CHAPTER 131 – Living Imperfections
Changing the consensus of the woodlands would not be trivial.
Paradoxically, Saphienne was grateful for the cruelty behind the decision to move against the goblins come wintertime, for the Wardens of the Wilds weren’t forcing her to act immediately. Danyn had unwittingly given her time to thoroughly prepare — and the magician made good use of every day.
While Laelansa and Nelathiel developed the theological justification for mortals worshipping the elven gods, Saphienne handled more worldly concerns. She paid visits to Vestaele for more than a month to study how opinions might be shaped, starting with individuals before progressing to groups and then finally society as a whole, deepening her understanding of the manipulation that came naturally to her.
What Vestaele disclosed was no shock: she’d long supposed that attitudes were being shaped by means both subtle and extensive. “Elders are charged with maintaining the boundaries of acceptable conduct,” the sorcerer confirmed one day while they strolled toward Calamity in the woods. “Their duty is to prevent extremism taking root, while encouraging lively discussion within the range of acceptable dispute.”
“Might a cynic infer they do so by stirring the pot? Putting focus on trivial issues?”
“She may well think so. Certain individuals are born discontented in life, and that discontentment will express itself no matter how comfortable they are. Giving them something harmless to be discontented about keeps them happiest; rare are those gifted individuals who can preoccupy themselves.”
“…A cynic might feel skewered by that remark.”
“That she may, Master Saphienne.”
Years ago, Anaeluin had invoked his elder privilege to approve the staging of Laelansa’s play precisely because the issue was unimportant yet had divided the meeting; arguments over whether or not he was right had subsequently consumed griping that otherwise might have conveyed meaningful dissent. She soon intuited that Jorildyn handled his brother Almon similarly, giving the wizard what he wanted in a way that let him complain, grandstand, and be the centre of attention without letting his considerable ego cause problems.
Gossips like Alinar at the teahouse also served a vital role, whether or not he understood what he did. Rumours seeded by elders helped guide opinion well in advance of issues arising at meetings — much in the same way as sympathetic priests could plant notions among the spirits. Meanwhile, spiritual matriarchs collaborated with elders, sculpting the bloomkith and woodkin who completed the society of the woodlands.
Any doubts Saphienne might have harboured that the consensus wasn’t proactively managed were dispersed by her discourses with the sorcerer. She obliquely admitted as much over tea one afternoon in the terraced garden. “During my apprenticeship with Jorildyn, he stressed to me the power of social conformity… I see why he regularly chairs meetings in the village. He has the trust of the elders.”
“And our vale.” Vestaele wasn’t speaking about the Eastern Vale. “He’s the brother of our appointed representative. Your Filaurel knew what she was doing when she arranged for you to apprentice with him… both wished you to grasp the responsibility we shoulder.”
Complicated as their allegiances were, Saphienne was certain neither the librarian nor the tailor were as cooly calculating as the master of Fascination.
“Saphienne, when will you tell me what you’re intending?”
“Once I have a convincing position; if I can’t persuade you, Master Vestaele, what chance do I have with everyone else?”
Patient, Vestaele productively channelled her frustration. “I look forward to it. Since you’re reflecting on your lessons with Jorildyn, you ought to reconsider your… theatrical presentation. People are whispering about your unusual outfit.”
Saphienne smiled guilelessly beneath her horned jewellery. “Are they? And whatever are they saying?”
That she was making light of her heroism; that she was undertaking penance for provoking conflict with a misunderstood but gentle giant; that she’d lost a wager with Faylar and her dignity was her forfeit; that she was presenting a religious mystery authored by the gods themselves.
“Nothing consequential.” Vestaele suspected Saphienne had seeded the contradictory rumours, though hadn’t yet intuited to what end. “A more orthodox manner would lend you gravitas; you wouldn’t want to be thought frivolous.”
