L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 26
🕑 Added 2025-03-13 13:00:15 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 26 – Mirrors
The horror that Saphienne and Iolas felt as they watched the spirit leave the circle was joined by terror, both apprentices swiftly backing away from the creature now inhabiting Celaena. That something terrible had happened to their friend was immediately apparent: she moved with stilted clumsiness, as though her legs were new to her, yet carried herself with a relaxed ease that the elf had never before shown, not even when feeding her birds. Her smile stretched too far… and her eyes were the most terrible sight of all, her irises shining with bright, radiant yellow, like a pair of sunflowers.
Stumbling, Iolas nearly tripped over himself as he kept his distance. “Stay back!”
His plea gave the spirit pause, spring flowers clinging to her heels. “‘Stay back,’ you cry? Proposing another?” She advanced on Iolas in time to the rhythm of her singsong voice. “What game should race these hearts together, child? A chase! Or perhaps thou would find cover? A hunt, where we must search throughout the wild?” Her laugh was mocking. “Or should we wilt for thee — as thy lover?”
Paling, Iolas backed away at greater speed.
The spirit took his actions as an answer. “A chase, decided thee. We swift shall seek,” the spirit affirmed, “and thou shalt flee. A race — against thy shriek!”
Saphienne heard Almon whispering to himself, and turned in time for the Second Sight to reveal orange light flaring around him as he spun and dragged a second, tighter circle in the gravel. She knew at once that an Abjuration spell defended him — but only him, the wizard leaving no room for Saphienne or Iolas.
He saw her expression, and his forced smile was cold. “You were all warned. I told you — I won’t prevent you from doing anything dangerous, only temper the harm.”
She bared her teeth. “You said the spirit was friendly to elves.”
“And so the spirit is.” He folded his arms. “I assure you: were the spirit unfriendly, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“What has she done to Celaena?”
“A good question.” He peered over her head, to where Iolas was pursued by the spirit. “Iolas! What has happened to Celaena? Can you tell, boy?”
Distracted by his master, Iolas was nearly caught when the spirit suddenly lunged toward him. He jumped back, watching as the puppeted body of Celaena fell over onto the gravel, new flora immediately springing up everywhere she touched the ground. “She’s possessed!”
“Possession? What a truly ugly word.” The spirit was offended, and paused to glower up at Iolas after struggling to her knees. “I walk invited, child — my price incurred.”
“Celaena didn’t know what–”
“Show I ye erred; teach I ye fear. Now learn!”
The new blooms around the spirit rose with her as she lunged at Iolas again, but he had anticipated her, and the boy darted aside as she staggered through where he had stood and rounded on him. As Celaena’s face came back into view, both apprentices saw that the flowering verdure had become tendrils that laced all across her skin, longer stalks weaving together to flick and snap in the air about her forearms. Bolstered by the greenery and growing more familiar with the form she inhabited, the spirit stalked after the apprentice at a faster pace.
Saphienne couldn’t look away as she spoke to Almon. “So that’s it? Celaena makes a mistake, and we’ve to suffer the consequences?”
She heard him sigh. “You must deal with the consequences. How you deal with them is your concern.”
“And you’re just going to watch?”
“I will intervene to prevent lasting harm.” His voice grew sombre. “Which is to say, to prevent permanent physical harm.”
Anger made her look at him. “That’s–”
“We can discuss the ethics of this pedagogical method later.” Above the glowing yellow of the spell upon his throat, his expression was calm. “Right or wrong, this teaching method is not of my choosing, and your outrage cannot change the fact that I will not save you from your errors. All that matters now is that Celaena has loosed a spirit.” He stared at his apprentice. “What are you going to do about it, Saphienne?”
For the briefest moment, she caught a flicker, something there in his gaze–
“Saphienne!”
Iolas had retreated between the flowerbeds, and was actively dodging the spirit, who reached for him with ever quicker grabs that lengthened into whipping vines with her rising laughter.
