The Elf Who Would Become A Dragon

You may wonder about Saphienne’s sincerity when she wrote to High Master Elduin, for Gaeleath had taught her to portray herself however would be best received by her audience. Was her statement of intent genuine?

I believe so. She wished to live in the woodlands; she wished an accord with the society that had raised her; she wished to weave the fears and desires hung upon her like garlands into a florid role she could comfortably wear.

She tried to tell the High Masters that she wanted to belong, that she was prepared to curtail her deepest yearnings to conform to whatever the woodlands would accept — so long as she was allowed to make her plea. If they would trust her to not contradict the ancient ways, then she would not stray beyond them. She would not become the behemoth that had concerned Elduin; Saphienne would not be another Lonareath.

What anguishes me is that she didn’t ask to be embraced, nor to be loved by the woodlands… but for tolerance. Saphienne never dared request mercy for herself, and knew better than to expect that mercy be granted to others.

She sought only to discuss which mercies ought to be. Surely that was not too much?

* * *

“I’m confident this will work,” Saphienne told Laelansa, referring solely to the Tome of Correspondence she handed to her beloved. “I’ll write whenever we rest, and when you write back I’ll be certain the transmission functions over distance.”

Her partner held the enchanted book underarm, consciously opting for levity. “Whyever haven’t you written to Taerelle?”

“I will when I return. She’s a capable enchanter… I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of her.”

Laelansa reached behind Saphienne to grasp her long, blonde braid by its roots. “You should be more confident. Taerelle might have more experience — but she’s not you. My magician won’t be bested.”

The possessive hold stirred Saphienne. “…I’m meant to be meeting Faylar and Filaurel in half an hour…”

“Presumptuous!” The novice was teasing–

And pulled Saphienne down into a needful kiss.

“But you’re right…” Laelansa let the taller woman go as she stepped away. “…You don’t have time to be detained. You’ll just have to dream about me while you’re travelling.”

Saphinne drew a steadying breath, watching her paramour set the tome on their kitchen table. “Am I suffering alone, or are you going to torment Hyacinth the same way?”

“Who says I haven’t already?” Laelansa grinned deviously. “I made her promise not to lie with you until you’re back.”

“Did she call you the cruellest and fairest of elves?”

“…How did you know?”

“She used to call me that.”

They shared a knowing smile. Hyacinth still called Saphienne the cruellest and fairest, just not among elves.

Donning the backpack she’d enchanted with Translocation, Saphienne was pleased to feel little weight on her shoulders. “I’ll miss you. I’ll miss Minina and Inky and Audacity as well; I feel unfair for leaving you to care for them.”

“Less than a week isn’t long…” Laelansa’s brave face cracked. “…But I’ll miss you and Hyacinth terribly.”

“She could visit you? We don’t need her protection, and it isn’t far for her.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Her sadness dissipated as she flushed. “Not just the heart; whether or not you come back with happy news, you and Hyacinth have something to look forward to.”

Both of them? Saphienne suspected her lovers had been conspiring.

“You just like me in my travelling clothes,” the magician quipped, spinning to let the tailored hems of her coat and inner robes fan out, thereby showing off the new, knee-high boots she’d stitched, their greens and golds well matched to both the summer forest and her countenance.

“…You know…” Laelansa wrung her hands. “…I’ve never admitted this… but the first time I saw you in boots…”

Saphienne abruptly halted. “Boots? Really?”

“You’re to blame! You gave me the interest — like with horns. ”

She took note; her smile was playfully superior. “Look out the pair you like best, and run the Rod of Cleansing over them.”

Causing Laelansa to fold in on herself made Saphienne wish they had another hour. She gently slid an arm around her waist, leading her to the front door without saying a word.

“…If only I could see you off…”

“You need to stay here. I’ve promised Audacity I won’t be gone for long, but she and her brother are still babies. Dote on them for me? And on Minina?”

Laelansa hugged Saphienne tightly. “I’ll be extra affectionate with them. I won’t even shoo them from our bedroom.”

