His tone brightened. “Indeed!” He emerged with one arm behind his back. “The spell is created and maintained by the staff, but the particulars are subjectively supplied by whoever gazes upon it. In this case, beauty is within the eye of the beholder.”
Iolas had joined them. “Master, as fascin– as intriguing as this is, we have people waiting for us. What do you need us to do?”
Almon studied them sombrely. “…Well, after Saphienne ruined my fun yet again, a spot of gardening should be called for… but this is the solstice festival…” He revealed his hand. “…So I’m in a forgiving mood.”
The wizard clutched three gleaming wands, each expertly crafted by Taerelle, each attired with different flowers: sunflowers in polished gold, hyacinths in the same but with a more rosy hue, and daffodils in brightest silver.
“Saphienne: I understand you made the fittings.” Almon was smug as he readied the daffodil wand in his free hand. “Therefore, I think it appropriate–”
He pointed it at her and touched the symbol above its hilt, and the wand shot red sparks onto her shoulder — where white daffodils immediately bloomed.
“–For you to serve as the subject for my demonstration.”
Her giggle was unguarded as she admired the swaying blossoms. “Another fascination…”
“Another figment!” He deftly flipped the wand around, offering it to his students. “Your task is to take these and go spread cheer far and wide. They should each be good for maintaining fifty or so figments at a time, and so long as they are not constantly in use and are kept in sunlight, they should function throughout the day.”
Saphienne brought her hands together in glee. “Taerelle made them recharge!”
“Of course.” He canted his head to the side, his pride in his student unconcealed. “She is one of my most impressive apprentices. No wonder, then, that she’s also one of my favourites…”
Celaena raised an eyebrow as she took the daffodil wand. “Unlike present company, Master?”
“No comment, not today.” He inclined his head to Saphienne as he offered Iolas the remaining wands. “Today, all three of you are my emissaries — for I have more important matters to attend upon.”
Iolas chose sunflowers. “Such as?”
“I have trees to plant…” He tossed the last wand to Saphienne as he retrieved his staff. “…And then I am to drink good wine, while badly losing several games of chess.”
* * *
Behold her friends as Saphienne could now perceive them, her gaze turned outward after too long blind in the tomb of herself.
Faylar came down the stairs as the apprentice wizards arrived, his oblong face and thin brows framed by chin-length hair, his blue eyes more genuinely bold than when he usually posed. His white shirt was loose and pleated, his ivory leggings covering him above his sandals, his waist drawn in by a tightly woven scarlet sash that paired with the short mantle he wore flipped across one shoulder, the sash embroidered in darker reds with impossible flowers — including lavender with rounded leaves.
Mathileyn applauded with the children as he took a theatrical bow.
Laewyn called down for Saphienne and Celaena, and they went up to Thessa’s room to prepare. They found her in front of the floor-length mirror in her festival garb, beaming with excitement as she swished her wide hem to and fro. Her white dress had a pleated skirt, the inner folds scarlet-stitched with the same flowers as appeared on Faylar’s sash, and further embroidery above her waist contrived to imply a greater fullness to her breasts than she possessed; she had piled her hair high to expose her slender neck.
“I’m beautiful,” she giggled, charmed as she met her own grey gaze.
Celaena wasted no time in changing into her pale gown, which was double-layered, reminiscent of robes due to their long, gossamer sleeves. The thicker, inner fabric was patterned with the blossoms that had brought the five together, and Laewyn had proposed that it should emphasise her bosom, to which Saphienne had agreed — if only to balance her disproportionate shortness by complementing her more ample curves. Wearing it, Celaena blushed, but she folded her arms and adopted a superior expression before her reflection as Laewyn braided her hair in two ostentatious, hanging loops that bordered on too mature a style for her age.
Her voice was tinged with awe. “I could be a wizard, couldn’t I?”
Once the three girls were dressed, Laewyn insisted on cosmetics. Saphienne tried to escape, but alas, her seniors dragged her back and sat her down on the bed, where she fidgeted with the petals she had taken from her satchel as Laewyn painted her.
Iolas smiled when the trio descended, having changed into his festival clothes. He wore a figure-fitting combination of shirt and trousers in white accented with silver buttons, open cuffs and collar lovingly embroidered to match the group by his mother, with a short silvery coat that came down to just above his thighs to emphasise his legs. He had braided his hair in a half-tail with a weave that signalled he had reached physical and mental maturity, which together with his narrow face made him quintessentially elven.
Properly attired, the five friends thanked Mathileyn, and set off for the festival.
* * *
Ah, but what of Saphienne?
Mathileyn stopped the children from leaving. “Saphienne, come upstairs a moment.”