* * *
Even as she tilled the field, Saphienne was fashioning the tools she would need come harvest. She spent most mornings shut away in her library, occupied with spellcraft, composing a spell that was necessary but that she dared not request from the Luminary Vale for fear of rousing suspicion.
Ironically – and believed wholeheartedly by Laelansa – the gods may well have looked favourably upon her endeavours, for she couldn’t have constructed the sigil she required if she hadn’t achieved the Third Degree. She’d hypothesised about what she now attempted for years, even going so far as to sketch out a lower spell of which she’d been confident. Alas, she’d had no pressing need to trial her work at the time, and curiosity hadn’t been justification enough to vest magic into her calligraphy.
What was she weaving?
A spell to bridge the gap between languages.
Just comprehending the meaning behind unknown speech was possible with the Second Degree — a complex yet superficial divination, underpinned by what she knew about intent and words through her dialogues with Hyacinth. To convey fluency with unfamiliar tongues took greater sophistication, and her arrangement was inspired by what she remembered of the spell High Master Lenitha had used to bridge their minds.
Divination and Fascination could, in tandem, cultivate a temporary clipping of the language known by another and graft it into her; of this she was sure. Her studies on the organisation of the brain – via treatises on physiology and through self-examination – had enabled her to refine the divination to avoid undesirable intrusions. Contingent spellcasting would further permit the spell to intercede minimally, growing her vocabulary and apprehension of grammar in response to need. What she found difficult was dividing the result to keep languages categorically distinct: tongues had a tendency to swirl together like running ink.
Saphienne passed dozens of hours in meditation, focused on her objective, organising and refining the emotions and thoughts that symbolised the manifestation of her will. In the end, she desisted from imposing her own understanding onto the hazy formation in the lushly green expanse of her magic, substituting questions for certainties, overtures for demands, inviting the Great Art to play along with her in keeping with the secret of the Third Degree.
A mark in scintillating white proposed itself. Underdressed, it asked for more elaborate clothing.
Her final week was spent embellishing a written garment, proposing and revising the textual alignment of inner experience and outer expression to flatter the tastes of transcendental truth; she found that poetically arranging the notation was entirely necessary to capture subtle nuances. Every stroke of her pen mattered, as did their sequence as they leapt back and forth across the page. When her offering satisfied her art, Saphienne slept on her composition, then rose in the early dawn to make the sigil real.
* * *
Unlike Saphienne – and myself – you are no magician.
How shall we share what should be shown?
Ah, but I have done so throughout; magic dwells in many mediums.
I.
In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four
hills and a cloud.
II.
From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
“The spring is like a belle undressing.”
III.
The gold tree is blue.
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.
Now the magic is vested. Tell me, how does it sit with you?
* * *
“¿Por qué? ¿Qué quieres que diga? ¿Y qué es that spell you’re casting?”
Grinning in jubilation, Saphienne lightly responded in Hareñol. “Nothing of consequence.”
Seeing Filaurel’s jaw drop made the magician giggle, and she forestalled forthcoming concerns with a wave before collecting her teacup from the kitchen counter. Seamlessly switching back to Elfish, Saphienne added, “I decided to practice my spellcraft to cement my understanding of the Third Degree — I plan to show off a little when we meet Felipe and Cosme. Assuming we’re still going, and that I’m still invited?”
“…You are.” Filaurel was intensely suspicious. “Next month. Cosme’s letter said they’ve been delayed by trouble on the roads. Saphienne, tell me you’re not planning to–”
“My home is here.” She dismissed the divination. “You’re here, my mother’s here, Laelansa and my friends are here; the woodlands are where I’ll spend my eternity. I wouldn’t be collecting pets if I was going to follow in your footsteps. I was just exploring contingency in spell-making, and it appealed to my sense of humour.”
