L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 69
🕑 Added 2025-08-05 12:00:27 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 69 – Barely Concealed
While the librarian and the merchant sat at the folding table and skimmed through the books they had each been brought, the elven children talked with the human child and wiled away the warm morning.
Saphienne and Faylar eventually ran out of questions to ask Felipe, at least about being human. He in turn exhausted the questions about elven nature and society that they felt they were permitted to answer, which were far fewer, though Saphienne did her best to imply more about their lives in how she phrased what she shared. Faylar pretended not to notice what she was doing, while Felipe grew more appreciative the longer they spoke.
When there was nothing more to be said about humans and elves – when each understood the world of the other as best they could – the trio then found their curiosity hadn’t diminished, but had drifted over time.
Faylar was the first to express it. “What’s it like, being the son of a merchant?”
Felipe paused where he was throwing stones beyond the clearing. His Elfish had grown more confident throughout the day, but his diction still remained stilted. “I am… not sure how to reply. What is is like for you, being…” He frowned as as he shifted around. “…I do not know your labours. Are you following after your family?”
Saphienne snorted. “His mother? Not likely.”
Although Faylar agreed with her, his pride made him affect an airy nonchalance as he waved off her comment. “Despite being invited to study with with my mother, I’ve no interest in adopting her chosen art. Several of her peers have said I would be well-suited to–”
“I find that very easy to believe,” she teased him. “I’m sure you’d be quite at home in the wilds.”
Felipe had been listening to them for long enough to recognise both her sarcasm and their mutual affection, and he smiled. “Then, Faylar, what do you do?”
There, Faylar picked up one of the pebbles Felipe had collected, and took aim at the same trunk the other boy had targeted. “…Right now? I’m practising the art of throwing.” He threw — and immediately struck what Felipe had so far missed. “One day, I’m going to do what Saphienne has done, and apprentice myself to a wizard.”
Discouraged by the grace with which the elf had hit his mark, Felipe awkwardly lowered his hand, abandoning any further attempt.
Saphienne tapped his arm with the foot of her staff. “You’ll hit it. Keep trying.”
A little ashamed, Faylar set about finding more stones among the grass. “And while you’re doing that — why not tell us what else you get up to, besides reading? I want to know you better.”
Understanding Faylar’s true intentions made Felipe grin; his next throw was closer to the tree. “I see! Then let me tell you about yesterday…”
* * *
Hours passed as Felipe told what readily became the story of his life and his travels, enthralling the elves with his tales of far-off lands and the strange but wonderful people who inhabited them. He had a little of his father’s gift for description; Saphienne may as well have been fascinated, and she left the talking to Faylar, focusing all her efforts on memorising every word that Felipe said, willing herself to forever engrave each syllable in her mind.
Much later, when she toiled over her painstaking inscriptions while Gaeleath watched, she would remember what Felipe had shared, and picture a road stretching all the way to a horizon that lay unbound by woodland.
* * *
When he was done, fairness demanded that each elf talk about their own life, and the pair compromised by divulging the things that mattered most to knowing a person: their relationships with the people around them. Felipe still found the structure of their families unsettling, and he was almost disbelieving at the lack of familial piety – the disrespect and disloyalty to her mother and father – casually displayed by Saphienne. And yet, once his shock wore off, he began to recognise how so very familiar were the bonds of affection and contempt that held the elves together.
“I never would have guessed,” he admitted as they along strolled, “that you wood elves feel the same passions as men do.”
“And women,” Saphienne corrected him as she kept pace. “Women feel them too, even if they keep them hidden.”
But Faylar had caught what Saphienne had missed, and stopped walking around the perimeter of the clearing. “…Wood elves?”
“He means elves of the woodlands.”
Felipe looked back over his shoulder at Faylar. “…No? I mean elves like you; as distinct from the sea elves, or the sky elves, or…”
He paused, having noticed the way they were both stood staring at him.
“…Have I said something wrong?”
Saphienne’s voice returned to her from distant climes. “…There are other elves?”
Faylar was just as awed. “Other natures of elves?”
The son of the merchant was puzzled. “Yes? I have heard of several different elven peoples. They are very well-attested in–”
“Oh!” Faylar laughed out loud. “Human rumours! How silly.”