“Don’t let Minina nest over our bed — tell her to weave in the corner. You can put my pillow on the floor for Audacity to hide her trinkets.” She pretended to think. “What else…”

Saphienne kissed Laelansa with a tenderness that belied the thrill and terror she felt, putting warring premonitions aside as she conveyed with her lips that she was wounded by their parting, eager to reunite, incomplete without the maiden who beheld her scales.

Laelansa responded with love like sunshine: luminous, nourishing, and pure.

* * *

“Tailored?” Faylar shook his head where he waited on the library steps, wide awake despite the early hour. “Only you would go to the trouble of tailoring travelling clothes.”

“Not just these.” Saphienne climbed past him to hug Filaurel.

“What else have you…” He realised her meaning — and despaired. “…You tailored your ritual outfit? We’re all meant to dress the same!”

Filaurel laughed at his reaction as she broke away and stooped to heft one of the bags she’d packed. “Wizards, sorcerers, and priests are allowed to distinguish themselves,” the librarian informed him, tossing the pack to her apprentice. “Perhaps you’ll enjoy the privilege some day!”

His mood remained high as he caught the supplies. “So I will! Saphienne and I will coordinate. We’ll be dressed in the very best of costumes when we see Cosme.”

Saphienne rolled her eyes. “Faylar, even if Master Almon deigns to teach you, and even if you end up becoming a wizard: I’m not making you another outfit.”

“I won’t need you to.” He turned and set out to the north. “I’ll have my magic; I’ll delight Laewyn with the finest of fabrics.”

Filaurel snorted as she shouldered the other backpack. “Your girlfriend won’t make your clothes forever.”

“I meant I’d make my own. I’ll summon whatever designs she decides on.”

“Conjure,” Saphienne corrected him, trailing the librarians. “Pay more attention to the words you’re using.”

He smiled irreverently over his shoulder. “What was that you said? I conjure thee to repeat thyself, Master Saphienne.”

Having been deliberately provoked, she blushed. “I adjure thee to grow up.”

“Prickly!”

“Prick!”

Filaurel sighed theatrically. “If you’re going to behave like children, I’ll leave you both behind.”

“I think not.” Saphienne caught up to take her arm. “You need my protection — and we need Faylar to lug around the books for us. Hyacinth won’t make the trip without me, so forget about asking her to defend you.”

Cheerful beneath her feigned rebuke, Filaurel played along. “You believe she’s the only spirit I can invoke? You’re forgetting who I’m related to. There are far older bloomkith who would answer my call.”

“True,” Saphienne conceded, “but that would be relying on your family connections. You’d never willingly do that.”

Faylar slowed, falling in beside them. “Who are you related to?”

“Never you mind!” Filaurel glowered at Saphienne. “And you’re wrong. Do you think we’re unaccompanied when we make the trip without you?”

Remembering the stave Filaurel had once carried – topped with hyacinth blossoms and a sprig of mugwort – prompted Saphienne to grin, amused by how easily Felipe had been awed. “Unless you’re hiding a Staff of Bloomkiths in that pack of yours, I doubt you’re going to be calling anyone.”

“Since I’ll need a vessel for a spirit, I suppose I’ll have to bring Saphienne…” She glanced to Faylar. “…But having a magician means I won’t need an apprentice. She could levitate the books you’re carrying. Why should I bring you?”

He’d been ignoring the conversation, and picked the worst possible moment to share what he’d been pondering. “Is it the master jeweller? Eletha? Are you related to–”

“That’s it!” Filaurel pulled free and stormed ahead. “I’m going on my own! I’ll make better time without you!”

Once Faylar and Saphienne had stopped laughing, they hurried along the grove after her to continue the amicable banter.

* * *

Laewyn, Celaena, Iolas, and Thessa met the travellers on the shore of the lake to wish them a safe journey — as was becoming customary. Saphienne accepted offerings for the shrine of Our Lady of the Balanced Scales from Iolas and Thessa, given on behalf of both siblings and their parents, only to be bemused when Celaena then handed her another satchel.

The fostered sister to Thessa and Iolas blushed at Saphienne’s raised eyebrow. “I don’t actually believe — this is just a tradition.”

“Is that so, Apprentice Celaena? And to think, you once looked askance at me for the same… how things change.”