Saphienne looked down, and closed her eyes.
“Saphienne! A little help?!”
Almon had intimated there was a way to deal with the spirit. He wouldn’t have stressed that Saphienne had a choice, were none available to her. This meant that the answer to their predicament lay within reach, though not obviously, or he would have mocked her for not knowing what to do. The answer was therefore inferable — from things that Almon knew she had observed, or perhaps could observe.
Yesterday’s lessons came to mind. If the disciplines of Invocation and Conjuration used to be confused, did that mean they followed the same rules?
Opening her eyes, she studied the circle in the gravel where the spirit had been invoked, then called out to Iolas. “Iolas! Break the circle!”
“How will that help?” He threw himself under the coiling arms of the spirit and scrambled toward the circle.
Desperately, she rushed her explanation. “Something conjured where it can’t exist needs a spell to support it! If the spirit can’t–”
“Got it!”
Iolas needed no further explanation, and raced for the loop their master had traced in the gravel, which glittered with golden light under the vision of the Second Sight. As the spirit shambled after him, he ceased his retreat, and instead kicked at the gravel, breaking the circle–
And caused the golden light to at once dim, the spell collapsed.
“A reasonable conjecture,” Almon admitted… but his tone was wry.
The spirit drew to a writhing halt before Iolas. “Clever children! But that is not the way. No bond was forged — no spell lets me here stay. My passage made, from circle I could stray.”
She giggled as she watched his blood run cold, and pointed with spiked, blackthorn fingertips to the woodland. “Fly now! Away thou! Race that I may chase thy pretty face across the wooded vale! Thy elven grace permits relentless pace to flee this place — so run! Run thou, and flail!”
What else could Iolas do? He ran, sprinting, and the path she indicated sent him across one of the flowerbeds that had been planted in the garden — where he immediately stumbled and tripped, falling heavily onto the blooms–
Which also rose up, covering him like a swelling river, threading his robes with white roots that twined and green stalks that curled, pulling him back down as he tried to stand.
Iolas cried out in panic as the spirit rambled toward him, but the more he struggled, the more firmly he was held in place, utterly at the mercy of the laughing fiend that wore his friend like a gown.
Saphienne began to panic too, more fearful for Iolas’ safety than she ever was for her own, and she wrung out her mind for anything else she could remember as she watched the monstrously overgrown flowerbed surge and lift him toward the spirit.
Yet Saphienne hadn’t been taught anything about spirits, and Almon hadn’t even explained the spells he had cast when he prepared to call forth the–
Turning, she looked at the Conjuration spell that encircled the wizard’s throat — a spell that he hadn’t needed, for he was able to speak the tongue of sylvan creatures. He had said the spell was for demonstration. But what was he demonstrating to them?
“Celaena! Celaena, please!” Iolas’ voice was tight, his throat constricted.
“Sing thee her name! Unfold like bloom from bud your cries, through lips of frightened flesh and blood–”
Saphienne stepped forward and threw up her hands. “Spirit of the woodlands!”
And the spirit paused.
Taking a deep breath, Saphienne marked a crude circle in the gravel with her shoe, frantically trying to remember the words that Almon had used. “Fair and sylvan, friend… and judge — come you now unto this circle, wound… in bond of peace, in accordance with the ancient ways!”
Turning to watch her, the spirit only stared.
Still, she plunged on. “Spirit of the woodlands! Heed my cry, heed our need — come you now into this circle, wound… that it might teach, in accordance with your ancient ways!”
Behind the spirit, Iolas gasped as the flowerbed began to release him — and his breath broke the tension of the moment, the spirit starting toward the circle that Saphienne had prepared as the hungering thicket wilted and dropped away from Celaena’s skin.
Unsure whether the spirit was toying with her, but committed no matter the outcome, Saphienne finished the rite. “Spirit of the woodlands! Tread the trod, stride the way — come you forth within this circle, wound that you might reach, in accordance with our ancient ways!”