Yet Felipe emphatically shook his head. “No. I have seen one, from a distance — a sky elf. She was a merchant, a trader of gemstones–”
Would it not have caused several problems for her, Saphienne would have grabbed his arm, and she came close before she restrained herself. “Are you sure? How was she different?”
“Her hair was silver–”
“Dyes,” Faylar objected.
“–And her eyes were like a sunset–”
“Spiritual possession,” the boy decided, folding his arms.
“–And her skin was like clouds on an overcast sky.”
Faylar hesitated. “…Body paint?”
Felipe was amused. “Yet, the clouds moved.”
Racing through the implications, Saphienne asked an incisive question. “Why aren’t they mentioned in your book? Or why isn’t the title ‘Rumours of the Wood Elves,’ if there are other elves?”
He opened his mouth to explain, and then shut it again, his eyes widening. “…My father said it would be better received with a different title, and without the foreword. I did not think to ask why.”
Now Faylar was convinced, and his voice lowered. “Felipe, what did the book say, that you left out from your translation?”
The son of the merchant turned to look over at the wagon, behind which his father was barely visible. He was silent for most of a minute. “That your people are far more numerous than your cousins, and that you are also far more…” He groped for a word, and then gave up, reverting to the common trade tongue. “…Insular? Wishing to be left alone. And so you’re just as mysterious, but for different reasons.”
Faylar knew the Elfish translation, and repeated it for Saphienne. “Insular; keeping to oneself; isolated. But in the common trade tongue, it also means…” He, too, looked worriedly toward the centre of the clearing, where Filaurel was just out of sight. “…Narrowminded — even hostile to others.”
Following their gazes, Saphienne reflected on what had been said earlier in the day, thinking about how Cosme had complained that the books offered to him were censored…
…And about how Filaurel had refused to let Saphienne read what the merchant had brought, not before it could be reviewed by the librarian.
“We’re not supposed to know this,” Saphienne breathed. “You shouldn’t say any more, Felipe. Don’t tell your father that you mentioned it to us. And, Faylar–”
“I’ll keep quiet.” He was equally troubled. “There must be bad history. Very bad history…”
She wasn’t sure about his assumption, but she was certain that wasn’t what mattered then and there. What mattered was that she now knew why Filaurel had brought her along, and why her mentor had previously taught her to carefully observe – to critically think about – whatever she encountered.
There was no other explanation: the secret apostate had intended that Saphienne catch on to what she couldn’t teach her. That was why she had encouraged her dislike of the pageantry; why she had allowed Saphienne to undermine it; and why she had taken the first available excuse to let her talk at length with Felipe.
The only mystery was why she had risked bringing along the son of a Warden of the Wilds…
Facing him, Saphienne swallowed. “Don’t get her into trouble. This was an accident… and it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have encouraged you to share.”
There was no reason for him to think she was lying. Faylar saw the fear that she wanted him to see, and reached the implication that she needed him to reach. “I won’t tell my mother,” he promised Saphienne. “I won’t tell anyone. I’m just as complicit as you: we’d all get into trouble.”
But before Saphienne could further manipulate her friend, Cosme called for his son — and Filaurel for her former apprentice.
* * *
“Felipe!” Cosme addressed his son in Elfish, closing over the book he was reading. “Why so disheartened?”
Mercifully, Faylar had remained where he was, and Saphienne studied Filaurel without him as she joined her mentor by the sorted piles of books. The librarian seemed not to be paying especial attention, but the barest flicker in the corner of her eye betrayed that she observed more than she revealed, and she replied smoothly to the merchant on behalf of Felipe. “They’re both sad we’re nearly done: all good things must come to an end.”
“Except for your beauty.”
She flashed a smile at Saphienne. “He thinks he’s devious, but I’m far more so. Flattery won’t win him a better deal, and his compliments are older than I am.”
Cosme persisted. “And may they continue to live on when I am long dead!” He beckoned Felipe with a nod to the wagon against which he was sat. “Fetch out our coins, but leave the scales and weights: we will not be cheated.”
Felipe was halfway inside before he asked, “Will the– would Filaurel not like to check our coins?”