Iolas’ mother sat Saphienne in front of a dressing table, and over the course of half an hour – but a moment, by elven reckoning – she taught her how to use the brushes and combs and thin oils she had requested for the girl, fanning out her hair where it reached all the way down her back, letting two tresses fall beside her cheeks, twisting and amplifying the volume of her waves until they curled and coiled and glistered like gold upon the air.
Then Saphienne adored her own appearance, luxuriating in the blemishless, glittering silks of her double hemline, her bare arms feeling the sashes that hung loose about her waist, treasuring the texture of the crimson flowers upon them. Her green eyes were made striking by the subtle eyeliner Laewyn had applied.
She was transfigured.
Mathileyn was delighted. “Better now, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Almost perfect…”
Saphienne caressed the wilting hyacinth she had been holding, and grinned.
* * *
See Saphienne as she ought to have been, the happy young girl, a child. Her hair was glorious gold and crowned with red hyacinths — in which the bloomkith dwelled for a time, trembling with laughter whenever Saphienne bestowed a floral figment on a celebrant.
Split from their friends, she ran with Faylar freely through the crowds, the boy pointing out worthy targets. Most were small children being taken to the day’s events, who Saphienne was careful never to startle, conscious that her hyacinths could be their first impression of magic. Some were distracted adults, including a wizard who was boasting to a crowd before a giant pine tree — and who roared with indignation as she raced away.
Pleasingly to Saphienne, and before her conjecture was confirmed, she used the wand to explore a question she had once asked Almon.
Faylar noticed. “Why do you always wave your hand through the flowers after you give them to children?”
“I was testing a theory.” She glanced about, then led him behind a tree between two pavilions. She lowered her voice. “This wand casts figments — hallucinations that incorporate Fascination–”
“Stop!” He held up his hands. “You’re not supposed to teach me!”
“And we’re not supposed to know what we know.” She leant against the tree. “Just this once, sod the rules. I want to share.”
Faylar hesitated… but no child can resist the allure of his own curiosity. She briefly taught him about figments, and then put a hallucinatory hyacinth on the ground, which dissipated into blue mist when she tried to pick it up.
“…Why did that one disappear?”
“Because I’m not consciously believing in it, and my hand going through it reveals the illusion.” She surveyed the elves streaming by where they loitered. “But children? They’re not logical. They’re full of wonder. They believe against the evidence of reason and experience – even in things unseen – so long as they’re encouraged.”
Studying under Filaurel had sharpened Faylar’s insight. “How can you be sure you’re right?”
Saphienne stuck out her tongue. “That, I can’t tell you…”
She’d watched as Peacock soared above the crowd, invisible to those to whom he hadn’t been introduced… and had noticed the smallest faces turn to follow his flight. Why wouldn’t they expect to see a marvel like him, on such a marvellous day?
“…He’d never shut up about it.”
* * *
Eventually the pair wandered the stalls where the most skilled artists were showing their works, and bumped into Thessa, who hugged them and brought them along to take in the sights.
“There’s an amazing sculpture!”
Saphienne peered ahead: Gaeleath was animate beside their statue of dancers, both of which were thankfully and cleverly clothed to obscure their coupling. Desperate to avoid offering her opinion, she cast around for an excuse to hang back–
And settled on another stall, jewellery on display. “…I’ll catch up.”
Eletha said nothing as Saphienne reviewed her labours, busying herself with polishing a leafy brooch in rosy gold. Unlike everyone else, the master jeweller was subdued, uncomfortable in the daylight, her focus entirely on her chosen art.
Yet what she had made spoke for her. “…These are extraordinary, Eletha.”
She finished with the brooch, setting it beside a floral coronet and a braid of metal links so numerous and tightly interlocked that they appeared like rope. Her calm stood out against the merrymaking. “Do you see any you like?”
“All of them are–”
“Any you want?”
Saphienne blinked. “I’m only fourteen. I’m not allowed–”
“Not as a request; in trade.” Eletha held Saphienne with her sea-green stare. “You may take whatever you please, if you will grant me a favour of my choosing, to be called upon later.”
The brooch glinted in the sun. “…What would your favour be?”
“Only what you would be willing and able to do: I cannot compel you.”
Saphienne lifted it; the metal was heavier than she expected. “I accept. This one–”
“The full set will await you,” Eletha promised. “You are too young today.”
Overwhelmed by her generosity, Saphienne bowed as she set the piece back down. “Thank you for your kindness.”
Eletha was about to say more, but her gaze flicked from Saphienne to whoever was approaching, and she snatched up another piece, worrying it with her cloth as she avoided further conversation.
Unfortunately for Eletha, the new arrival was undeterred. “Hal wes þu, Eletha. Brycst þu þone freols-dæg?”
Turning in confusion at the strange words and familiar voice she both dimly recognised, Saphienne was surprised to see an elder in white robes – the priest to her mother, Tolduin – smiling hopefully at Eletha.
Who didn’t look up. “Alā.”