And the spirit stepped into the circle, and sank down, squatting on her haunches.
“Well done,” Almon murmured.
The spirit grinned, once more looking like Celaena — save for her yellow eyes. “But what shall hold us here? What shall thou do? What can thou give? Why a circle thou drew?”
Lowering her arms, Saphienne knelt down before the ragged circle. “You want to play games? Then I’ll play a game with you.”
“What game? Through what rough play would thou break sweat?”
Her eyes flicked to where Iolas was picking himself up. There was no way to compete with the spirit physically, and any game of chance would be blind risk. The only hope she had was that the spirit was willing to talk…
Saphienne forced a smile of her own. “A game of words.”
And the spirit laughed sincerely for the first time, a joyful and dreadful sound. “Riddles? Agreed! But I the terms shall set.”
* * *
Calming her racing heart, Saphienne beckoned Iolas to join her. “We will abide by fair terms. But if you propose the terms, then we propose the wager.”
Intrigued, the spirit sat, crossing legs that did not belong to her. “Proceed. For what do thou propose this game?”
“Celaena. You will relinquish her if we win.”
“And more: what if ye should then fail? My claim?”
Frightened, Iolas stood some distance away, and when Saphienne met his eyes she saw him waver — then find his courage, his voice hoarse as he spoke up. “What would you ask, spirit?”
“Your service leal – for year and day – I ask.”
Saphienne’s breath caught. She slowly exhaled. “What kind of service?”
“What I will, ye shall do: that be your task.”
Closing the distance, Iolas sat beside Saphienne. “Is she referring to both of us?”
Saphienne nodded. “She’s speaking archaic Elfish. ‘Ye’ means ‘all of you,’ and ‘your’ means ‘belonging to all of you.’ She’s saying if we lose, we both have to serve her whims for a year and a day. ‘Leal’ means ‘honest and loyal,’ so no trying to get out of it, either.”
The spirit inclined her head, smiling serenely.
Their master spoke up. “Though you may find it hard to believe, the spirit is making allowance for your unfamiliarity with old Elfish.” A sceptical look from the pair made him smile. “Truthfully. The ancient ways allow a spirit in Elven form to speak any variant of Elfish. Contemporary Elfish is not obliged.”
Iolas studied the spirit’s stolen face. “I’m willing to wager myself… on the condition that Celaena goes free, even if we lose.” He folded his arms. “Two for one. Double or nothing, for you. That’s a fair wager, isn’t it?”
The spirit looked expectantly at Saphienne.
Who reached into her robe, and drew out the drawstring pouch that Kylantha had made, and took out the coin, and clenched it in her hand until it hurt. “If it’s good enough for Iolas… then for Celaena, I’ll play. Propose your terms, spirit.”
Satisfied, the spirit nodded. “A wager fair. I must and do agree.” She clasped her hands upon her lap. “So too, ye will address my riddles — three!”
Saphienne glanced at Iolas. “May we confer before answering?”
“Confer if ye should need. ‘Tis fine by me.”
But Iolas was dissatisfied. “Three riddles, for only two of us? You mean to stack the game in your favour.”
Irritated by the accusation of impropriety, the spirit hissed. “Five answers, then. Say two in error? Fair.” She narrowed her radiant eyes at Iolas. “But should a third be spoken so — beware!”
“Two wrong guesses allowed, across three questions.” Saphienne nodded. “I think that’s reasonable, so long as the riddles are, as well.”
“No cheat am I. My puzzles test ye true.” Impatiently, her gaze bounced between them. “What say ye, then? Shall I present a clue?”
Iolas held up his hand. “Wait.”
He climbed to his feet and fetched the satchel that held his pens, ink, and paper, and he also retrieved one of the writing boards from the grass. Settling back into place, he readied himself to transcribe the spirit’s words, and then nodded to her. “Let’s hear it.”