Breaking away from Saphienne’s searching stare, Filaurel answered him. “Your father knows better than to try to cheat an elf. I don’t need to measure your specie against mine to know their value — and besides, he’s not so artless. Cosme only uses words to deceive.”
The merchant laughed. “As any honest man should. Will you share a drink with me, before we barter?”
“After.” Filaurel steepled her hands. “Always after.”
“Are you sure? I have a fine vintage from the north of Aiglant…”
“Wine keeps.” She rose. “Wait here; I must see Saphienne off.”
Felipe finished setting an iron lockbox atop the wooden chest beside his father. Knowing better than to ask where the young elf was going, he raised his hand in farewell — then remembered his formality as Cosme glared, and gave her a bow.
She was glad he’d forgotten; Saphienne smothered a smile as she went to the eastern edge of the glade with Filaurel.
“Put on the choker,” Filaurel instructed her, “and give me the staff.”
Doing as she had been told, Saphienne soon felt the golden magic suffusing her throat once again; she wondered what Felipe would have made of her, had she been wearing it when they first met.
Meanwhile, Faylar came over to meet them. “…Am I going with her?”
Filaurel contemplated him. “You can remain here, if you like. Do you know how to determine the value of coins?”
Relieved that all seemed well between them, he shrugged, and tossed aside the pebble he had been holding. “I know humans value gold more than silver, and silver more than other common metals, but my aunt never taught me the rest.”
“Want to learn?”
The prospect excited him; he tried to feign otherwise. “I wouldn’t refuse…”
Once Saphienne was ready, Filaurel held the leafy stave over her brow. “Please ask your spirit friend to travel with you,” she requested, “and to protect you from danger.”
Saphienne guessed why: Filaurel wanted to hold on to the staff. She spoke quietly to the hyacinth blossom, aware that the resonance of her voice carried further than before. “Hyacinth, Hyacinth, Hya–”
But the mugwort on the stave interrupted in a croaking murmur. “Thou needest not call her, be she hither; nor would she heareth thou, be she thither.”
Saphienne blinked. “…I don’t need to invoke her, if she’s in a physical form?”
Yet the other spirit had no more to say.
“…Thank you.” She again peered at the white blossom. “In that case: good morning Hyacinth. Filaurel would like you to accompany me to the shrine of Our Lady of the Balanced Scales, and wants us to walk together if there’s danger. Would you like to come with me?”
As though mulling over the offer, Hyacinth gradually changed the colours of her petals to deepest blue… before then quickly budding off a new flower that audibly creaked as it grew and drooped and fell, landing on Saphienne’s hair–
Who sprang back from the staff in surprise, her hand rising reflexively to her suddenly itching hairline. “What are you–”
Faylar chuckled. “A floral crown! She has a sense of humour.”
Despite his mirth at her expense, Saphienne wished she had a mirror. “…I suppose I’m wearing you now. Why blue? That’s doesn’t match–”
Filaurel hefted the staff against her shoulder. “You can argue with her on the way. We’ll be done here in an couple of hours, but don’t take your time.” She pointed through the trees. “Go east until you hear water. Once you find the brook, follow it upstream to the end of the forest.”
Nodding, Saphienne set out–
“Did you remember to bring your offerings?”
–And covered her blush by slipping her Ring of Misperception onto her finger, reversing direction once she was unseen.
Faylar waved at where she had disappeared. “Safe travels, Saphienne! Don’t get lost.”
“And if you do,” Filaurel added, “don’t be proud: ask your friend for help.”
* * *
The offerings that Iolas and Thessa had given Saphienne turned out to come from the whole family. The artist had included a delicate watercolour of the lake, having written simple prayers for happiness and health for her family and friends on the reverse; Athidyn had of course sent a copy of an agricultural report, no further annotation required; Mathileyn had embroidered her prayer for lasting kindness onto a small handkerchief; and Iolas had, fittingly enough, included ten pages of rough handwriting — the conclusion to the first draft of his essay. Ribbons, likely from the branches of their home, were included to fasten them to the trees.
On her part, Saphienne hadn’t given her contribution too much thought. What she was doing was entirely performative — she wasn’t a sincere believer. Since she was taking an offering to a goddess who held scales, she had amused herself by catching two birds in the same hand, and so her offering was proof that she had, at last, learned to bake bread.