Relenting, the librarian lifted lukewarm cups for herself and Laelansa. “You should be careful with magic like that: people might get the wrong impression. By now, you have to know that wizards and sorcerers are among the most likely to try to leave the woodlands–”
“And succeed.” Saphienne felt a pang of sadness for her ancestor, Kythalaen. “You really needn’t fret — I have solid reason to never set foot outside the woodlands, and the Luminary Vale understands why. The furthest I’ve ever gone is the protectorates, and I frankly don’t intend to go that far ever again.”
“Are you sure?”
She rolled her eyes as she led the way through her mentor’s sitting room and upstairs, keeping her gaze raised to the ceiling. “They had better by now; I’d be embarrassed for them if they didn’t.”
When Saphienne cracked open the door to the guest bedroom a cacophony of excited meows greeted them, four kittens pressed up against the fenced-off space around the entryway. Fluffy, though not yet as elegantly so as their mother, they wobbled as they clung to the mesh Saphienne had conjured, their tails upright and their blue eyes bright against their coats of striped grey.
Two from the litter did not approach, though they paused where they wrestled on Laelansa’s lap to fix Saphienne with striking, veridian gazes.
Saphienne eased aside to let Filaurel in before she closed the door. “I see Peluda is enjoying some respite.” The cat was happily dozing on the windowsill, out of reach of her children. “Nice of her to leave you to look after them.”
Completely charmed, Laelansa didn’t mind as she gingerly petted the smaller of the pair who were on her outstretched legs. “They only want love! They’re already so grown. They’re even using the… what did you call it, Filaurel?”
“Their litter box.” The librarian reminded the novice as she stepped over the screen, glancing to the corner where lay a tray of sand. “Their mother taught them well — didn’t you, my minina?”
The adult cat twitched her tail when petted, too exhausted from parenting to rouse.
Saphienne detached a determined climber from the hem of her robes as she lowered herself to sit with her partner. The kitten she held squirmed, struggled free, then stood on her to hiss toward Laelansa with back arched.
“I see.” She sighed as she softly brushed the fluffy grey aggressor off her knee. “They still won’t accept her.”
Acknowledged by Saphienne, the drake unpinned the black kitten she’d been grappling with, abandoning her brother as she slunk on longer, more steady limbs to the magician whose presence she found mesmerising. Pale bronze scales with verdigris roots shimmered on the oversized foreclaw she delicately laid upon the vacated knee, horns budding on the head she dipped to invite affection, her disproportionately long tail lifted so high that it bent over her back.
Her purr as she was stroked was almost a hiss.
“Peluda loves her,” Laelansa promised, cradling the black kitten who had shifted attention to her, “and so does this one. He’s always cuddling with her.”
Filaurel employed a crude puppet of a mouse that Nelathiel had donated, distracting the more rambunctious kittens. “She’s much gentler than I thought she’d be. If she wasn’t such a troublemaker, I’d relax around her.”
Saphienne smirked at the draconic kitten. “What did she do this time?”
“She climbed the divider with her brother, then opened the door. I woke up to find him curled up beside me in bed, along with cutlery I’d left out to dry.” Filaurel glowered at the drake as she recounted her crimes. “She’d tipped down the pitcher in the kitchen sink and was splashing around when I found her.”
Undermining her reproach, Saphienne and Laelansa had been chuckling in approval as they listened.
“She’s curious and intelligent; you’re both going to have your hands full. And that’s assuming everyone gets along…”
Unaccountable happiness welled up in Saphienne as the drake felt comfortable enough to curl on her lap for the first time, appearing like a miniature, wingless dragon — save for the few wisps of fair fur that sprouted between her scales. “Minina – my Minina – will be good. I’ve warned her we’re going to be bringing them home, and she’s excited to meet. Laelansa has been reading her that book you loaned to us.”
Her partner was tickling the black kitten’s belly. “She’s learning about their body language! If only she could blink…”
Filaurel made the puppet dance with one hand as she lifted the determined climber from her thigh to sit on her shoulder. “I meant how they’ll react to her.”