And so the spirit recited her first riddle, watching Iolas as he wrote, and Saphienne listened carefully.
* * *
When the spirit was done, both apprentices reviewed Iolas’ record. His handwriting was neat, but had none of the flourish of his calligraphic work — written in haste.
Upon my easy friend I swift alight
To cover them as like the mountains’ snow
Alas, my joys can strangers seldom know
For strangers envy all who glow so bright
The children know me when they fly a kite
And wisest elders watched me slowly grow
Into the stranger’s heart I cannot flow
My friends arouse naught but their bitter spite
Yet fast my friends forgive, when so treated
Golden, they see the world through brightest eye
If thine, I flee from words truly heated
Quitting thy friendships through thy lonely sigh
My nature often asked, rare completed
Hubris alone decides — from whence come I?
“A poem,” Saphienne murmured.
Iolas counted the syllables, and underlined the stresses. “A sonnet,” he whispered back. “I thought so. I believe she’s been speaking in iambic pentameter, all this time.”
They were overheard by the spirit. “Alive with poetry, my tongue has stood since all the world was bathed in dragonflare; its joys through Elfish verse are understood, although its song remains without compare.”
Saphienne listened to the beats. “Ten syllables ending in a rhyme, in five pairs of two — soft, then stressed. That’s the rhythm.”
Iolas was surprised by her. “Yes. Each pair is usually an iamb, which is a soft syllable and then a stressed syllable. There’s other names, for other pairings. The second pair in a line of five must be an iamb, with rare exceptions, and so long as each line is mostly made of iambs, it’s iambic pentameter.” Despite the circumstances, he smiled. “Really, you’re unfamiliar with poetry?”
She shook her head. “I know a little. Not as much as you.”
“Well, as interesting and beautiful as it is, we still need to solve this. Any ideas?”
They pondered the poem together.
Upon my easy friend I swift alight
To cover them as like the mountains’ snow
Alas, my joys can strangers seldom know
For strangers envy all who glow so bright
The children know me when they fly a kite
And wisest elders watched me slowly grow
Into the stranger’s heart I cannot flow
My friends arouse naught but their bitter spite
Yet fast my friends forgive, when so treated
Golden, they see the world through brightest eye
If thine, I flee from words truly heated
Quitting thy friendships through thy lonely sigh
My nature often asked, rare completed
Hubris alone decides — from whence come I?
Saphienne pointed to each of the three verses. “Friends and strangers are emphasised throughout. A person?”
“Maybe.” Iolas frowned. “I don’t think so. I think it’s metaphorical. Not a person, or occupation, but something that is friendly to some and a stranger to others. The breeze is also mentioned a few times — as falling snow, as a flying kite, and as a sigh. Maybe also implied by the word ‘flow,’ but I could be reaching.”
Examining the spirit, Saphienne had a thought. “When the spirit arrived, she arrived upon the wind.”
“You think ‘a spirit’ is the answer?” He scanned the poem. “Well, she’s certainly aroused our spite by claiming Celaena. And her eyes have turned a shade of yellow, which could be golden. I can see it.” He nodded to Saphienne. “Let’s try it.”
She squared her shoulders. “A spirit.”
But the spirit giggled, and shook her head. “Though I am charmed that ye would think of me, my riddle’s key is still unknown to ye.”
“Damn.” Iolas sighed. “Let’s try again.”
Upon my easy friend I swift alight
To cover them as like the mountains’ snow
He tapped the first lines. “…Not a person, not an occupation, not a spirit. It alights upon them like snow on the mountains…”
Frustrated, Saphienne tried to follow along. “On their peak?”
“Like snow on the peak of the mountain.” Iolas puzzled it through. “Atop the mountain. Settling gently… and maybe rolling down across the rest.”
Alas, my joys can strangers seldom know
For strangers envy all who glow so bright
Saphienne pointed to the following two. “It has joys, and the people estranged from it seldom know them. And the people estranged from it envy… the people who know its joys? And to know its joys is to glow brightly.”