* * *

Upon the rocky overlook, Saphienne called a halt, producing a cutting of blue hyacinth blossoms and affixing them behind her ear. She next held out her hands and drew on a scarlet sigil, shaping her mind to its conjuring contours as she invited what it portended to emerge.

Thunder cracked between her palms. Saphienne brought forth a beechwood staff, laced with burn marks from top to bottom as though it had been struck by lightning.

Then she nonchalantly used the ashen end to trace a circle around herself on the stone, invoking her lover through repetition. “Hyacinth, Hyacinth, Hyacinth.”

“Your hand…” Faylar was perplexed. “…You’re not wearing your finger rings?”

Shit — they were in her pocket. She’d forgotten to put them on when leaving home.

Saphienne covered her mistake with a smirk. “Aren’t I? Are you sure?”

The would-be apprentice wizard frowned as he tilted his head. “…You’re concealing them from us? Why?”

“Would being seen wearing them by Felipe and Cosme be appropriate?”

Filaurel made no effort the pierce the non-existent veil, believing Saphienne too skilled for her hallucinations to be overcome. “That’s thoughtful. I worried that Cosme would ask about the other finger rings you used to wear, but he assumed they were just jewellery. Claws wouldn’t pass without comment.”

Faylar relented as well. “Why would it matter if they noticed the enchantments? They know Saphienne is a wizard.”

Saphienne leant on the staff. “We don’t want him to feel envious of me for having magical support. Also, you should refer to me as a mag–”

He flicked his fingers in an obscene gesture. “Stop correcting me! I’m officially an apprentice librarian for this trip — and you’re both a sorcerer and a wizard. What I said wasn’t wrong.”

She folded one arm as she gave up. “…When Master Almon takes you on as his apprentice, expect us to revisit the matter of your lax attitude, young Faylar.”

The senior librarian cackled. “‘Young Faylar!’ He’s older than you!”

Hyacinth’s timely arrival spared Saphienne from distracting them further, and the magician danced into the imaginary field to kiss the bloomkith, causing the crown of flowers that were weaving across her physical brow to tinge pink before settling into the same yellow as lit her gaze.

Unruffled by his haughty friend, Faylar greeted the spirit then airily announced he was off to relieve himself, wandering into the trees.

Filaurel meanwhile meandered to the fallen log facing the Eastern Vale. “Saphienne? Come and sit with me.”

Detecting an odd sentiment behind the request, Hyacinth kept quiet, passively observing as her beloved master obliged.

Saphienne held the stave across her knees as she sat beside her mentor. “I always like this view… and yet, it makes me sad.”

“I feel the same way.” Filaurel clasped her hand. “There was a time when I thought I’d never see it again; I must have sat here for a whole hour.”

Her worry that Filaurel would notice the absent finger rings diminished against her contemplation of that scene. “Before you left the woodlands?”

“I told myself I’d never return.” Filaurel was wry. “I swore I wouldn’t.”

They lapsed into silence. Though peaceful, the moment was inexplicably poignant.

“Saphienne…” Filaurel shifted to stare, pleading, into her eyes. “…You know that you can tell me anything? That I’m proud of you, and will always be proud of you? That I’ll support you, even if I don’t agree with your choices?”

A girl of fourteen peered back. “…Have I done something wrong?”

“No.” Filaurel squeezed her hand. “I just want you to…”

The woman who had quit the woodlands gazed out over the vale.

“Before I left,” she softly said, “I never told my mother I was going. I couldn’t risk saying goodbye: I knew that she’d stop me if I did. Eletha always insisted on trying to protect me from myself.” She hung her head. “Now… as much as it would serve me right…”

Saphienne blinked. “Oh! Filaurel, I meant what I told you: I’m not running off. The spell I tested on you wasn’t– surely you’ve guessed how I’m planning to use it?”

Relief rolled down from Filaurel’s shoulders. “I suspected… but I didn’t know.”

Indescribable sorrow saw Saphienne rest against her mentor. “I could never do that to you. I’ve no intention of leaving — and even if I were forced, against my will, I promise I wouldn’t vanish.” She searched for a way to express what Filaurel was unable to reciprocate. “I couldn’t just leave everything between us… incomplete.”

