Chapter 150 – Who Would Want This? |
See Saphienne.
See a girl of nine run giggling with her only friend, darting through the crowds on the longest day of the year.
See Saphienne. See a girl of ten spy from the bushes, glimpsing the wizardry that would come to dominate her life.
See Saphienne. See a girl of eleven weep lonely in the night, clutching to herself what had become a parting gift.
See Saphienne. See a girl of twelve draw pen across page, practising calligraphy as rainfall drums on the library.
See Saphienne. See a girl of thirteen try herself against stone, making a more permanent mark with hammer, chisel, and song.
See Saphienne. See a girl of fourteen surrounded by new friends, growing into herself, growing stranger and stronger, growing morally yet painfully, growing far too fast – yet not fast enough – in a year that stretches on and on and feels like it will never end.
See Saphienne. See a girl of fifteen, then sixteen, immersed in studies that continue long past her hours of occult reading, bickering throughout with her adoptive elder sister.
See Saphienne. See a girl of seventeen secure her mastery, triumphant as she summits her second peak — only to find she has left her friends behind.
See Saphienne. See a woman of nineteen, suicidal, stride out to meet a dragon.
See Saphienne. See a woman of twenty come alive for the first time, living and loving and lusting as she laboured to build a home on unsound foundations.
See a woman of twenty-one.
See a woman of twenty-two; see a woman of rage remember who she used to be.
See Saphienne. See a woman of twenty-three claw her way out from the bottomless chasm into which she had been cast, hanging precariously over oblivion.
See Saphienne. See a woman of twenty-four with flames in her wake, come now ashen and bloody to murder Filaurel.
* * *
Beneath cinders that had usurped the clouds to darken the day, Saphienne recognised the figure gazing down from the overlook, beholding a familiar silhouette against the burnt sienna glow cast by the wildfires consuming the Eastern Vale.
Filaurel didn’t run. She remained at the rocky edge as the woman who had been her protégé clambered up the slope to reach the woods above the valley and face her. The librarian was still wearing her white blouse and half-skirted leggings from the festival, and her long ears quivered as she held her bosom just below her neckline. Her eyes were more a green sea than ever they had been, tears running where they focused on Saphienne.
Neither of them spoke. What was there left to say?
The magician flexed the fingers of her left hand, feeling heat in the metal that held the sigil for her fire. She reached into her pocket and drew out the adamantine coin, clutching it as she stalked to stand opposite the sheer drop, leaving her quarry nowhere to flee.
“I’m sorry, Saphienne.”
A growl that wasn’t elven rolled in her throat.
Filaurel shuddered, but she wouldn’t close her eyes. “Do it,” she whispered.
Saphienne inhaled slow and steady, gathering her rage and hatred into her lungs as she lifted her hands and brought herself into alignment with the spiral that bored through the turning world to reach the constant blaze beyond, calling that conflagration for a cleansing.
Verdant fire roared forth from the dragon.
* * *
See, Saphienne.
See Filaurel read to you and Kylantha as you are welcomed to the library with the other children, making everyone laugh with her silly imitations of the gulls.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel reach for a book on a shelf too tall, trying not to smile while she solemnly entrusts the volume to you.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel pretend not to listen as you sound out words with Kylantha and argue over their meaning.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel stare sadly across the room at your short-eared friend, grinning despite herself when Kylantha giggles.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel battle for composure while leading Sundamar to you, and the self-loathing she swallows to comfort you.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel arguing for new curtains and cushions for hours, only to spend a dozen more rearranging the library — that it might again be your sanctuary.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel encourage you without demanding, question you without undermining, push you without forcing.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel comfort you when your mother cannot.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel conspire with the wizard’s brother to prepare you, then set aside hot resentment to ask Eletha to teach you.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel joyful as you don your pale grey robes.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel take Faylar as her apprentice — for your sake.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel share the desk, share the sweets, share a meeting with the outside world, and then share the truth about the woodlands.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel fight her past for you… and lose.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel hate herself, but love you more.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel open up to your forgiveness and invite you into her home, into her heart.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel’s unfaltering confidence in you.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel’s pride in your magic.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel’s deeper pride in the woman you have become.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel disagree with you but do as you ask — even though she knows in her heart that the woodlands cannot be changed.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel wounded to lose you, but prepared to let you go.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel accept you as you truly are.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel try to defend you, then run to her mother, pleading, begging for an intervention Eletha does not want to attempt.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel argue with Almon until he relents and lets her visit the husk to which you have been reduced, distraught, horrified, but refusing to lose hope.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel’s grief for you exceed what came before her return, bringing her to say again the words she buried outside the woodlands.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel witness your hatred, and lose the will to live.
See, Saphienne. See Filaurel come to you to die.
See, Saphienne! Please, see Filaurel!
See!