The children know me when they fly a kite
And wisest elders watched me slowly grow
Iolas nodded. “I’m with you. And children know it when they fly a kite, and elders have watched it grow — slowly.”
“Wisest elders. Not all elders.”
“What makes an elder wise?” Iolas mused.
“Well, Filaurel told me wisdom is the key to living a good life.”
Iolas shook his head. “But what makes a life good? Don’t we each decide that for ourselves?”
Saphienne returned to the poem.
Into the stranger’s heart I cannot flow
My friends arouse naught but their bitter spite
“It talks about not being able to flow into the hearts of people estranged from it,” she said. “Only two things flow into hearts: blood, and feelings.”
“So it’s a feeling!” Iolas sat up straight. “A feeling which comes quickly to some, and slowly to others. A feeling from which we can be estranged. A feeling that the wisest elders have cultivated, and that children feel in play–” He laughed. “I think I know it! Saphienne, the answer is ‘Happiness,’ I think.”
She ran through the penultimate lines.
Yet fast my friends forgive, when so treated
Golden, they see the world through brightest eye
If thine, I flee from words truly heated
Quitting thy friendships through thy lonely sigh
“Happy people forgive when poorly treated, and they see the world through a bright eye.” She felt confident he was right. “Happiness flees from heated words, and goes out of friendships when we’re lonely.”
My nature often asked, rare completed
Hubris alone decides — from whence come I?
Iolas quoted the last lines. “‘My nature often asked,’ because everyone wants to be happy, ‘rare completed,’ because nobody’s completely happy, ‘Hubris alone decides,’ because telling someone else what makes them happy is arrogant, and ‘from whence come I?’ restates the key question of happiness.”
Taking a deep breath, Saphienne faced the spirit. “Happiness.”
And the spirit applauded them. “Clever be ye children! That is indeed correct.”
Both of them exhaled, and then smiled weakly at each other as they realised they were equally on edge.
Saphienne gestured for Iolas to pass her the writing supplies. “You’re better at this. I’ll write — you focus on the next poem.”
Iolas handed them over, and once Saphienne was ready he nodded to the spirit.
As she recounted the second riddle, the spirit looked down, studying the palms that she possessed as though the words were written on them.
“I think this is it,” Saphienne concluded, marking the stresses before she passed the paper to Iolas.
I hold thee dear when all alone, a friend
From nothing ever will I take my leave
I will be thine until the bitter end —
Invite me close, for to thy side I cleave
I slowly enter late at night, a thief
Yet all remains untouched by light of day
No silver, gold, or jewels bring relief —
The die is cast, and all is lost to grey
A fiend, I tarnish all that thee embrace
To save thy heart from any greater pain
For only thee can death my touch erase —
Though ye hold fast, who can defy my reign?
Quiet am I — but angry too, no doubt
Speak not my name — but scream my silent shout
“Still a sonnet.” Iolas moved his lips as he read through it. “Yes, this looks right to me. And the rhyming scheme is different from the first one — a more recent style.”
“Does that mean something?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. She might just be showing off.”
The spirit rolled her eyes.
Glaring at her, Saphienne tore her gaze away, and focused on the riddle.
I hold thee dear when all alone, a friend
From nothing ever will I take my leave
I will be thine until the bitter end —
Invite me close, for to thy side I cleave
“Something that holds us dear… when we’re alone?” She knew that had to be metaphorical. “And it won’t leave anything; it’s something that will stay with us until the end.”
“The bitter end: death.” Iolas shifted, discomforted by the thought. “But it still wants us to invite it closer.”
I hold thee dear when all alone, a friend
…
I slowly enter late at night, a thief
…
A fiend, I tarnish all that thee embrace
She pointed to the first lines of each main verse. “It calls itself a friend, then a thief, and then a fiend.”