“…Lynnariel is very fortunate, to have you as her daughter…”

Upon the field before the library steps, Hyacinth shaded her eyes — blinded by the perfect sun.

* * *

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Journeying with a magician meant travelling quickly and in comfort. Saphienne employed her magic to melt the miles away, transmuting herself and Faylar into exemplars of athleticism who chatted while jogging without growing short of breath.

Despite a valiant effort, Filaurel eventually gave up on matching their pace, compelled to stop and lean – wheezing – against a tree. Once she’d recovered enough to apologise for shaming them for their lack of fitness, Saphienne extended her the same enhancement, urging her to keep up with their lengthening stride. Together the trio covered most of the distance before the day’s end.

Hyacinth had been practicing to curl tree branches about their tent, and despite her tiredness afterward she was gleeful at her success. There, too, Saphienne was a panacea, invoking spiritual nourishment from the setting sun before trying her hand at transforming plain rations into a sumptuous meal.

Faylar complained that her chocolate cake was a tad dry.

* * *

Filaurel had a query as they were settling down for the night. “Won’t we be exhausted tomorrow? I thought using Transfo– excuse me. Won’t using Transmutation to ease our fatigue take a toll when the spell lapses?”

“I’ll answer that,” Saphienne proposed, midway through brushing out her long hair, “if you’ll tell me what humans call the disciplines of magic.”

Faylar perked up, intrigued.

To say Filaurel glared at Saphienne would be an understatement of the highest order. “You know I’m not supposed to–”

“Bullshit.” Saphienne tossed her hairbrush aside. “Magicians accepted into the Luminary Vale are allowed to know about the outside world, and apprentice librarians who’re approved to manage the restricted collection – like Faylar is – receive the same trust.”

“…You’ve read the standing rulings of the Luminary Vale.”

Faylar grinned. “She asked me where they were kept.”

“And,” Saphienne added, “when you first brought us to meet Cosme you’d wagered that we would both be in this position one day. So no more of your coyness! Don’t pretend you don’t know: you’re always getting the names wrong.”

Exhaling as she settled back against cushions Saphienne had produced from her backpack, Filaurel diminished. “I know of a human tradition that’s practiced in Hareña. Their spellcraft is crude compared to what you’ve studied.”

“Go on.”

“They refer to the disciplines as schools of magic. They pursue them individually, rather than concurrently.”

This made the magician pause while plaiting her hair, dimly recalling that she’d heard the term before; she had Hyacinth search her memory for when. “…Master Almon once referred to the disciplines as schools. He never spoke about them that way again.”

“A slip.” Filaurel smiled smugly. “Very old works use the terminology, and I’m sure he was taught the history of magic. Humans traditions retain the language because their founders were largely taught by elven wizards.”

“Did we once study them as distinct schools?”

“Possibly. I don’t know.” The failed apprentice wizard closed her eyes. “Most of what I learned was from humans… and I was talentless. My tradition named the schools as Transmission, Transformation, Protection, Illusion, Destruction, Delusion, and Creation. The eighth school was disputed, but the few who acknowledged it called it Supplication.”

Tantalised, Saphienne explored the parallels. “Transmission would be Translocation; Transformation, Transmutation; Protection is obviously Abjuration; Illusion likewise Hallucination; Delusion must be Fascination; from what I learned from my old friend, Destruction and Creation are applications of Conjuration; Supplication translates to Invocation.”

“No Divination?” Faylar wondered.

Both women stared at him.

“What? Knowing the names of the disciplines is fine. My aunt said–”

Saphienne cut him off. “What about Divination? That’s arguably the most fundamental discipline.”

Filaurel stretched. “…Divination and Invocation are combined as Supplication. Except humans fear wizards who follow that school, so they refer to it by other names, and reading fortunes is stigmatised.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Faylar shared her response. “What do they call it?”

“Several names…” Relaxing, the librarian curled on her side. “…I’ve heard it referred to as ‘the black art’ by wizards in Hareña, while in Aiglant they call it necromancy — communing with the dead. Spirits of all kinds are believed to be demonic…”

Hyacinth borrowed Saphienne’s tongue. “What foolish talk! We are distinct from them. How very dare these human fools …”

By the time Hyacinth had finished her indignant rant, Filaurel had dozed off.