“Good question.” Saphienne stared down at the drake, who raised her head and slowly blinked in response. “I have a feeling she’ll be well behaved with Minina; you’re not going to fight with your older sister, are you?”
Responding more to tone than words, the fellow aberration swivelled her frilled ear to keep listening for the magician as she reached out to her brother, meowing a request for his attendance — which he answered, rolling onto his feet and shakily clambering over to rub his head against hers. She pulled him to her chest, where she began grooming him with a rough, forked tongue, interrupting herself after a few licks to seek approval from the draconic elf.
“…Good girl.” Aware that Laelansa was melting as she watched the display, Saphienne blushed to the tips of her ears. “We really need names for you two, don’t we?”
The black kitten meowed as though agreeing, and laughter filled the room.
* * *
While Laelansa was bidding a reluctant, prolonged farewell to Peluda and the kittens, Saphienne sat with Filaurel in the sitting room to share what she hadn’t told Vestaele.
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Her mentor was just as perturbed by her revelations about the goblins as Nelathiel had been, but for different reasons. “Saphienne… you’re going to cause an uproar. You’re too young to understand just how much resistance there’s going to be to even hearing this.”
That Filaurel didn’t even question what she’d said about the goblins won purer admiration from the magician than ever before. “You’re probably right. I’m not convinced this is going to be anything but an utter failure — yet we have to try anyway.”
“…Do you?” Filaurel didn’t ask to contradict her; she inquired with concern for who Saphienne needed to be. “Is this what matters most to you?”
Why was it hard to meet her gaze? She forced herself to be firm. “It’s what ought to matter most. You’ve been beyond the woodlands: tell me you don’t think I’m right about goblins.”
Filaurel smiled sadly. “I don’t think you’re misguided about them… what your mother told you doesn’t surprise me. All I’m asking is whether you’re prepared for this to go horribly wrong.”
“I can fail. Even if I do, my conscience will be clear.”
“Even if the goblins fail you?” Filaurel held her hand. “Even if they won’t adopt elven customs? Even if they keep stealing and biting? Even if they resent you for presuming to save them? Are you prepared to be doomed from the start?”
Saphienne didn’t pull away. “You’ve asked me much the same before. Is that how you set out into the world? Prepared to fail? To die?”
“Fatalism.” She exhaled the word. “Accepting the fate we cannot resist, and being prepared to die as a consequence. I thought I was; Eletha warned me I’d only meet with suffering and death outside the woodlands.”
“You told us you were happy, for a time.”
Filaurel closed her eyes, withdrawing her touch as she sat back on the cushions and traced her finger across the enchantment concealed beneath her blouse. “She was ultimately right; and I’ll never forgive her for that.” She sniffed, shaking off the past she then buried beneath worry for Saphienne. “…Be prepared for heartbreak. Accept the goblins are already dead, and that anything better is a victory, however slight it seems. Be ready to suffer consequences for challenging settled affairs. Do that,” she counselled, “and I’ll help with the procedure to escalate this before the consensus of the woodlands. That’s what you need from me, isn’t it?”
“…You don’t want me to do this.”
“No. Staying clear of causes like this would be wiser — you’re risking getting drawn into what you told me you want to avoid. But, if you’ll be unhappy either way…”
Despite her inconstancy toward Saphienne, Filaurel possessed the virtue of refusing to be her mother.
* * *
High Master Elduin,
Thank you again for the trust you have placed in me. Having given the matter significant thought, I believe you are right: what matters most to me is mercy.
You said that mercy cannot be compelled, and your wisdom holds true. No one may challenge the ancient ways — elves and spirits will grow ever closer in communion across the ages ahead, secluded in our woodlands. Yet, I believe we will find better ways to live in harmony with the endless night that surrounds our sweet delight. I trust – as I believe you do – in the stewardship of our consensus to enact judicious reforms over time; the long arc of our history bends toward ever greater fairness.
