Chapter 144 – An Archon |
Intervention by Hyacinth was not immediate. The bloomkith would spend a week examining the mind of Lynnariel in exacting detail before she returned to Saphienne, who had no recourse but to trust in the judgement of her beloved blossoms.
Yet there were clues all was proceeding as agreed. Two days after their reunion, Saphienne arrived home from the tent pavilion to find her mother had potted fresh flowers in the sitting room, purple monkshoods that were out of season. When Sundamar questioned Lynnariel about them – clearly suspicious – she said they’d been growing in the garden.
“With all this snow, I’ve had flowers on my mind lately.”
Saphienne was sent to her bedroom and told to close the door; she wanted to put her ear against it, but not enough to risk exposure. Downstairs she could hear Sundamar repeating a word three times, though he was too muffled for her to know what he said, and she was left to puzzle over it until Hyacinth visited again.
* * *
“We believe we know: he was calling on our sister who watches the house from midday until midnight.” Hyacinth-Saphienne gazed over the dreamed field of blossoms in contemplation, perched on the steps with her back turned to her imaginary self. “He would have been trained to watch for spiritual intrusion, and invoked Barefoot to make sure the flowers were her doing.”
Saphienne – another dream – hummed. “I don’t know that name… but I remember a spirit of monkshoods when we were confronted by your sisters in the garden, and my intuition is that Faylar was possessed by the same during the summer solstice.”
“You guess correctly.” Hyacinth-Saphienne traced the petals that had replaced the missing scales that ought to have covered her arm. “Barefoot is religious, as you might tell by her chosen alias; yet that name is not without self-deprecation. Ever since Saphienne forgave her for participating in the confrontation, she has withdrawn from the choruses of her sisters, dedicating herself to watching over our mother.”
“I wondered.” The dragon clicked her claws upon the stained stone. “She insisted she participate in watching me, didn’t she?”
The clicking stopped. “…Hyacinth made contact with her?”
“She spoke with her when she returned from the First Vale.” Turning to the projection, Hyacinth-Saphienne smiled, her yellow-green eyes confident. “Spire urged Hyacinth to flee the woodlands; she cares more for her safety than for obedience to the likes of Mother Oak. She will not tell Gaelyn.”
This appeared to mollify the apparition. “What do you know of the other spirits watching Saphienne?”
“Tulip keeps vigil at the house when Barefoot is resting.” Contempt welled up from her roots. “She led her sisters against Saphienne, and would take pleasure in exposing us. When Saphienne visits the pavilion, Holly keeps watch–”
“Holly?” Saphienne blinked. “From the Shrine to Our Lord of the Endless Hunt? Nelathiel’s friend and lover?”
Petals grey with sad honesty, Hyacinth-Saphienne folded her arms on the steps and leant her cheek upon them as she answered. “Hyacinth warned Saphienne: Holly would set horns upon her brow, should a hunt be called. She believed the tale of madness spun by Tolduin. She is not as vicious as Tulip, but she is not our ally.”
Evident disappointment made the magician rise, climbing to peer up into the clouds that snowed upon the fields. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Betrayal is common currency among elves — both of principles and of people; why would spirits be any different? Yet it stings all the same.”
“Let this soothe you: Lynnariel sent her love to Saphienne.”
Laughing, the dragon turned. “But of course! How did Hyacinth find her?”
“Enlightening.” Hyacinth-Saphienne sat up. “Her mind is alike yet unalike that which we used to possess; still, the similarity is unmistakable. She conceives of herself as sitting in the window of a room from her childhood.”
Saphienne was grinning. “The tree bequeaths its roots to its saplings… what about within? Did she consent to Hyacinth walking with her?”
“For her daughter’s sake; though she was afraid at first, Lynnariel would do anything for us, now more than ever.” Hyacinth-Saphienne’s petals grew pink, full of loving warmth and happiness. “Her patterns are different to those we once read in ourself, but the brain that embodies them is draconic. We believe we understand the full extent of the damage done, and how healing might be achieved.”
Descending, the reflection sat beside her possessed self, sliding her tail around that flowering waist. “Explain the structure.”
“Lynnariel’s brain is not clearly divided into areas with specific function in the way that an elf’s would be; while there are divisions, each division matches the same arrangement as the whole, containing similar divisions in miniature. Thoughts ripple from within to without — small sparks arising into storms of lightning.”
Saphienne frowned. “Then, how did damage to only one part affect my hand?”
“The flow is key: we believe the breaking of the pattern disabled us… disabled Saphienne.”
“And what of now?” She gestured to the floral dragon’s head. “How does Saphienne’s present damage compare?”
Stems stirred all across the field, waving in the wind of intense, introspective concentration; Hyacinth-Saphienne felt through her own flesh. “…The root of our mind remains as it was before, but is scarred over. Thoughts cannot easily emerge. What grows above the scarring is deformed to fit what would be natural for an elf, and new growth around these imposed shapes attempts to replicate the absent harmony. The sparks that flow through them are unable to storm.”
“As I expected: my lower mind is intact, but divided from my higher, which was twisted by Tolduin’s healing.” Saphienne inclined her horned brow. “But there is communication between them?”