* * *

Attired in splendorous yellows with overlapping, sequined leaves of gold that could be mistaken for scales, Saphienne was radiant when she emerged from privacy, aware that she looked stunning in her elaborate silks. She didn’t even care that she’d been required to impractically lengthen the hem of her inner robes, nor that the hood of her mantle had demanded she make the horns on her austere, mouthless mask tall rather than curling.

“Gods!” Faylar stepped back. “Do you want to scare them to death?!”

“Cosme doesn’t scare easily.” Saphienne’s voice was deepened by the mask, and she giggled as she saw Faylar pale. She snapped her fingers, causing the enchanted metal to melt and run without warming, reforming as a torc on her neck. “What do you think, Filaurel?”

The librarian was smiling as she shared in her mischief. “I expect you want to make a dramatic entrance?”

“What’s the point of wearing horns if I don’t?”

Faylar grumbled as he carried his own outfit behind the makeshift curtain. “When we get back to everyone else, expect us to revisit the matter of your ridiculous behaviour, young Saphienne.”

Filaurel adjusted the cloak where it hung from Saphienne’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t ruin the fun.” She scrutinised Saphienne, thoughtful. “Your outfit is missing something…”

“Hyacinth is handling that.”

* * *

Kicking her heels in the dry summer grass, Saphienne listened to Filaurel and Faylar performing the ancient, ethereal song. She never had translated the lyrics — and the Divination spell she’d cast on herself was useless for that purpose, given that neither singer understood the meaning.

A rustling by her side heralded Hyacinth, who passed the staff she’d grown to Saphienne before lowering her verdant shell to the ground. Tendrils presently wound up the sun-kissed wood, extruding her namesake blossoms among the branches that spiralled together to form its tip.

Longing to have Hyacinth possess her, knowing that doing so really would unnerve Cosme and Felipe, the magician satisfied herself by extending her fingers to the bloomkith who was encircling her stave, inviting uninhabited greenery to twine over her skin and clothes to ornament her with hyacinths. Then she stood on her tiptoes to kiss the blooms atop the staff, smothering her own giggles as she heard their creaking.

She waited fifteen minutes before she approached the encampment, concealing herself with one fascination while she readied another…

* * *

Cosme couldn’t stop laughing after she revealed her face, forced to sit down on the ground beside the campfire with his wooden leg kicked out, spittle flecking the silvery beard upon his wrinkled face.

Felipe stammered where he clung to the wagon, his wide eyes prominent against the umber of his skin. For all that he had become a man – his own beard darker and more neatly groomed than his father’s, his curly hair fetchingly grown out to cover his ears – he gawked like the boy he’d been when he first met Saphienne. “God in heaven!”

She replied in equally fluent Hareñol. “On the contrary: Saphienne, in the woods.”

The merchant’s uproar subsided as he stared in amazement, only for him to catch sight of his son’s expression and erupt into howls that infected Filaurel with his mirth.

Faylar had folded his arms, was fighting against his own sense of humour as he attempted to disapprove.

Taking pity on Felipe, Saphienne dismissed the glamour that wreathed her in bewitching beauty as she closed the distance between them. “Greetings, Cosme and Felipe of Tenerosa; has my singing disturbed you?”

Felipe produced a handkerchief to dab at his forehead, dropping into an elegant bow as he reclaimed his composure. “A finer arrival I have never seen!” Her divination conveyed that he was using his most formal diction. “But, fair maiden of the forest: for what reason do you approach with horns?”

His father gulped a breath. “To make fools of us! Look at their smiles!”

Faylar coughed, addressing them in the common trade tongue. “Being the only person here who can’t speak Hareñol, apparently, I’d appreciate it if we could continue in a language I know.”

“Party-spoiler,” Saphienne chided him, still in Hareñol.

* * *

“You’re a wizard now…” No longer shocked, Felipe was impressed where he strolled with Saphienne at the edge of the clearing. “…Faylar told me as much, but it’s one thing to know, and another to witness. How long as it been since we last met? Only two years?”