I am who I am because I was raised in the woodlands and have seen the sacrifices the ancient ways demand. Were I born anywhere else I would not be myself. I exist in relation to our society… wherein my role is to advocate for whatever mercy is wise to grant.
For the boundaries of the woodlands to be affirmed, they must be tested.
I accept that this will not make me popular with many; that my advocacy will seldom succeed; and that I will not progress far within the Luminary Vale. Abiding in the woodlands requires that I accept these limitations — and my inner peace demands the same.
Separately, I have substantiated your conjecture about my ancestor, and coming to terms with what it implies has afforded me serenity. To further uphold the transparency I owe you, I must inform you that I have shared my circumstances with my beloved Laelansa, with whom I am building my life. She faithfully serves the gods with a leal heart and great discretion, and will not break my trust.
Hyacinth, too, has my confidence. Come time to attend the Luminary Vale, I intend to make her my familiar.
Yours Faithfully,
Saphienne signed her name without flourish, then set the letter to dry on the arm of her chair as she resumed studying the scroll unfurled on her writing board.
Descending, Laelansa carried down the plant pot from their bedroom, crossing to kiss Saphienne’s cheek. “I’ll be communing with Hyacinth in the garden…” She squinted at the map of the woodlands. “…Are you planning your route with Filaurel and Faylar?”
“No.” The magician smiled as she tapped a patch of wilderness. “I’m finishing the Tomes of Correspondence soon, and that got me thinking about Taerelle, which led me to consider what I ought write, and where I’ll be writing to. I think I’ve worked out the logical location for the Luminary Vale.”
Laelansa was staring at her fingertip. “…No elves live there.”
“On the contrary, I’ve read accounts of the distances between the surrounding vales, and they don’t correspond to the mapped geography of the woodlands. I infer a gross perceptual veil has been placed here.”
“It has…” Laelansa perched on the vacant arm of the chair, balancing the hyacinths on her lap. “…But not to hide the Luminary Vale.”
Saphienne’s eyebrows rose. “Really? How do you–”
“I’ve been there.” Laelansa lowered her voice. “A few years back. That’s where we were taken when I learned about spiritual imprisonment; that’s where most of the spirits were imprisoned, where they’ve been imprisoned…”
For six thousand years.
Goosebumps had risen on Saphienne’s neck. She stared at the innocuous patch of forest on the map — central to the woodlands, yet remote from the nearest settlements. “…Why there?”
“They’re in the ruins of the First Vale.” Laelansa was ashen. “Nothing grows there any more. All there is to see are ruins of burnt stone, preserved without rainfall. And the entombing trees… which might as well be stone by now…”
Saphienne squeezed her arm.
“Miles and miles of them.” She swallowed. “As far I could see. A horrible place.”
“…The clearing you asked me to show you was patterned after it?”
“Smaller, but the same. Thousands of ley lines run through the First Vale, maintaining the wards that keep the spirits locked away.” She shivered as she stood. “Ruddles told me that her ancient sisters declined to ask the elves for consent to return them to their dreaming; that this was kinder than effectively killing them.”
Saphienne grimaced.
Her partner was consoled by her distress, bending to kiss her lips. “I love you. Good luck finding the vale — it’s probably close to other old vales, the ones still occupied. Most wizards and sorcerers like being surrounded by ordinary people, don’t they?”
* * *
Rydel paid an unexpected visit to Saphienne in the middle of the following week, awkward as she showed him inside. He brightened when Minina came scuttling to the railing overlooking the sitting room and lowered down on a gold strand, sharing her enthusiasm where she danced back and forth at his feet before she leapt onto the couch next to him.
“I don’t know why you’ve missed me,” the senior apprentice told his former project as he lightly stroked her back and let her tap his fingers. “I didn’t play with you half as much as Saphienne.”