East of the meeting place where she had left Filaurel and Faylar, she slipped easily between the trees and passed over uneven ground that she now knew would have challenged Felipe, though she still found it difficult to see them as the obstacles that the human boy had described. She wished Faylar had come with her; she wanted to talk to him about what they had learned.
Instead, she spoke aloud, as though to herself. “You’ve been quiet.”
Hyacinth stirred where she twined through her hair. Two tugs moved Saphienne’s scalp back and forth.
“That feels very strange…” The cause of her silence dawned on Saphienne. “…You can’t do what the other spirit can? You can’t speak using flowers?”
A slight reluctance preceded Hyacinth nodding again.
“Let me rephrase: you can’t speak without weaving a whole body?”
Now Hyacinth’s movement was more decisive, and Saphienne inclined her head along with the flowers.
“…You know, since we can’t talk properly without standing still, we could always enjoy our time together by walking–”
The ripple that ran around her head felt like an eye-roll, and Hyacinth pulled Saphienne’s hair from side to side, before gently clinging tighter in what felt like an affectionate embrace.
“Fine.” Saphienne didn’t hide her disappointment. “As spirits go, you’re no fun.”
A quarter of an hour passed in mellow tranquillity, her growing hunger making Saphienne contemplate taking a bite of the bread stuffed into the satchel she wore under her cloak. Filaurel had packed them a very large breakfast, so she shouldn’t have felt as hungry as she did; perhaps she was about to go through another growth spurt? She wondered which parts of herself might develop now, or whether she would simply gain another inch or two in height. Having a figure more like Taerelle’s wouldn’t be unpleasant…
The faint, tinkling sound of running water drew her ear, and she turned and followed it until she reached the described stream. From there she proceeded as directed, finding that the forest around her changed as it thinned, becoming both more vivid and more peaceful, the ease with which she progressed suggesting to Saphienne that she was on a ley line. Surely that meant the shrine couldn’t be much further?
And then she crested the rise she had been climbing, and gasped.
There were two distinct streams, both running west and down into the forest, splitting from their source where the shrine had been raised. Unusually, the yellow canopy was secured to the offering trees that surrounded the statue, which was set on an arched plinth over the fork, leaving Our Lady of the Balanced Scales staring down on the divergence, silhouetted in her elaborate dress against the bright background–
Of growing fields.
Saphienne blindly reached for support, leaning against a nearby ash.
The shrine to Our Lady of the Balanced Scales lay at the cleared edge of the woodlands, the protectorate behind her.
“…In a grain of sand…”
Whoever had built the shrine, she knew in her heart which branch of the goddess’ theology they followed. The symbolism could not have been clearer. And that explained why the shrine was so small, and why there was no priest there to greet her, and also why it was in such disarray — the icon empty-handed and the scales lying on the tall grass beside its arched plinth.
Hyacinth stirred.
* * *
There was no warning before the bloomkith slipped into Saphienne’s mind, no time for the theatre of library steps and a blossoming field. Hyacinth seized Saphienne in the embrace she had but recently asked for, impelled by sharp alarm, conveying instantly and urgently that something was amiss.
* * *
They separated far enough to retain their individual selves. As the yellow glow settled into Saphienne’s eyes she remained alert, Hyacinth lurking within and behind her, ready to push forward and wield her body in defence of her life.
Yet the spirit didn’t suggest they leave. She, too, could not resist her curiosity.
Wary, grateful for the ring that concealed her, Saphienne crept toward the icon, noticing now that the offerings had been torn from the trees to lie scattered all around the sacred ground. So too had part of the canopy been cut down, and it trailed in the water where it draped behind the statue, wetness slowly spreading up the cloth.
As she reached the narrow span between the streams she heard a muffled cry ahead — accompanied by a splash.
Saphienne felt no fear; only Hyacinth was afraid for her. She ignored the shared feeling, slunk around the plinth, reached out for the fallen fabric, drew it aside to reveal–
Nothing. There was no one there.
The fields stretched fair and far away.
Yet goosebumps told her she was being watched. Saphienne spun around–
To be met by a strangled shout of terror.
She blinked.
Then, through her, Hyacinth blinked as well.