“Three — I was seventeen last time.” She nodded to him as they conversed in his native tongue, informally. “We saw each other the year after you were delayed because Cosme was unwell.”

“I remember.” He surveyed his father, busy engaging Filaurel and Faylar with hospitality as prelude to business. “Hard to believe he was so sick. We were told he wouldn’t fully recover, but he insisted on exercising. His leg, it pains him.”

Saphienne had been intending to broach the issue. “Felipe… speaking of his leg…”

“You wish to know what really happened? His stories are all lies.”

“No.” She halted, leaning on her stave with both hands. “I understand that he wants to retire from the roads, but he can’t, not until you have a woodland patron of your own. Faylar also tells me that you declined to be patronised by his aunt.”

Felipe nervously tugged the lapels of his best shirt – worn now, its burgundy better fitted to his figure – as he turned to her. “We’re not ungrateful… his offer was very generous. Too generous.”

“How so?”

“My father once taught me a saying from a distant land: readers do not steal, and thieves do not read.” He grinned. “When we are waylaid on the roads, nobody is interested in books. We may be robbed of our coins, our horses, even our food, but our goods? Those, we are permitted to keep.”

Although Saphienne had known his profession was dangerous, she hadn’t fathomed the full peril. “…Faylar’s aunt trades in magical goods…”

“If we were rich enough to afford her wares, perhaps I’d be tempted.”

She drummed her fingers on the staff. “I checked the decrees concerning trade. Merchants who work with us for many years may receive a parting gift on their final visit, and as long as it isn’t forbidden knowledge or a weapon, the usual restrictions don’t apply.”

The merchant’s son stroked his beard. “What are you proposing?”

“I can’t heal his leg…” Not yet. “…But I could give him a new one. An enchantment, more mobile and comfortable than that peg he hobbles on.”

Dark brown though his gaze, Saphienne could read his emotion. “You… you own such a wonder? You would be willing to part with it?”

“Felipe, I’m quite a skilled wizard: I’ll make him one.”

Staring up at her, the human who scarcely knew her was moved beyond all measure, struggling to repress his feelings lest he unman himself. “I would be eternally in your debt; you would forever have a home in Tenerosa.”

Her lips twisted. “I think not… that’s not an invitation I could ever accept.”

“No,” he agreed, reddening. “Offering one’s home is the highest respect a man can show to ano– to a friend. Nothing else can equal your kindness.”

“I’ll find someone you can trade with.” She didn’t pledge her efforts lightly. “What I need you to do is write down the details of the wound, along with measurements of his stump and his other leg. When he retires, we’ll help him stay healthy.”

“…He will try to refuse you.”

“Let him try: I’ll put on my horns.”

Felipe took her threat so seriously that Saphienne nearly laughed, resuming their walk around the camp’s perimeter to hide her amusement.

She changed topics. “Any news, Felipe?”

A self-aware chuckle preceded his reply. “Not much! Life goes on. Apart from being betrothed now, I’m sorry to say I haven’t–”

Her joy for him interrupted the preliminary negotiations.

* * *

Yet Saphienne had a task to accomplish, and so while Filaurel and Cosme settled down to read, and Felipe regaled Faylar with the full story of how his marriage had been arranged, she slipped from the clearing with Hyacinth and headed eastward.

A mile hence, the bloomkith slid from the stave into the hand which wielded it. “I am unsure this scheme will bear sweet fruit. What shall we do, if he should prove a brute?”

Saphienne didn’t falter. “I’m prepared to fascinate him if he threatens us… and to calm him down, if I have to. I’m not keen to do that, but since he doesn’t count as a person to the Luminary Vale, I wouldn’t have to report my actions.”

“I did not mean to ask–”

“Stop rhyming.” Where they sat together, Saphienne rose from the stained stone and stalked onto the endless field. “I know what you’re asking, Hyacinth. If I can’t persuade him, then I’ll warn him what’s to follow; that will be all we can do.”

“And if they should refuse to flee? What then?”

The snowflakes glittering above the flowers began to dust the library. “We can’t defend them. I’m sorry.”