“You’re her maker.” Saphienne elected to seat herself on the other side of the silently joyful spider. “You and I were the only people she regularly saw for years — and you did grow fond of her.”
“You’re a silly little thing, subject number nine.”
Minina flashed her fangs at him — an insincere grumble at her misnaming.
Saphienne smiled and folded her arms. “Apprentice Rydel! You will kindly address Minina by her name.”
“You’re not my master,” he refuted her. “Gods, how awful would that be? Being left behind by Taerelle, then taught by the know-it-all girl she took under her wing? I’d never bear the shame. I’d sooner be eaten in the wilds.”
“As sunny a disposition as ever.” She wasn’t offended. “Minina, do you mind him calling you that?”
The spider flicked a middle leg as though kicking the question away.
“I suppose if she makes allowances for you, then I can deign to do so too.” Saphienne uncrossed her arms and steepled her fingers. “Why call by? I presume you have a problem that you’re reluctant to take directly to Master Almon.”
Rydel sat back heavily. “I know you can’t and won’t help with my studies, but this isn’t something I think he can help me with, and it’s not even about spellcraft.”
She pursed her lips. “Is it to do with the spider colonies? I thought you were happy with your results?”
“The silk is excellent.” His remark reminded Minina she had left a golden thread hanging nearby, and she crawled away to diligently eat her mess while he talked. “They’re tame. And I believe I understand your thesis well enough that I can make them eat plants once I have the secret of the Second Degree: I’ve been breeding them under ongoing enchantments in preparation.”
“Good — I’d hoped you’d adapt my method to your competency. Are the offspring sustaining the effects of transmutation?”
“As well as Minina has.” He was too distracted by his woes to notice his slip. “I could probably imitate your work given enough generations, but it’ll be far faster to fully transmute individuals and breed them.” He shook his head. “My problem is that they keep fighting.”
Saphienne sat forward. “Fighting? I thought they were well-behaved?”
“Toward elves.” He was glum. “The different colonies hate each other. I don’t just mean the rough silk weavers versus the fine: even different groups of the same descent will fight each other. Fuck, Saphienne — they keep killing fellow colonists! I kept finding dead husks by the doors to their terrariums; I worried whether they had an inherited malady.”
“Issues with aggression are usually sparked by competition for resources.”
“Not in this case.” He shrugged. “They’re all well fed, and they’re trained to weave long strands of silk for collection in exchange. I never touch the webs they sleep in, and they all wait patiently by their harvest for their meals when I feed them.”
She glanced to where Minina was creeping back down the stairs. “Could they be bored? Needing stimulation?”
“No, they’re not like that. Nor is it sexual competition — they practice collective reproduction now. I’ve observed them closely, and attacks are always proceeded by threat displays, with large groups crowding the victim.”
Memories of Lensa and her followers surrounding Saphienne disquieted her. “What happens before the attacks?”
Rydel massaged his neck and shoulder. “…You might find this ridiculous, but my hypothesis is that it’s cultural. Mating dances vary between colonies, as does the pattern of their webs, and I think the unlucky specimens are having trouble–”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Saphienne excused herself to answer – discretely placing a cautionary foot in front of Minina – only to find another apprentice wizard waiting.
“Saphienne!” Rophana bowed respectfully. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m not staying, I just promised I’d give these back to Laelansa…”
Intrigued by the papers Rophana was offering, Saphienne skimmed their front page as she accepted them. “You’re not disturbing me — I’m just talking to Rydel. Is this religious commentary?”
“She wanted my opinion.” Rophana crouched down and waved to Minina, who obediently remained behind the magician as she peeked out to reply in kind. “We both have an interest in obscure theological arguments; I’m a bit more rigorous about them.”
Introducing the apprentice and the novice had apparently been useful. “Were you persuaded by what you read?”