Iolas saw the pattern. “That last one is probably the most honest, since it comes at the start of its line, while the other two are at the end. It’s emphasised.”
The subtleties of the poem became clearer to Saphienne. “So it’s a fiend, and it starts off by representing itself as a friend, then proceeds to steal from us, and finally we see it for what it is. Which means… the way the first verse is written, is it seducing us?”
He retraced the opening lines with his fingertip.
I hold thee dear when all alone, a friend
From nothing ever will I take my leave
I will be thine until the bitter end —
Invite me close, for to thy side I cleave
“I think so,” Iolas said. “The first stanza stresses how it holds us dear, that it’s loyal… but also that it won’t leave. We can’t get rid of it, so we might as well invite it in.” His finger moved lower.
I slowly enter late at night, a thief
Yet all remains untouched by light of day
No silver, gold, or jewels bring relief —
The die is cast, and all is lost to grey
“But what does it steal?” he asked. “It says it comes late at night, but when daylight returns, nothing’s been taken.”
“What does ‘the die is cast’ mean?”
“That’s a historical allusion: it means one’s committed to a course of action and there’s no going back.” He mimed a gentle throw. “You roll the dice, and it’ll be whatever it’ll be. So in the poem, something’s come to pass, and all has been lost… to grey? Could it be ‘darkness,’ do you think?”
Saphienne read the last of the main verses.
A fiend, I tarnish all that thee embrace
To save thy heart from any greater pain
For only thee can death my touch erase —
Though ye hold fast, who can defy my reign?
She paused. “Does darkness tarnish what we hold on to? Does it save us from greater pain? Does death erase its touch?”
Iolas grinned. “Not darkness: ‘Night.’ The night is inevitable, and only sunrise can defy its reign. It’s also quiet, but a lot of anger comes out in the night, and we feel its silence as though it’s a loud shout, so…”
She was unsure. “…Maybe…”
Promptly turning to the spirit, Iolas trusted in himself. “Night.”
“Wait, Iolas–”
And the spirit shook her head. “Two errors made; all else must be well played.”
* * *
In the awkward pause that followed, Saphienne lamely pointed to the first line of the second stanza.
I slowly enter late at night, a thief
“…It slowly enters late at night. How could it enter during itself?”
Beside her, Iolas choked.
He looked down. Then, up. Then, finally, he looked away. “…Sorry.”
Closing her eyes, Saphienne calmed herself and thought it all through. “A fiend that holds us when we’re all alone, and enters late at night. It steals something – but not anything physical – and tells us that we can’t change the past, and that everything is lost.”
Returning her gaze to the page, she picked it up. “Not just lost, but lost to ‘grey.’ Grey; a colour? No, a grey feeling.”
A fiend, I tarnish all that thee embrace
To save thy heart from any greater pain
For only thee can death my touch erase —
Though ye hold fast, who can defy my reign?
She broke it down further. “And it goes on to say it tarnishes all that we embrace, which I suppose means all that we love and hold dear.” She clicked her tongue. “Except it doesn’t say that… it says ‘embrace,’ because it claims only it holds us dear. Whatever it is, the feeling is trying to seduce us, to capture us by saying there’s nothing else in the world to hold dear…”
Saphienne looked at the spirit, who was once more studying her stolen hands. Really, it was Celaena that Saphienne was looking at; and as she studied the girl, Saphienne thought about their visit to her house, and how Celaena had explained her living arrangements to them.
“…It tarnishes all we love, to save our heart from any greater pain. It says only death can remove it from us. It asks who can defy its reign, rhetorically saying it’s inevitable. And it’s quiet, and angry, and we don’t talk about it, but we scream silently.”
Iolas watched her. “I don’t know what it is, Saphienne.”
She put the paper down. “No, but Celaena does.”
The spirit looked up, sharply — and that made Saphienne smile.