“Fairest and kindest of dragons…” Hyacinth went after her, cupping her scaled cheek and drawing her into an embrace. “…Could we not make them fly before the wardens?”

Saphienne nudged the bloomkith with her horns. “I won’t use my magic like that. Protecting myself and alleviating distress are the only compulsions I’ll risk… I shouldn’t have taken Iolas’ agency from him. Doing the same to the goblins would be wrong.”

“If the choice is between life and death–”

“What kind of life?” Syndelle flashed through their cojoined thoughts. “What point is there in living, if we can’t choose for ourselves? That way lies horror. I don’t want any part in it — I won’t fascinate people who disagree with us.”

“…I am afraid for them, Saphienne. Afraid for them, and for you.”

In the shade of her raised hood, their shared eyes burned. “Then no more hypotheticals: let’s confront our dread.”

* * *

Sacrilege was impossible for Saphienne. She nevertheless felt guilty as she arrived at the shrine to Our Lady of the Balanced Scales, murmuring an apology to Laelansa in the novice’s absence as she borrowed the sickle.

Hyacinth made fun of her false reverence.

As they followed the path the bloomkith had scouted, Saphienne invoked the thrumming sigil that made her speech innately comprehensible to spirits, replicating the effect previously bestowed by the enchanted choker she’d been loaned by Filaurel. Her final change was to let down her tresses, restyling her locks in imitation of her younger self.

Would she be recognised? The bread she carried in her pocket – deeper than ought have been possible thanks to Translocation – gave her hope.

Hyacinth recognised the oak tree before Saphienne, older and taller than the magician recalled where it clung to exposed rock. The ground dipped on the far side, and Saphienne used her staff for balance as she clambered down the slope.

They paused before the mouth of the goblin’s burrow. Saphienne pushed the stave into the earth so that it might stand, wishing it could take root like a Staff of Bloomkiths. She awkwardly freed the loaf from her pocket, holding it as she’d once held another offering, turning the sickle so that its cutting edge pointed behind herself.

Then? Saphienne softly sang an elven hymn, taught to her by Laelansa.

… In time of flame, we prayed not for fires

Whose wisdom showeth our tongues be liars?

In time of flood, we asked not for rain

Whose tears yet washeth away our pain? …

She recited the verses to the goddess with all the passion she could evoke; Hyacinth joined in, to steady her voice.

Before they had concluded, a squat figure in yellow crept from the hidden shrine, mesmerised by the divine vision that had descended to answer his prayers.

* * *

“Elf is goblin! Goblin is elf!”

He spoke, and she reflected.

“Give is get! Get is give!”

Even with her spell to translate words she didn’t know, Saphienne struggled to make sense of what he expressed.

“Goblin eat food-food! Goblin get goblin!”

Urged to follow, she crawled after him into the den, let him perform the myth that had inspired him, tracing its thread through her past.

“Elf kill goblin! Goblin fear elf. Goblin want-want eat. Goblin get food. Food is elf. Elf see goblin. Elf is Saph. Saph… is elf? Saph… give food? Goblin fear Saph. Goblin bite-bite Saph!”

He sprang back and forth before the leftmost painting, miming the events she’d lived through as he moved to the middle.

“Saph is elf. Elf kill goblin? Saph want no! Kill is no! Saph give food. Saph give food-food!”

He sank down, frilled ears low upon his shoulders.

“Goblin fear Saph. Goblin get shiny. Shiny is Saph. Saph give no. Goblin get yes. Goblin is no-no.”

Shuffling to the rightmost depiction, he concluded his tale.

“Goblin bite Saph. Saph is elf. Elf kill goblin. Goblin fear elf.” His eyes fell shut, his recitation become sorrowful. “Goblin is sad. Saph give food. Saph get bite. Goblin give no. Goblin get shiny. Saph get no. Goblin is no-no.” He held up his hand before the ruddied loop smeared on the stone. “Goblin is sad. Goblin give shiny. Elf kill-kill goblin? Goblin give-give shiny.”

And yet, when his eyelids rose, his gaze was bright.

“Elf… is no? Kill is no?” He advanced with rising zeal. “Saph give food. Goblin get food. Saph give food-food! Food is yes-yes! Saph give yes-yes.”