“No.” She looked up with a grin. “I already agreed. I’ve outlined the parts I felt were weak and needed better substantiation, along with suggestions on how to fix them. I can be a bit dry though…”
Rydel snorted, having come over to say hello. “You can say that again. How are you, Rophana? Still counting how many spirits can dance on the bloom of a rose?”
Although rising with mild indignity, she wouldn’t be riled. “You know me: just keeping busy. How about you? Is watching spiders still satisfying your voyeurism?”
He laughed her off. “Keeps me out of trouble. How’re your daisies?”
“Woundwort is doing well.” Rophana bowed to Saphienne. “Please give Laelansa my regards, and best wishes for her reception when she decides to circulate her apology.”
“I will,” Saphienne promised, Minina skulking in front of her to wave goodbye. “Good to see you again; come by again soon.”
Once the door was shut Rydel was inquisitive. “Apology? What did she do wrong?”
“Not that kind of apology.” Saphienne moved with him back to the couch. “An apology in the way Rophana meant is a defence of a subject. Laelansa is writing an apology for a religious belief that attracts frequent criticism–”
“Typical Rophana. She would read a novel about paint drying. Nice person, though.”
The magician smiled politely at the apprentice. “Taerelle told her she was boring.”
“She would! I miss her.” His admission was casual. “What do you make of Rophana? No one I’ve spoken to really knows her that well.”
Neither did Saphienne, despite having taken tea with her on several occasions. “She’s reserved; happy to chat about anything – especially intellectual topics – but doesn’t open up much about her feelings. Calling her shy wouldn’t be quite right. Very religious, to the point that she came off poorly when we first met.”
“She’s quiet,” Rydel agreed. “Always listens carefully. Our master would call on her in lessons whenever he remembered she was there, and her answers were always concise and accurate. She and I are both pretty average when it comes to wizardry, but she’s consistent.”
Embarrassment at her own comparative talent made Saphienne move on. “If you think the problem with your spiders is cultural, would they benefit from further selection? Perhaps a little more intelligence than they have now?”
“Intelligence won’t make them less aggressive — just cruel.” He deflated at the thought. “Unfortunate though it is, unless you have any better idea, I’m probably just going to accept that they’re like this and that some are going to suffer the consequences. So long as the colonies are kept separate, losing a few here and there is a small price to pay for easy silk. Poor little things.”
* * *
Fascinating the spiders would have been an impermanent solution — one that Saphienne was reluctant to propose. Controlling creatures with a fascination was straightforward, but comprehending the mind of a spider well enough to influence their behaviour was far more challenging.
Syndelle’s predicament also weighed heavily upon her.
During her introduction to the benefits of the discipline, Saphienne had seen the difference that Fascination made to the unwell artist, Iradyn, whose life was irrefutably benefited by the bracelet he wore. She had seen him around the village in the years since, living his life free from the paranoia and confusion that otherwise afflicted him.
Intellectually, she knew that the outburst of rage that had gripped Syndelle was not the same as the constant distress suffered by Iradyn, and that the treatments were correspondingly different. He was fortunate to not require emotional suppression; he could still laugh and feel freely.
What troubled Saphienne was the question of whether Syndelle did. Her extreme reaction had been deliberately provoked, and she’d otherwise never shown an inclination to violence. Was one incident really enough to warrant that remedy? Would it have been better for her to be convicted and sent away to another vale like Alynelle and Elisa, there to live under close supervision until adulthood?
Had the mercy Saphienne had entreated for Syndelle made her situation worse?
Lacking insight, that evening the magician rebelled against the gloom, and carried Minina on her shoulder to take their first walk together through the village.
No matter how warmly she smiled, and how sweetly the friendly aberration danced and waved, by the time they returned home both of them thoroughly demoralised, having read well the fear and revulsion on the faces of the elves they passed by.
* * *
Not all was dark.