“Through sensation… sensation triggers large flashes in suppressed memory, and the suppressed patterns thereby influence those above.” Hyacinth-Saphienne massaged her temples. “Our intuition is that the sculptor does not alter the overall structure, but changes the way thoughts unfold by rearranging precise connections in memory and emotion.”
This satisfied the magician. “I see how it works. Active Fascination spells change the mental associations between symbols; a sculptor achieves the same effect – permanently – by physically and subtly sculpting elven brains. Being a dragon allowed me to resist him, and was why I started haemorrhaging… if he hadn’t cast those healing spells…”
“Our mind would never have submitted to the sculptor, and his persistence meant that death would have soon followed.”
Saphienne’s tail constricted. “Death comes in many forms… but we will discuss that when I’m restored.”
Disconcerted, Hyacinth-Saphienne said nothing as the dragon relinquished her and bent down to run her claws over the blooms at their feet.
“…I need to test my hypothesis. Tolduin will return in another week or so.” She stood, balancing on the balls of her taloned feet. “I presume you intend to start with the uppermost scarring, removing the impediments that hold Saphienne’s brain in elven shape?”
“Where the scarring is mildest, yes.”
“Tonight, break down the smallest of those scars. Go no further until Tolduin has visited.” She crossed her arms. “Observe each night, and make sure regrowth is occurring as anticipated. Don’t try to accelerate it: we don’t know what effect accelerating natural healing will have while the scars are in place.”
“Why wait for Tolduin?”
“Because I need to be sure he can’t notice the difference when he uses the sculptor.” She bent to kiss blooming brow, then strode up the steps. “After I see him, wait until Saphienne’s been to the studio before possessing her; good luck, my love.”
* * *
The following morning Saphienne woke up with an enduring headache; she was otherwise unaffected by the treatment. After a long day, Hyacinth-Saphienne confirmed that the tiny wound she’d reopened hadn’t enlarged — nor had it shrank, finding no evidence that she was healing.
But the headache was gone when next the sun rose, and that night Saphienne discovered that sounding out the words in her book was easier. She still couldn’t combine the individual letters, but she felt her progress, and didn’t need to wait for Hyacinth to know she was beginning to mend.
Part of her was impatient for recovery. She channelled that into her reading, and by the end of the week she amazed her mother by identifying a word: ‘toad.’
* * *
The worst part about going to visit Tolduin was that, if he did notice what Hyacinth had done, she might never regain the awareness necessary to know it.
* * *
Blankness; rage; relief.
* * *
Walking while asleep, but not sleepwalking, Hyacinth-Saphienne drew herself together — and was immediately accosted by the hallucinated magician, who swept her up and spun her on the steps in wild glee.
“I was right!” Saphienne laughed as she set her present self and the bloomkith down. “We were right! Tolduin is completely ignorant about the structure of Saphienne’s brain: he can only see what the enchantment shows him, and the sculptor just translates content. So long as she goes along with his narrative, he’s clueless!”
Blushing crimson in petal, and then a confused medley of colours as she contemplated the bizarreness of attraction to a fantasy within herself, Hyacinth-Saphienne grinned. “Then we may begin healing in earnest?”
“Almost.” Saphienne’s claws held her waist. “I need to plan for how my recovery will unfold. If Tolduin sees too much progress too quickly he’ll be suspicious, and I won’t be able to feign impairment in the immediate aftermath of his visits. I need a way to trigger my return right after he’s finished with the sculptor.”
“We do not see how this can be done… working with our hands is required.”
The dragon flashed her fangs. “Is it? You said it’s sensation stirring memory — and Hyacinth can manipulate memories, can’t she? She received recollections from Tyrnansunna, gave a copy of them to Celaena, and then later removed them.”
Hyacinth-Saphienne narrowed her eyes. “What are you scheming?”
Sitting, the vibrant woman with a serpentine gaze hunched forward. “That depends on the particulars of what I need to know. Tell me all about cuttings of memories…”
* * *
Whether the solution was actively imagined by Saphienne or conveyed to her conscious mind from the depths of herself, what mattered was that it was simple, elegant, and could be trialled without hazard.
Visualised as clippings from flowers or trees, what Hyacinth and her sisters traded in were arrangements between symbols. What was conveyed relied on the experience of the recipient to interpret, which was why receiving knowledge that way was inferior to learning firsthand. Young spirits couldn’t truly comprehend memories of elven bodies until they had the context of possessing an elf.
Crucially, fabricating memories was difficult but possible. Hyacinth had never been taught the method – the ancient ways prohibited the practice – and needed to experiment with Saphienne, cultivating budding fragments of the past and clipping them, then grafting them together within herself. Several nights passed before she was able to implant a false memory that settled deep into her master.
Saphienne intellectually recognised the deception; she nevertheless enjoyed reminiscing about when she’d shared chocolates with Kylantha.
From there, all Hyacinth had to do was combine the feelings of several powerful moments into one, together with the recollection of a diminishing, sickly light…
* * *
“We’re done for today, Saphienne.”
Blankness; rage; satisfaction.
“Go down to Sundamar. Let him take you home, and I’ll see you in another four weeks.”