The little priest held up his hands in supplication to his presumed goddess.

“Get is-is give; give is-is get. Saph is elf; Saph is goblin. Elf is-is goblin; goblin is-is elf. Goblin is hungry; yes-yes is food! Goblin eat food-food; goblin get goblin.”

Then he bowed, his piety no less sincere for his imitation of what he had seen elven pilgrims do before their shrine.

* * *

“…He believes Our Lady of the Balanced Scales is you…”

“I know.”

“…He believes you’ve given your doctrine to the goblins…”

“Yes.”

“…What will you do?”

* * *

“…Goblin is yes-yes.” She held out her hand. “Saph want goblin.”

Trembling, he stretched his finger out to touch her own.

Saphienne took his clammy palm. “Saph teach goblin. Teach is give. Teach give yes-yes. Goblin get teach?”

“Goblin get yes,” he answered, transfixed. “Saph teach goblin.”

“Goblin see Saph.” She tugged on his hand as she backed from the den.

He went meekly, only resisting when they neared the vibrant yellow canopy of the elven shrine. “Goblin see day? Elf see goblin! Elf kill goblin. Saph want night?”

She squeezed his hand. “Saph want day. Elf kill no. Goblin trust Saph. Trust is give. Trust is see.”

“…Trust is yes. Goblin trust Saph.”

She brought him to the icon, bowing before she returned the sickle to it. “Goblin sit yes. Saph teach goblin.”

His motley garment bunched under him as he huddled at her feet; he was hushed in anticipation.

Taking a deep breath, Saphienne placed her hand on the foot of the statue. “Stone is Saph? Stone is no. Stone is god.”

“…Saph is god?”

“Saph is no.”

Hyacinth ceased dwelling in Saphienne, and the goblin quailed to see her vision greening as the spirit quit her body.

“Saph is elf.” She knelt before him. “God is yes-yes. God is elf; god is goblin. God teach Saph; Saph teach goblin. Goblin teach goblin?”

Terrified, he began to crawl backwards. “…Saph is elf…”

“Saph is Saph!” She repeated his prayer back to him. “Goblin is yes! Get is-is give; give is-is get. Saph is elf; Saph is goblin. Elf is-is goblin; goblin is-is elf. Goblin is hungry; yes-yes is food! Goblin eat food-food; goblin get goblin.”

Shaken, he hesitated.

“God teach Saph. God give food-food. Saph teach goblin.” She bit her lip. “Please?”

“…Please…” An ear twitched. “…Please is want?”

“Please is want. Please is trust.”

He considered the proposition with every fibre of his being. “Please is want. Please is trust. Trust is give. Trust is see. Give is get. Saph want goblin? Saph want…”

Were so much not depending on their exchange, the throbbing of the veins upon his brow would have struck Saphienne as comical.

“…God is yes. God give food-food. God teach Saph. Saph give food-food. Saph want teach? Saph give… god? Goblin get god?”

Her smile was encouraging. “Goblin is yes!”

He sagged on the grass, massaging his ears. “Saph teach goblin; goblin hurt yes.”

“Saph want no. Saph is sad.”

That earned something wonderous: his toothy smile. “Elf is sad? Elf is no.”

“Saph is sad!”

“Saph… is-is goblin.” He affirmed his faith. “Saph is-is Kob.”

“…Goblin is Kob?”

“Saph is yes,” answered Kob.

* * *

They talked for hours, expanding upon the tentative trust they’d established, Kob bending his every effort to deciphering concepts for which he had no reference.

He wasn’t stupid. Constrained by the language in which he could think, he stole glimpses of her meaning wherever he could, puzzling out what she laboured to simplify through their deepening rapport. Kob fought his own frustrations, refusing to let understanding slip through his finely webbed fingers.

He was, however, intensely superstitious, and he struggled with abstract ideas. Convincing him to trust her intentions was made challenging by his prior encounters with spirits, along with his lack of exposure to elven culture.

Still, Saphienne had a wizard’s patience…

…Which Kob ultimately rewarded, when he consented – fearfully – to possession.

End of Chapter 132