“Did you notice,” Saphienne asked him, “how it was looking at you when it gave us the riddle about happiness? And how it looked at Celaena, for this one?” She turned to him, eyes blazing. “Those were clues. It’s another feeling, Iolas, and related to the first.”
Saphienne met the spirit’s yellow eyes. “Sorrow.”
And the spirit smiled. “Cleverest child. Peerless, though he is near.”
“Enough.” Saphienne flushed, hot with embarrassment — and with anger on Iolas’ behalf. “I don’t want your compliments. Give us the third riddle.”
“Then give to us the paper: we will write.” The spirit held out her hand. “‘Tis only fair. A poem each is right.”
* * *
Unnervingly, the spirit didn’t look down as she wrote, but kept her piercing gaze on Saphienne throughout.
“It is completed,” she announced, passing them the final poem. “Be ye defeated?”
“That remains to be seen,” Iolas growled back. He marked the stresses as he read through the poem…
To face me, thou are sure to lose thy sight
Against my might thou can do naught but heave
Should thou embrace me, others join thy plight —
All ye I smite in turn, without reprieve
I rest upon thy bosom should thee grieve
And follow close at heel, gravely cheated
What thou must bare, I would of thee relieve —
I pose with victor and sore defeated
With memory I have oft repeated
I am refreshed to hear thy laugh or cry
Though sudden stirred, I can fall depleted —
And when denied, the rain abets thy lie
Resent me not within thy joys and fears —
Who else but I will run through all thy years?
…Then slumped where he sat. “I don’t know, Saphienne. It’s still a sonnet, in an even more recent style, but I can’t follow.”
She nudged him in the ribs. “Don’t give in. What do you notice?”
Brooding, he mulled it over.
“There’s an emphasis on struggle,” Iolas eventually said. “If it’s another feeling, it’s one that we struggle with. Lots of contradictions in the poem, too, so it’s a feeling we feel conflicted about.” Then he frowned again, quite deeply, and looked away from the page to grab the others, rereading them.
Upon my easy friend I swift alight
To cover them as like the mountains’ snow
Alas, my joys can strangers seldom know
For strangers envy all who glow so bright…
I hold thee dear when all alone, a friend
From nothing ever will I take my leave
I will be thine until the bitter end —
Invite me close, for to thy side I cleave…
Iolas saw another pattern. “…And it reuses the rhyming sounds from the first two poems.”
“…Which were about contrary feelings.” Saphienne took them from him, intrigued.
“The poem doesn’t just reuse them,” he clarified. “It deliberately copies the rhyming sounds from the first two poems, and puts them in their corresponding places within the new rhyming scheme.” He marked the three poems.
Upon my easy friend I swift alight (a)
To cover them as like the mountains’ snow (b)
Alas, my joys can strangers seldom know (b)
For strangers envy all who glow so bright… (a)
I hold thee dear when all alone, a friend (c)
From nothing ever will I take my leave (d)
I will be thine until the bitter end — (c)
Invite me close, for to thy side I cleave… (d)
To face me, thou are sure to lose thy sight (a)
Against my might thou can do naught but heave (d)
Should thou embrace me, others join thy plight — (a)
All ye I smite in turn, without reprieve… (d)
“It uses the rhyming sounds from the first stanzas of the other sonnets in its first verse, then rotates through them for the other rhymes… but not evenly. The rhymes are biased toward the first poem.”
Saphienne was confused, eyes flitting between all three poems. “I see the reused rhyming sounds… I’ll take your word for the rest.”
Her gaze caught on the concluding couplet.
Resent me not within thy joys and fears —
Who else but I will run through all thy years?
She drew his attention to them. “Those last two lines, though: that rhyming sound is new, isn’t it? ‘Fears’ and ‘years’ don’t rhyme with any line from the other two poems.”
“A clue?” He narrowed his eyes at the spirit. “So the structure did matter!”
Whether or not it did, the spirit pretended not to notice him, still watching Saphienne.