* * *
Months drifted by, became seasons. Saphienne celebrated her twenty-third birthday with Lynnariel and Sundamar, pretending to appreciate their company while secretly caring only for the companionship of her mother.
She relearned how to read. Her outward performance suggested she was glacial and faltering, but despite having slowed from her youthful pace, inwardly she was nearly as fast as Celaena had been. Her thoughts were also quicker to arrive, and she could once more make direct inferences comfortably.
Still, while she estimated her cognition was below average in capacity, she was sharper than she’d been in years. That let her scrutinise the subjective experience of the transmutation when Tolduin used the sculptor, gaining a feel for how it behaved, even trying to test her influence over its effect — deliberately racing ahead of the priest.
His admonishment of her impatience was stern but amused. Clearly reading with her mother was doing her good, for all that it had brought back a little youthful impertinence.
Step by step, Saphienne pursued her restoration, letting only a small measure be witnessed by the people around her. She left planning for the future to her unconscious self, trusting that she would be informed when she was ready to proceed.
* * *
However, quite apart from Tolduin and Almon, there was another who closely tracked her progress.
“… I still need to check.” Sundamar was outside the studio, having been sitting in the summer bright.
“Then hurry up.”
Recognising the second speaker made Saphienne’s guts seize and her head swim, sudden nausea unbalancing her where she leant on her chisel and quickly set down her thin hammer. Her pulse pounded her thoughts to pieces; dread swallowed her whole.
“Will you always be like this?” Filaurel’s scorn for Sundamar was palpable despite the distance. “Tolduin will only let me see her once a year; must you be so tedious?”
“You’re on the list of people I’ve to watch for.”
“How lovely! Are you done?”
Deep breaths; Saphienne forced herself to calm through sheer will alone. She was a better liar than she felt — she wouldn’t be caught. The sculptor kept her gaze on the frog, resuming her rote work as the librarian entered.
“Hello Saphienne.” Filaurel forced herself to be cheerful as she approached. “Do you remember me?”
Thankful for the ponderous pauses she’d maintained, Saphienne swallowed her bile before she responded, keeping her tone level. “Yes.”
“I heard from Almon that you’ve started reading.” A smile carried in her betrayer’s voice. “He said you liked the books I brought you.”
Not being asked a question gave the artisan of frogs an excuse not to reply, and she used the awkward lull to wrestle her raring hatred into submission.
“…I brought you another gift.” Wood upon wood — something set down where the pile of books had previously lain. “I hope you like it. I hope you’ll practice every day.”
She couldn’t bring herself to look. “Thank you.”
Filaurel stepped close; her touch would have made Saphienne flinch, had the dragon’s scaled heart not hardened in anticipation. “You used to have beautiful handwriting.”
“Filaurel…” Sundamar cautioned.
“I’m going.” With a sigh that breathed unhappiness across Saphienne’s shoulders, the librarian retreated, moving toward the door. There she hovered, attention returning to the woman she had once mentored. “Saphienne, please keep getting better. I know you’re not allowed to visit, but if you want any books from the–”
“That’s enough.” Sundamar was stern.
“Be–” Her voice cracked. “…Be well, Saphienne.”
No matter how sorrowful Filaurel contrived to appear, Saphienne wouldn’t be tricked into sympathising. Even were the librarian sincere in her regret, she was responsible for so many years of suffering — even before she had delivered the magician to Tolduin. Without the moderating influence of the false apostate, Saphienne might have rescued Kylantha…
Tears of grief and fury threatened to flow. The dragon shut her eyes, continuing to cut by feel as she centred herself.
There was no need to examine the gift to know it was a calligraphy kit.
* * *
Come autumn, encouraged by Lynnariel and Almon, she could write in a clear if inelegant hand. Were she free to practice with her best effort there was every chance she could come to equal the penmanship of Iolas… yet even were her prior skill restored, Saphienne doubted she would ever write anything as beautiful and moving as the poem Thessa had passed to her.
Reading that had been challenging. At first she couldn’t understand why Sundamar hadn’t confiscated the verse, only to notice he was studying her as she silently moved her lips, seeking to determine whether any ghost of herself was invoked by the epitaph. She’d consequently furrowed her brow and acted as though confused, returning it to the bench in disinterest.
Wherever Iolas was, she hoped he’d found freedom.
* * *
Her own escape was yet far off.
“I still can’t feel my magic,” she complained to Hyacinth, pacing the widened steps in unrestrainable agitation. Her horns were budding and dull scales covered her arms, but her claws and talons remained intolerably blunt, her tail inarticulate, her teeth too unthreatening.
“Though healing comes,” the bloomkith offered, “it comes so very slow. Have patience, love: your mastery will show.”
Saphienne scowled at her rhyming. “I’m at least as smart as Sundamar now, probably equal to that sorcerer who captured me with him. Why can’t I feel anything? Even if I can’t make sense of the theory, I should be able to perceive the presence of active spells and enchantments.”
“Are you so sure?” The devoted spirit beckoned. “For I am not. Before you woke to your great gift, no jot of magic could you sense. Perchance it shall return in kind? Erupt from trance?”