Throughout the month that followed, Laelansa and Hyacinth grew closer, novice and bloomkith having resolved to deepen their friendship and explore the possibility of a relationship to complement what they each enjoyed with Saphienne. This entertained the magician, given that she and Hyacinth had been walking together on the night she and Laelansa had first had sex, but she accepted what Mother Marigold and Nelathiel had said about the relationships of elves and spirits, content to let them take their time.
She frequently encountered Laelansa possessed by Hyacinth, and as the weeks went by she was aware they were increasingly intimate, having come home one afternoon to find Laelansa sleeping atop the bed with hyacinth blossoms sprouted from tendrils holding to her fragrant skin. The smile on their shared lips had been too heartwarming to wake them. She didn’t pry into how they felt for each other, but Laelansa became giggly whenever the spirit was mentioned, and Hyacinth was floridly poetic about the novice priest when lazing with Saphienne upon her mental field.
One morning, Laelansa-Hyacinth arrived from her stay at Nelathiel’s home, and she woke a still sleepy Saphienne with a breathtaking kiss where she caught the magician by the kitchen sink.
Then Hyacinth flew fluttering away to leave Laelansa flustered. Saphienne could tell that they were working up the courage to embrace her together.
* * *
“They’re wonderful! Celaena is going to be jealous.”
Saphienne grinned at Iolas, who was standing by the couch, not daring to disturb the wrestling-bout-turned-mutual-grooming unfolding between the drake and the black kitten who had pinned her to the cushions.
“How are they with Minina?”
She wanted to clap her hands where she leant in the kitchen doorway. “Excellent! Our boy was a little wary of Minina at first, but his sister bonded with her very quickly, and they’re all so patient with each other. Minina weaves balls from her silk to play fetch.”
“Extraordinary.” Iolas couldn’t stop smiling. “What are their names?”
Skipping over to hold his arm, she introduced him to the siblings. “Iolas, I would like you to meet Inky – full name Spilled Ink – and his sister, Audacity.”
The mention of Audacity’s name made the drake chirp inquisitively, effortlessly righting herself and dragging her brother to the edge of the couch as he clung on with claws hooked between her scintillating scales. Her tail flicked as she examined the man in dark grey robes; she looked to Saphienne for guidance.
“Audacity, Inky, this is Iolas: he’s a very good friend.”
Audacity deigned to bestow a slow blink on Iolas, then shook her brother loose before stretching out to sniff him.
The apprentice was crouching even as he asked permission. “Am I allowed to–”
“Go ahead. We blunt both their claws, and Inky is more likely to play bite.”
He gingerly stroked the space between her underdeveloped, curling horns, marvelling at the yellow tufts running down her back. “I didn’t know drakes had fur.”
“Some do; she’ll probably lose it as she grows. She likes a firmer touch than–”
Audacity proved her name by grabbing his hand with her foreclaws and using him to scratch her scaled cheek, purring loudly.
“That’s not an angry hiss — that means she’s happy.”
Inky was bored, and tackled his sister from behind, knocking her over to scramble on the floor as he leapt down himself and went racing up the stairs. The drake climbed to her feet and leisurely stretched, grooming herself, conveying to all the world that her tumble was intentional–
Then bolted after her brother, intent on revenge.
Iolas chuckled. “She’s a character. How big will she get?”
“About the size of a large cat. Shall we start before they return? What subject shall we cover, apprentice?”
He shed his outer robes and hung them by the door. “Magical praxes. I read the notes we took all those years ago, and I think I know what mine will be, but I’m not sure…”
“What do you imagine it is?”
Iolas flushed. “‘What affects the part affects the whole.’ Which is facile, and I’m not phrasing it well, but I feel like–”
“Trust your feelings.” Saphienne amused herself as she sat. “Share your thoughts. I’ll keep how I perceive them to myself for now. Who knows: perhaps you’ll have had a revelation by the time I’m back.”
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.” Her clawed rings clicked. “We leave to bargain with the mortals tomorrow. I hope they’ll recognise a fair deal when it’s offered.”
End of Chapter 131