Who was beginning her fourth read-through of the riddle.
To face me, thou are sure to lose thy sight
Against my might thou can do naught but heave
Should thou embrace me, others join thy plight —
All ye I smite in turn, without reprieve
“We don’t fight the feeling, we ‘face’ it, and when we do, we lose our sight.” She tried to feel the implications through. “But it doesn’t say we’re blinded… which maybe implies the loss is temporary. Against its strength, we can’t do anything but heave… but, heave what? And if we embrace it, others suffer along with us, and it smites everyone without mercy.”
I rest upon thy bosom should thee grieve
And follow close at heel, gravely cheated
What thou must bare, I would of thee relieve —
I pose with victor and sore defeated
Iolas caught up with her. “It rests on our chest, if we grieve. It follows us closely, if we’re badly cheated…” He raised his eyebrows. “…No, that’s a pun. ‘Gravely cheated’ means both ‘badly cheated,’ and ‘cheating the grave’ — it follows if we come close to dying.”
“I see it.”
Feeling confident again, he leant closer to the page. “And look! She wrote ‘what thou must bare,’ as in ‘to lay something bare,’ rather than ‘bear,’ as in ‘carry.’ I don’t think that’s a mistake.”
“Another pun.” Saphienne grimaced. “Hilarious.”
“And there’s yet another soon after — ‘sore defeated,’ where ‘sore’ could mean both ‘badly’ and ‘painfully,’ I think.”
“So it’s related to being cheated, coming close to death, carrying a burden, revealing something, being defeated, and pain?”
“Not just that.” He laid out the pieces. “If it’s like the other poems, it’s a feeling — one that comes to us when we cheat death, when we’re burdened, when we reveal something, in victory, when we’re defeated, and when we’re in pain.”
The third verse drew her in.
With memory I have oft repeated
I am refreshed to hear thy laugh or cry
Though sudden stirred, I can fall depleted —
And when denied, the rain abets thy lie
Saphienne felt understanding stir in the back of her mind. “It’s associated with memory, too, with which it recurs… but what about the rest?”
He rubbed his chin. “Hearing our laugh or shout refreshes it. Not shout: cry. And it comes over us suddenly, but can run out. Then… there’s something about refusing it, and the rain helping us lie?”
They stared at the lines, neither of them having any further insight.
Iolas rolled his shoulders, shrugging off his frustration. “What about the final lines?”
Resent me not within thy joys and fears —
Who else but I will run through all thy years?
There was a delicate sentiment in those lines. Saphienne could feel it, faint and familiar, reminding her of what she had felt so very recently…
“‘Resent me not,’ Saphienne quoted, ‘within thy joys and fears — who else but I will run–’”
Interrupting, the spirit finished the line. “Through all thy years?”
And Saphienne felt as though the coin in her palm had grown hot, the answer burning within — and rising in her eyes.
She closed them, taking a cleansing breath before she addressed the spirit. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “You’re beaten.”
Iolas laid a hand on her shoulder. “Saphienne? Are you alright?”
Saphienne fixed her now furious gaze on the smiling spirit. “Tears.”
And the spirit was still grinning. “But tell me this, truly: which dost thou shed? Upon what spirit has thy heart been fed?”
Iolas tightened his hold on her shoulder. “You heard Saphienne — you’re finished.” His patience had run dry. “Release Celaena to us.”
Shrugging, the spirit yawned. “Are we finished? We let the wizard tell.”
Having kept silent throughout the duel, the master of both the apprentices and the spirit emerged from the unnecessary protection of his magic circle. “All has been done in accordance with the ancient ways. You have our thanks, and are free to go.”
The spirit clapped her hands. “Then I depart along the leaves…” She waved to them all, smiling sweetly. “Farewell!”
No sooner had the word left her lips than a stirring wind stripped the yellow from Celaena’s eyes, and she slumped over on the gravel circle, convulsing as she gasped for breath.