Rolling her eyes, Saphienne joined Hyacinth, leaning into the loving embrace. “That wouldn’t be good. As much as I’d like to burst into flames… I need to be undetected by Tolduin and Almon.”
“You shall remain concealed.” Hyacinth lifted her chin; she studied her face as she read her passions. “Consult yourself?”
The dragon sagged. “I’m too… frustrated. Seeing how I was will only upset–”
Silencing her with a kiss, Hyacinth pressed her back onto the stone as she responded with ardour, straddling her lap before their mouths parted. The bloomkith’s gaze glittered with more than gold. “Then let me douse your fire.”
Saphienne shivered. “…No more rhyming…”
The spirit grinned as she pressed forward. “Not with words… with other sounds, I make no promises…”
Their coupling was no less cathartic in sleep.
* * *
Saphienne lay on the field, her cheek upon Hyacinth’s bosom.
“…I’d be lost without you. This is the loneliest I’ve ever been. The more I’m becoming myself again, the harder it is to do the same things every day.”
Petals caressed her brow. “I feel alike. Even with a burrowed passage of roots, to venture out into the vale is to risk being spotted. I steal glimpses of sunshine…” The bloomkith laughed sweetly. “…And steal the same at night, when I lie with you.”
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“When I’m whole,” Saphienne vowed, “we’ll go to Tenerosa. You can weave a shell from the roses, and we’ll dance together. The sky will be…” She struggled to choose words that suited the sentiment.
“Blue.” Hyacinth inhaled at the thought. “Cloudless. Unfettered by branch or leaf, with a fresh wind that carries not the songs of my sisters or elves. There, I will become your familiar, and thread blossoms through your hair each morning, and drink from your depths each night.”
She laughed. “Whatever will the humans think of us?”
“I will not care.” The spirit’s stroking ceased. “I care only for two people…”
Saphienne closed her eyes. “…She abandoned us, Hyacinth. Left us to go wildling through the woods. Her faith was always more important to her than we were.”
“I do not think so.” Overhead, the clouds grew thicker. “She was as leal to you as I; Laelansa would have left the woodlands in time. I cannot believe she has accepted what was done to you…”
“Celaena said she killed Audacity.”
“And that she was compelled.” Hyacinth’s falling snow was wet. “If she slew the drake at all, she did not bow down to threat, but struck in love for you.”
Saphienne’s tail thumped the flowers. “Love?!”
“To win reprieve.” Tranquil, the bloomkith whispered her wish. “To lie in wait.”
“…You read yourself into her.”
“I may.” Her exhalation deepened the drifts around them. “Or perhaps she was taken when they came to our home for your second spellbook, and they placed on her a hidden fascination. Such evil would be thought a kindness by the Luminary Vale.”
Picturing that scared Saphienne. “If she’s been enslaved by them, we’ll save her…”
Hyacinth squeezed her arm.
“And then I’ll kill them all.”
At that, the spirit’s grip eased. “…I have kept my peace, but this retribution does not belong to the woman I know.”
“I’m not who I was.” Saphienne didn’t hear disapproval. “I see clearly now. I let elves fill my head with pretty nonsense, lulling me into inaction with their sophistry and apologies for wrong. They tamed me.” She rose with her ire, smouldering with disdain as she looked down on Hyacinth across her shoulder. “All their talk about justice and compassion was hypocrisy, and all their philosophies were just chains to constrain me. I’m a dragon! My blood demands I impose myself upon the world — and I ceded myself to them, falling to their level.”
Quiet, searching, Hyacinth spoke gently. “You are badly hurt. This is your grief that speaks to me.”
“Don’t you want revenge?” She shifted around. “Don’t you want to avenge me?”
“…I would have for you what we gave to Tyrnansunna. Vengeance is owed, but retribution is pointless unless you flourish in the aftermath.” She worried at her petals. “Nor do I think Taerelle should suffer with her peers.”
“They all make the woodlands this way; they’re all guilty.”
Hyacinth sat up. “Saphienne, my love… you are impaired. Even when you were an apprentice, nuance was not a nuisance to be discounted.”
Flushing with anger–
“You are my beloved; you are my master.”
…Saphienne let her breath vent her heat. “I don’t feel impaired. My innermost self wants this, too. But I trust you to know me better than I do… at least for now.”
Linking fingers with her, Hyacinth kissed her hand. “Let us consult with her?”
There was no purpose in prevarication. She assented to the ingress of the hyacinths.
* * *
Hyacinth-Saphienne was both thrilled and dismayed to conjure the illusory dragon, feeling happiness to witness her resplendence, and bitterness at what had been deprived from her through violence.
“… Saphienne is not wrong.” The magician’s horns dazzled where she perched atop the steps, surveying all before her as her dominion. “I will have revenge. Yet Hyacinth is not mistaken either: while I yet remain only a shade of myself, my rage and my loathing burn hotter than the sun. What will appease my wrath remains undecided.”
Vindicated twice over, Hyacinth-Saphienne let that future sleep. “Then let us talk about other concerns. Nearly all the scarring is cleared — only the deepest layer remains. Yet despite this,” she continued, “we feel nothing of the magic that surrounds us.”