Huddled together behind the gown that was sewn onto the statue, three figures regarded Saphienne with mortal dread. Two were smaller, perhaps half a foot shorter than their leader’s three or so feet of height, and they cowered behind her as she held up the sickle that belonged to the goddess in pitiful threat, her brown and blotchy arms violently shaking under the weight, her toad-like eyes wide, her pointed teeth bared in a grimace which told well the fatal resolve that held her there — that would never allow her to flee. Her ears were long but flopped down as though she were tired, and her body was thin, her ribs showing under the scraps of damp yellow with which she had dressed herself.
Not only herself. The smaller two were attired in the same cloth, more tenderly than she, and though they were thin the children were not yet as emaciated as their mother, both clutching half-eaten honeycomb to their chests, crumbs of stale bread on their chins.
They were goblins; they were a family; and they were terrified.
The mother snarled as she waved the sickle — her knuckles pale.
Saphienne stepped back, uncaring that the stream was soaking her shoes. She crouched down slowly, and held up her palm in what she hoped was a supplicating gesture, feeling for the satchel by her side. What were the words? How were they pronounced? She tried to recall what she had written down months ago; Hyacinth immediately dove into her mind, and resurfaced with the tongue of goblins.
She took a deep breath. “Goblin want food?”
Still infused with magic, her voice startled them.
She tried again — more softly. “Goblin want eat?” Athidyn’s meticulous accounting tumbled into the brook as she pulled her bread free from the satchel.
The mother was panting rapidly, her pulse visible in her neck. “Elf lie goblin,” she hissed… yet her nostrils flared, and her stomach gurgled.
Beside her, the children couldn’t take their eyes from the loaf.
Saphienne broke it apart, offering the larger of the two pieces to them. “Elf lie no. Goblin get yes. Elf want no. Goblin want yes. Goblin want food. Goblin want eat.” She stretched out her hand. “Elf want no. Goblin want yes. Goblin get food?”
“Elf kill goblin.”
She shook her head, aware that Hyacinth was holding her tears at bay. “Elf kill no. Goblin kill elf? Elf kill no.”
One of the little ones pressed pleadingly against her mother. “Goblin want-want eat.”
“Elf lie-lie goblin.” The mother’s skin was slick with sweat. “Elf eat goblin.”
And Saphienne couldn’t help but laugh. “Goblin is food? Food is no! Elf eat no.”
The act of honest laughter did more to persuade the goblin than any words Saphienne could have strung together. Glancing away, she looked down to her daughter near her, and to her son who hung back, licking her lips with a pointed tongue. Her gaze was still untrusting when it returned to the woman who yet towered over her. “Elf is elf-elf. Goblin is goblin-goblin. Elf kill-kill goblin!”
Pursing her lips, Saphienne committed to a choice she had made long ago. “Elf is Saphienne.”
Confusion greeted her.
“…Elf is Saph,” she repeated herself. “Saph lie no. Saph kill no.” What she said next was a risk — but she doubted many elven diviners were fluent in the goblin tongue. “Elf is goblin. Goblin is elf. Saph is… goblin-goblin.”
Almost imperceptibly, the blade of the sickle lowered. “…Elf is Saph? Saph is goblin-goblin?”
“Goblin is yes– Goblin is yes-yes.”
“…Saph want no?”
“Saph want no-no.” She rocked forward, and tried a loanword. “Saph give yes.”
Now the mother narrowed her eyes, calculating. “…Give is get?”
She smiled with all her heart. “Give is-is get. Elf give food. Goblin get food.”
For the third time in her life, Saphienne beheld amazement, uncertainty, and fear in the way she was seen…
“Goblin sit yes,” the mother hissed to her children, and she stepped toward Saphienne, still waving her weapon as she approached.
“Elf eat-eat goblin!” quailed the boy.
“Goblin sit yes-yes!” She drew closer, letting go of the sickle with one hand, struggling to hold it as she tried to reach up.
Wanting to help, Saphienne leant closer–
But the goblin boy misread her intent, and terror and rage made him faster than he ought have been as he dropped his honeycomb and leapt to save his mother from a monster, screaming as he sank his short teeth into her wrist.
And his mother? She didn’t hesitate. She gripped her weapon and swung with all her scrawny might.
* * *
Saphienne found herself standing.