Tolduin flushed, intensely embarrassed. “My sole intent was to be friendly–”
“No.” Tranquil but firm, the jeweller rebuked him. “You were excluding the young from our conversation to assert your age, because you wished to stress to me that you’re an elder.” She glanced at Saphienne. “I’m well aware.”
“…Then please forgive my youthful impertinence,” he apologised. “Chastened, I take my leave, hopeful that I shall acquit myself more worthily when next we meet.”
Saphienne was stunned by Eletha. “You’re an–”
The priest laughed loudly and patted her arm. “Come away, child. The good Eletha has scant desire for honorifics — less even than I.”
He strolled on.
Saphienne contemplated her ageless teacher. “…Thank you again, Eletha.”
The elder gave no reply as Saphienne strode from her stall.
* * *
“Tolduin,” she called after him, “may we speak?”
He was ambling along, but slowed all the same. “Certainly! And are you enjoying the festival, Saphienne?”
“I am.” She matched his pace. “I’m enjoying it more than I ever thought possible.”
He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, sighing in contentment. “You have no conception of how deeply gladdened I am upon hearing that; especially after showing myself a fool.”
Saphienne scrutinised him. He was far more at ease than when they first met — or when she first remembered meeting him. Perhaps she had Eletha to thank; it was hard to be self-conscious when already humiliated. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You have already, twice now.”
She ignored his wit. “The words you said to Eletha — what were they?”
“Old Elfish! The tongue my youth, spoken a millennia past.” He regarded her with interest. “Do you wish to learn it? It serves little purpose today.”
Her heart quickened; the spirit she had freed had spoken that language. “There’s some words I heard said, if you would translate?”
Tolduin beckoned for them.
They were enshrined within her mind. “‘Beon bletsunge ofer þe, bearn. For þam–’”
“‘–Life þe man genam of þe,’” Tolduin completed for her, halting mid-step, “‘libbe þu inne þære sunnan ecum hleo.’” He was paler than winter, his voice frail. “Where did you hear that?”
Saphienne stopped with him. “…Those aren’t the words I heard. They start the same, but the ending differs.”
To her shock, and to the amusement of the people flowing around them, Tolduin knelt down and clasped his hands together. “Fair child: what did you hear?”
She repeated the full message. “‘Beon bletsunge ofer þe, bearn. For þam miltse þe þu gifest, libbe þu inne þære sunnan ecum hleo.’”
Tears welled up in Tolduin’s light brown eyes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t intend–”
“No!” He sniffed, sitting back on the trampled grass, uncaring who saw him. “No; these are tears of happiness. Who spoke to you?”
She had readied a lie. “A spirit, after I freed a fox from a fallen–”
Tolduin laughed mildly. “Trees keep you, child! That was no mere spirit.”
Saphienne watched with creeping alarm as Tolduin unlaced his sandals.
“…The first message,” he explained, “through which I was called to Her service, can be translated thus: ‘Blessings upon you, child. For the life that has been taken from you, may you live in the eternal shelter of the sun.’ What you heard is mostly the same…” He climbed unsteadily to his feet. “…But it ends, ‘For the mercy that you give, may you live in the eternal shelter of the sun.’”
She didn’t dare speak.
He bowed to her, very deeply. “That was Our Lady of the Basking Serpent; your message was for me. It cannot be otherwise, for you delivered it — you, so loved by your mother, to whom I was kind.”
“…How young is my mother?”
“Marvellous.” He smiled tenderly. “Your mother resolved to make life as normal for you as possible… but you are too swift. Lynnariel was forty-eight when she fell pregnant. ‘Twas my mistake.” He shook his head. “I didn’t think she’d attract a paramour, since she stayed indoors. As ever, I was the perfect fool.”
Saphienne breathed her painful question. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Ask her.” He tilted his face toward the sun. “She’s getting better. And now I know she will recover fully — thanks to the kindness that your life embodies, Saphienne.”
But he was mistaken. That wasn’t what–
“Saphienne?” Faylar’s call stole her attention.
When she looked back, the child who had been saved by the sunflower spirit had moved on, going barefoot lest he walk shod on hallowed ground.
End of Chapter 73
Old English translation by Kit Treadwell, doctoral student at the department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic, Cambridge. With thanks to Richard Dance, Professor of Early English, Fellow of St. Catharine's College, Cambridge.
Comments
Flugufrelsarinn
Saphienne out stuck her tongue. “That, I can’t tell you…” ->stuck out So tolduin was the child that lived? Wonder how it has affected him
Claire Hiria Ahuriri-Dunning
“If you find yourself in difficulty, you will have room to breathe; if you perform exactly as you anticipated, everyone will be impressed by your ease.” - words to live by! OMG the way my shoulders rose to my ears when Delred showed up •`_´• OMG the middle section.... and OMG the end. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