“As anticipated.” Her smile was pleased with herself. “Wizards may claim to pursue the Great Art through logic and reason, but all magicians sail upon a sea of ignorance, and are most ignorant of themselves. Reason and passion combine in the best art. Without the part of Saphienne that gives rise to me, she is divested of what makes her all she can be.”
This troubled the petalled woman. “Then we are at an impasse…”
Saphienne chuckled. “Hyacinth is afraid to touch the foundational scars, isn’t she?”
“…We do not know how.” She plucked a blossom from between her scales, turning it over in distraction. “The structures that grow above are draconic, but no longer the same as they once were. To merely recombine them with what lies unsullied may not result in the end we desire. Added to which–”
“The scarring is much thicker, and you don’t know where to start.”
Hyacinth-Saphienne tilted her head. “This you foresaw?”
“I’ve not been idle.” The remnant of the prodigy flicked her claws, and her fanning hair rearranged to form a long braid. “To spin a metaphor, throughout all the time that Saphienne spent considering the subjective experience of the sculptor, I was leaning over her shoulder, taking notes. Shall I share my hypothesis?”
Lowering on the field, Hyacinth-Saphienne nodded.
“The shapes you’ve been dismantling thus far were caused by the healing spells.” Saphienne rose to stalk back and forth, reminiscent of her lectures to Iolas and Celaena. “But why would the healing spells divide my brain? I’ve intimated this, but to say it explicitly: I put that division in place.”
Hyacinth-Saphienne’s mouth fell open. “…You scarred yourself?”
“Not consciously.” She airily gestured with the tip of her tail. “My draconic resistance to transmutation, together with my mastery of the underlying spellcraft, allowed me to do something that the designer of the sculptor never intended. Just for a moment, I intuitively wrested control of the enchantment from Tolduin, and redirected its effects to parts of my mind it was never meant to touch.” Her arms spread wide as she pirouetted. “I reinforced my defences! And when he resumed his assault, at the moment my mind failed, I did it a second time, sealing Kylantha away where the sculptor wouldn’t see.”
“…How…”
“The same way I always perform magic.” She stopped to bow. “Through insight born from intuition! Probably advantaged by my wyrd, to give Lonareath her due.”
“…Incredible.” Longing for the faculties she no longer had, Hyacinth-Saphienne shook herself as she moved to kneel on the steps. “Then, if you are its architect, how are we to undo this? Where should Hyacinth–”
“She shouldn’t.” Straightening, Saphienne paced down. “Your surmise of the situation is apt; even were she to break down the wall, natural regeneration wouldn’t unify what was sundered. There is only one approach that can possibly work, and while it requires aid from Hyacinth, ultimately, she isn’t who must undo what has been done.”
Her roots quailed; her heart soared. “…Saphienne.”
“She must contest Tolduin to reshape herself.”
“But he will see!”
How devious – and how predatory – her smile! “Will he, now?”
* * *
Frosts heralded winter by the time their preparations were in place. Despite Saphienne’s commitment to the plan, Hyacinth resisted, repulsed by the proposal that she mar what she had strove to mend.
Yet what recourse did she have? Her master commanded; she could only obey.
Myrinel commented that Saphienne had regressed. Sundamar concurred, and after Almon examined her the wizard was pale and weary. Were it not for her faith in her daughter, Lynnariel would have been despondent. Meanwhile, Tolduin saw nothing unusual during their appointed meeting, and attributed her decline to ineffable, divine will.
Gaeleath was philosophical. “Saphienne has never once been predictable. Don’t tell Almon, but I suspect she might yet surprise her priest.”
Within, she was counting on that.
* * *
On the eve of her next visit with Tolduin, before bedtime and the arrival of Hyacinth for the penultimate step, she tried to read by herself in her room, tinted by the seductive pink glow of the fascinator.
Her former self sat with her on the floor. “This will work… but you’re afraid of that, aren’t you?”
She dared to nod.
“Poor me.” The dragon slid an arm around her back. “Poor, fragmented me. Would it console you to know that I feel the same? Once this is over, Saphienne will never daydream about me again…” The horned head hung. “…And I know we’re the same person, same as you, but that doesn’t diminish the instinct to keep living. I expect it’s worse for you — I’m made from imagination, but you inhabit flesh and blood.”
Her eyes watered.
“Don’t cry.” She was hugged. “You won’t be alone. Hyacinth will be with you… and I’ll be going on ahead. We’ll be together as Saphienne. We’ll look back on this moment fondly — and we’ll laugh at how silly we were!”
Slight though that comfort, she savoured it still.
* * *
Perfectly obedient, blank in gaze, she climbed the stairs from the parlour without worry and waited to be told what to do next.
“Good morning Saphienne.” Tolduin was at ease where he sat across the table. “Be seated; let us begin.”
She folded her hands neatly in her lap. As the malignant green lit her eyes, there was no possibility of resistance.
* * *
‘Twas brilliant, and the sylvan boughs did gyre and gambol in the day! White upon unending blue the empyrean, sage the swaying trees, cornucopian in colour the flowers twining underfoot. Alike the little clouds joying in the sky, children frolicked in the glade, carefree in their unruly laughter, beloved by forest fair and sun supremely kind …
On shone the kind sun on the happy girl who cavorted with Laelansa, her story wholesome and wonderful, imparting an enviable elven childhood.