The goblin child was attempting to pull back her fingers as he gnawed on her wrist, which bled freely, her blood dripping from his chin and soaking into the bread. Hyacinth had tossed the other half onto the grass when she moved–
To catch the handle of the sickle — from which the mother now hung, wide-eyed, face-to-face with Saphienne where she was suspended above the stream.
“Elf kill no-no,” Hyacinth spoke for her, and shook Saphienne’s bleeding arm. “Goblin get-get goblin?”
At once the mother let go and splashed down and reached up to grab her child. “No-no is goblin!” Her motherly anger would have broken through any language barrier. “Goblin eat no-no!”
The boy froze: the elf suddenly frightened him far less. He slid off Saphienne and dropped into his mother’s arms, where she immediately hugged him to her chest — and then smacked his ear hard, hard enough that the elf and spirit watching them winced.
“No is goblin! No-no is-is goblin-goblin!”
The other child, the girl, was retreating from Saphienne, afraid of the blade.
Pushing Hyacinth aside, Saphienne lowered the holy weapon with a sigh. Her hand was throbbing. “Elf kill no. Elf give food. Goblin get food.” She once more offered the bread, belatedly noticing how her wound had already staunched–
But the mother carried her son as she snatched the half-loaf and sprinted away, and her daughter ran for the other half as though the girl had been waiting for a signal, scooping it up as her mother caught up with her. “Goblin run-run yes-yes!”
They fled north, vanishing into the foliage that grew outside the shrine.
* * *
“That,” Saphienne admitted where she sat on the field beside Hyacinth, “was not the most intelligent thing I have ever done.”
Yet the bloomkith folded her arms tightly around her, and the snows stung with a burning cold where they flurried all about them. “And yet it was perhaps the best, sweet Saph.”
“Really? What about the sunfl–”
“She would have willed the same.” Hyacinth giggled. “I hear her laugh.”
* * *
Healing a lacerated wrist was no challenge to Hyacinth, who had cured far more grievous wounds.
Once her skin had knitted back together, Saphienne bent down and washed her arm, her eyes on the desecration made of the shrine; she splashed her face with the cool water before she straightened. Sickle in hand, she crossed to where the scales had fallen, lifting them to discover that the thin latch which once held them in unnatural balance had snapped, allowing the empty pans to bob up and down freely as they sought equilibrium.
Rustling drew her attention.
From the bushes, three pairs of eyes were studying the golden-eyed, honeyed-voiced elf who wielded the holy implements; they retreated when she noticed them.
And that was when Saphienne realised her ring was gone.
* * *
“Fuck. Filaurel’s going to be very upset. What now?”
Hyacinth slumped against her spine, weary. “We wait as long as we might dare, then tell the elves, who will the facts from us compel. The goblins will swift feel the wardens’ wrath.” Her sadness covered over the sun. “Perish they will. I see no other path.”
“So that’s it? We give them time to run, and then send the wardens after them?” Saphienne pulled away from the bloomkith. “I won’t do that.”
“Then, what say you?”
“I assume the disarray around the shrine means there’s no spirits of the woodlands nearby? Yourself excepted.”
Hyacinth tilted her head. “Correct.”
Saphienne stood upon the field. “So if you were to cover up the goblin’s tracks, like you did for me and the others, no one would immediately notice?”
A shaft of sunshine shone down as the spirit smiled. “But what then comes?”
“Nothing comes; I go.” Saphienne faced eastward, in body as well as mind. “I’ll go fetch the wardens myself. They keep watch over the protectorate, don’t they? So I’ll find them, and send them off in the wrong direction.”
Hyacinth climbed to her feet. “And how will they be sent?”
Reaching out, Saphienne took hold of Hyacinth’s hands, already forming a plan as she used her best impression of the sylvan spirit to finish the sing-song rhyme. “After breadcrumbs!”
The spirit considered her proposal; melting snow accompanied the grin that revealed her approval. “I like this scheme. But will you wait for me?”
“Of course I will.” She leaned in to whisper in her ear. “I want us both to see.”
They laughed aloud as they rehung the scales.
End of Chapter 69
Comments
Claire Hiria Ahuriri-Dunning
Well damn. I nearly cried. Saph is goblin-goblin <3