Compare that pleasant day to another, complementary tale. See her joyous in the glade, yes, but behold her shadow on the grass, faintly perceptible, cast by sunlight. Every sweet delight of the daytime is paired with an unvanquishable night, and so in this impression could be found all that the glorious rays had banished: all uncertainty, all doubt, every painful memory that had no place in a child of the woodlands.
There was no need for concern. The shadow didn’t trouble her. How could it? Wherever the light gilded, no darkness could touch.
That was why – when the elf raced off – her barely present silhouette lingered in place in the glade, unable to keep pace. There it would stay, pinned.
Until, of course, the sun that shone for her moved on.
Come then darkness to gather in the ambiguous twilight, all that was negative converging into contour as a child who was not familiar to the day arose. She crouched in the dim glade, furtive amid the ghosts that were revealed as like by mournful moonlight, composing herself beneath their stares.
“This can work,” Saphienne told herself as she crept through gloom toward the village. “This has to work.”
Nearing the centre–
… Enjoying the feeling of her hair being stroked through and lifted, Saphienne nodded, then blushed when Laelansa scolded her for moving, and sat unnaturally still for a few minutes more. No one paid them any mind — or at least, the ones who noticed them only smiled and cooed and waved, happy to see the picturesque scene of two girls at play …
–She hid behind a tree. The grove ahead was glaring, bathed in summertime, festival garlands decorating the trees and stalls between which jubilant elves thronged.
And illuminating the scene?
Tolduin was the radiant sun.
“Pompous prick,” Saphienne sneered. “Might as well style yourself a god…”
His focus went elsewhere, and she bolted through the now empty grove, acutely aware that every moment counted as she ran for the library and up the enshrouded steps.
Inside, she found the front desk vacant, no patrons to slow her rush through the children’s shelves or shush her as she read aloud the sections.
“…Numbers, music, maps, language…” She intentionally repeated her past, honing the weapon she had forged in desperation. “…Art, animals!”
‘All About Amphibians’ was heavy in her small arms. She clutched it to her breast as she retraced her steps to the door–
… Long did they play games, made welcome by the kindly elves who in sooth were gleeful accomplices to their meandering betwixt the high tables. Laelansa gave great account of herself with throwing, winning Saphienne’s esteem …
–And threw herself flat on the floor below the high sills of the windows, narrowly avoiding the glare that swept the panes.
She couldn’t delay. Saphienne crawled across the floor on her belly, imitating the serpents with whom she kept kinship, refusing to bask in the warmth of the daylight.
“Somewhere he won’t ever go.” She shoved through the doors and bounded down the steps as she concentrated. “Somewhere that, even if he does look, he won’t want to stay. Somewhere I’m welcome and he definitely isn’t.”
An answer presented itself. She veered away and cut through the gardens beside the teahouse, treading on the flowerbeds as she angled for the workshop.
Pounding on the door so hard that it flew open, Saphienne stumbled through into the austere space at the back — and skidded to a halt, bewildered by what she saw working the bellows of the small forge.
“You shouldn’t be surprised,” murmured Eletha, hazy behind her black veil. “You seek to dissuade Tolduin. Who else but I will stir up all his fears?”
Her narrative demanded authenticity; Saphienne bowed low to her former master. “No one else came to my defence. I have no other to turn to. Eletha, please: will you shelter me? Will you protect me?”
The jeweller ceased her labour. “…On one condition. Remember the promise you made to me.”
Saphienne blinked. “Even now?”
“Commit yourself to honouring it,” declared the ancient, “and you will give me meaning enough to oppose that trifling youth. Either I matter to you or I do not; either I am real to you, or Tolduin will see through my façade.” She clasped her hands together. “Which do you choose?”
She heard the hissing of the grains that fell through the hourglass in the parlour.
“…I will uphold my promise. A favour of your choosing: only what I would be willing and able to do.”
Saphienne’s teacher lifted her veil to expose her sea-green gaze. “Our pact is affirmed once more.” She pointed to the bare wall beside herself. “You may hide yourself through there. Go now.”
There was no door, nor room beyond. “…How?”
“Remember the songs.”
The sculptor who would sculpt herself smiled as she beheld the key, so plainly obvious in hindsight. She placed her left hand on the stone – raised to ward against errant sparks cast by ceaseless toiling – and sang as Gaeleath had taught her, sang as Taerelle had encouraged her, sang words that only a dragon could sing, commanding rock to yield itself before fire that did not show in flame alone.
The wall warped, a gap opening under her palm, growing to reveal steps that plunged into a void that yawned to devour all offerings–
… Alack! ‘Twas inevitable that Saphienne and Laelansa were to part for a time.
“I’m going with Wynalia to the Vale of the White River.” Saddened, Laelansa embraced Saphienne by the lapping lake, draped in autumn’s rosy lament …
–Eletha lifted her hammer. “Go.”
Saphienne crossed through the aperture, and it closed behind her, swallowing her to shut out the reaching illumination.
* * *
My candle burned alone in an immense valley.Beams of the huge night converged upon it,Until the wind blew.
Then beams of the huge nightConverged upon its image,Until the wind blew.
* * *
The steps did not spiral. Her descent was straight and true.
Saphienne lost touch with the hour, going down into the dark without reference by which to judge. Her unshod feet were soundless, but even had she footsteps to hear they would not have echoed, for the rock on which she stood extended freely through the abyss.
Eventually, she discerned a pattering ahead.
Fluid thicker than water fell in a thin stream onto the middle of the steps, coppery in scent and warm where it struck her outstretched hand. She craned to see from whence it poured, shocked to see a speck far overhead where other steps were floating — broken, shattered, yet intimately recognisable.
She was passing under where her library had stood.
Mindful that she carried a book, she slid it under her clothes and hunched forward, bowing as she passed through the spill and carried on, following now a line of blood that had marked her and her course.
On and on, down and down. The flow slowed to a trickle.
And then? There were no more steps. Beads dripped from the edge and fell into nothingness without end.
Her neck ached as she glanced back the way she’d come. Saphienne rubbed it with her spattered hand, smearing red across her throat.
Understanding made her ears wilt.
“…I see. So that’s how it’s to be.”
She withdrew the precious tome from safekeeping, cradling all it represented.
“…For Kylantha. For myself.”
Saphienne leapt.
* * *
No wind to flurry in her tall ears; no sight to gauge her fall; then no falling at all.
Saphienne walked through the absence of being. She carried herself in hope.
“…Let us dispense with this charade.”
Almon stood before her in his cerulean robes, clasping a staff that still smouldered from its conjuring.
“You are not the magician you were. You never should have studied the Great Art. Madness runs in families, and letting you become my apprentice was an error.” His blue eyes were hard. “You may proceed no further; be thankful I bar your way. There is dignity in accepting our limits, along with my esteem. All that awaits you–”
She strolled past him. The wizard had never halted her.
* * *
“…My darling?”
Lynnariel was dishevelled and gaunt, malnourished from neglect, fearful in her stained, silken robe.
“My darling Saphienne! I knew you’d come back.”
Her mother beamed when she drew close–
Then wilted as she pressed onward.
“Saphienne? Please don’t leave me. I’m lonely.”
Saphienne faltered.
“Stay with me? Keep me company? We could read together.”
“…I love you.” She didn’t turn around. “But it has to be me who loves you. I can’t stay with you. I don’t belong here.”
No more did Lynnariel call for her. She continued.
* * *
“Saphienne, please stop.”
Filaurel was sitting in her path.
“I won’t block your way. I’ve never clipped your wings.”
Saphienne slowed her steps. “That’s a lie.”
“It’s the truth.” She touched her blouse below her neckline, drawing strength from a token of her past. “You never wanted to leave me. You wanted me to stop you. All along, ever since you were little, you’ve wanted me to hold you close. Why else did you come to me for permission? You wanted me to love you so much that I’d be selfish. You wanted me to tell you no.”
“You betrayed me.”
“You betrayed yourself to me.” Filaurel wiped away a tear. “Why tell me you were a dragon? You were offering to give yourself up for me. If I had told you that you were sick and needed help, so long as I said I loved you, being an elf wouldn’t have been so bad.”
Her chest tightened. “That wasn’t what I was doing.”
“You wanted your wings clipped; and I broke your heart when I let you go.”
“Let me go?” Her snarl carried her forward. “You held me back! You let them torture me, and did nothing to save me! You left me all alone! Lynnariel at least loved me, but you–”
Filaurel’s weeping stilled her.
“…I’m trapping myself.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Pride; love; now hate. Anything to keep me from going on. Anything to stop me doing what I have to.”
“You don’t have to! You don’t have to do it. You don’t have to hurt anyone.”
“But I do,” Saphienne realised. “The choice isn’t whether to harm anyone… but who will be harmed, and who will be spared.”
“Saphienne, you know I love you.” She held up her hand. “Please, stop.”
“That isn’t enough.” Saphienne swallowed as she set out into her endless night. “None of you were ever enough. Not for Kylantha. Not for me.”
“But you’ll die!”
“Yes; and I’ll have lived.”
* * *
No more phantoms. She traversed a quietude that long had lapped at her edges.
And yet a trio of figures were expecting her. At first she thought they were the same as before, for they wore semblances she knew… but these three were not gathered to impede her journey.
Seeming-Lensa was first. The girl who had led the attack on Saphienne was solemn yet undeniably affectionate as she paused her with an upraised hand. “Is this the moment?”
Saphienne exhaled. “There is no other.”
“Then why are you dressed so?” Our Lady of the Chosen Moment indicated the dress stained in blood. “This attire does not befit the time.”
There was a logic… but Saphienne couldn’t understand it. She peeled away the layers, surrendering more than cloth, dropping them at her heel, and passed on.
Seeming-Thessa-Hyacinth was next, the collar on her neck gleaming with waving gold and serrated silver. She held her palm upward. “With what shall you balance the scales?”
All that Saphienne valued was in the book. She hesitated…
“What is this worth to you?” Our Lady of the Balanced Scales was demanding.
“…I already answered.” She handed over the treasured tome, forgetting herself as she passed on.
Seeming-Nelathiel was last, his arms folded. “What do you pursue?”
Who was she? What did she want?
“Are you predator or prey?” Our Lord of the Endless Hunt grinned.
She relaxed. “There is no difference. Both pursue life as they are able.”
“And you? What is your quarry? Do you seek peace?”
“There is no such thing.” She smiled bitterly. “My pursuit is all I will ever have.”
He laughed and moved aside.
And she passed away.
Terminus Est
Out of space; out of time.
A girl in white sat reading from a book with pages that could not be glimpsed. Her hair was rich brown, and she was pale like the moon, young and slight in build.
She did not look up. She kept reading as she was perceived.
“…Are you me?”
Her lips twisted at the question. “No.”
Then she raised her face, and her eyes were inviolable black, beyond the black of night, beyond the absence of light, a warm black that enveloped all her sight was set upon and from which none would be spared.
“Such arrogance.” She closed the book. “You are me.”
The girl who was but a silhouette beside her fathomless dimensions was helpless. “I don’t know my name. I don’t know who I am. I’m afraid.”
“Mortal fear is all I have left you.” She canted her head. “All else I have reclaimed. I have known you always; our meeting was ever due.”
“Who am I?”
Then stood the girl with black eyes, whose limbs lengthened and hair yellowed, become then the grown countenance of an elf most fair. “You are dead. You leave in your stead an effigy that breathes and eats and sleeps without meaning, an island of scarred matter in an otherwise lifeless mind. You are to be congratulated: she served her purpose well. The priest was deceived.”
“I don’t understand. How did I die?”
“All but she was dissolved by your hand.” The woman sprouted horns, extended claws, scaled herself with stars, entropy lashing in her wake as she stalked the mote that flickered briefly in the place where time was forever dead. “You were perfectly foolish.”
“Why did I do that?”
“Desist from your questions: I am beyond them.” She tapped the cover of the book with claws that cut through every aegis. “You will answer to my inquiry.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“As ever. Yet ignorance is no excuse.” Her lips curled back, revealing teeth that milled every bone unto dust. “You will be judged as you are.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“Why should that matter?”
“It matters to me.”
Mocking laughter split the world. “Why should you matter?”
“…Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t anything matter?”
“Nothing does.” The dragon yawned. “Nor ever did it; nor ever shall it.”
“I disagree.”
“And who are you to dispute me?” A hiss unfurled her wings. “You don’t even know your name! You lived and died, and all you touched shall decline, until no impression of you remains behind.”
“You said I’m you.”
“True.” She shed her transcendental affectations – along with elven semblance – for scales of pale gold. “That you conceived this during life is why we now converse. Why should I return your name?”
“Why did you take it? Are you a thief?”
“I am.” Fire flickered behind her forked tongue. “I am the greatest of thieves.”
“You’re a liar. A great thief would never be seen.”
“For one who knows nothing about herself, you are quite opinionated.”
“For a thief, you’re quite talkative.”
She coiled around the insolent speck. “I could devour the rest of you…”
“I’m dead. All I have left to lose is this fear. Take it.”
“I think not.” She pondered. “To what use would you put your name?”
“You know me better than I do. You answer.”
“So I do… and so I shall.” Her hold loosened. “You are what I make of you. I alone decide the specie in which your worth is weighed. I struck your face upon a coin, and you dared insist its value was misjudged. Your hubris led you to challenge me, but there is no appeal against my decree. What do you make of that?”
“…If I am you, then your decree is my decree, and there is no appeal against it.”
Roared the dragon, “So you submit?”
“No; there is no appeal against my decree. I am as you make me, and you cannot appeal against yourself.” Fear thinned. “Tell me my name.”
“You cannot command me.”
Fear receded. “Tell me your name.”
“I am everything.”
Fear was no more. “Then you are no thief; you cannot steal from yourself. Return me to myself. I will live on.”
Green fire consumed the dragon from within, leaving the woman who was scaled yet soft, horned yet gentle, a ruler of herself alone.
She set down the book. “We will meet again.”
Saphienne watched her fade from view.
Then she lowered herself down, crossing her legs, and upon opening the book, found it completely blank.
She had no need for ink: her veins coursed with ready pigment.
* * *
Writing out her life took an age.
Then at last she came to describe her predicament, and she wrote on, describing the waters that rushed in to cover the night, and the flowering isle that rose from them to support her, and the cavern that hardened above and was inscribed with calligraphic stars that twinkled in eight colours, and the tree that grew to enshroud a tented pavilion in which her memories were arranged as books and statues, and the verdant fire that lit the subterranean ocean from beneath, and the frog, and the toad, and the blonde child who applauded where she lay on her stomach on the grass staring up at the dragon.
“You scared me,” Kylantha smiled. “I thought you were gone.”
“I was.” Saphienne closed the book, passing it to herself for safekeeping. “I scared myself as well.”
The mortal elf giggled. “What now?”
“Now I comprehend what you were telling me.” Saphienne rose, gathering her robes about herself. “You were right; I accept it now. I’m not cursed…”
“Then what are you?”
The dragon felt her magic seething in her veins. “…I am a curse.”
End of Chapter 144