* * *
What arose in her throat as a roar emerged from her mouth as a scream; Saphienne wrenched her hands apart and vented all her fury, all her pain, all her grief for the life she should have had and the love that should have filled it, expending herself into the fire that shot across the cliff and the vale beyond until at last she fell, weeping, upon her knees.
The flames died away.
Molten stone extended from where she slumped defeated, a glowing furrow that split–
To mercifully pass either side of an astonished Filaurel.
“…I can’t.”
Saphienne held herself; her voice hardened when she corrected her lie, defying the curse placed on Eletha.
“…I won’t. I could kill you, but I won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.” She bowed her head. “Because I’ve suffered enough.”
Filaurel stepped trembling over the scoured line, disbelieving. “…But I failed you…”
Anger twisted Saphienne as she looked up, her teeth bared in a snarl. “You didn’t fail me — you betrayed me!”
The woman who had raised her stopped as though struck. “…What?”
“You didn’t think I knew?” Saphienne struggled onto her feet. “You told the wardens that I was leaving! You condemned me to suffer!”
Filaurel’s mouth hung open. “…Saphienne, I told no one–”
“I saw you smiling!” spat the dragon. “The day the wardens caught me, you stood on those steps and you smiled to see me in shackles. You believed you were delivering me to the consensus, but you plunged me into hell!”
“I didn’t see the wardens.”
Saphienne blinked.
“They were wearing their rings.” Filaurel’s unsteady feet carried her closer. “All I saw before Almon spoke was you, wearing one of your blue robes.”
“No…” Saphienne stepped back. “No, that can’t be– you couldn’t have–”
“I thought you’d come to see me. I thought you wanted to see me one last–”
“It had to have been you!” Her voice cracked as she saw the scene again, now without her head ringing. “It must have been…”
Filaurel reached out to clasp her hand. “Saphienne… it was Faylar.”
Faylar?
“…I had a bad dream.”
Faylar, the boy who had woken her during the night after her first brush with death?
“I still have nightmares.”
…Faylar, the man who had suffered the same recurring dream since his childhood, a dream in which the trees came alive and blood drenched the ground…
“You nearly died.”
…Faylar, who hadn’t been tormented by visions of his own death.
“Mark my words: once he grows up a bit, and finds his confidence? He’s going to fit in so well, he’ll be more boring than Iolas.”
“When will that be, you think?”
“Probably when he makes a pass at me.”
Childish Faylar, who had been rejected from studying wizardry twice, and so who knew nothing about what had happened in the ancient past, nor the viciousness of the magicians whose rule his beloved mother – a Warden of the Wilds – upheld.
“Not bad, Iolas! But Master Saphienne can do better.”
Faylar, her friend, who had encouraged her to exhaust herself the night before, prevented her from memorising her spells, and distracted her up until the ambush.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“You don’t know that! You were in the woodlands. What if your final omen hasn’t resolved, and the next time you encounter a dragon…”
Faylar, her misguided protector.
“…He betrayed me…”
“They rewarded him.” Filaurel was speaking softly, but her rage lurked nearby. “He went to his mother, and she made a deal with Vestaele to make sure he wouldn’t be punished; Almon told me that the Luminary Vale withdrew their objection, and he was invited to apprentice with the wizard in the Vale of the White River.”
“…I saw him this morning, with Laewyn.” Saphienne shut her eyes. “He was with children… they talked about finding their master… he pretended we hadn’t been close…”
Aware that Saphienne was fragile, Filaurel guided her away from the cliff, leading her to sit on the fallen tree facing the Eastern Vale.
The girl of eleven held her mother’s hand and watched her world burn down.
* * *
“…Why didn’t you run from me?”
“This is all my fault. I should have adopted you when Tolduin asked. None of this would have happened.” Filaurel gripped her hand tightly. “I thought you felt the same way.”
“I wanted that.” Saphienne kept staring ahead. “I wanted you to save me.”
They abided together. Trees crashed down somewhere below the rise.
Filaurel shook her head. “…I never thought it possible…”
“What?”
“That an illusion could burn things.”
Saphienne raised her eyebrows. “…How can you tell it isn’t what it seems?”
“I can see through the flames. Can’t everyone? I didn’t have to disbelieve them.”
She’d spared the sacred from her fire: the shrines to the gods, the glades of the spirits, the classroom where she’d studied… “Oh.”
They heard crackling as the blaze climbed the slope.
“…I should go.” Saphienne stood.
“Wait.”
Filaurel lifted a heavy pouch from the log.
“You’ll need these.”
Saphienne stared in bewilderment. “…Coins? Belonging to the library? Why do you have them here?”
“I brought them for you… to find…” Filaurel weakly smiled. “Shouldn’t a dragon have a hoard? You’ll need them if you’re going into human lands.”
Was it the smoke that stung her eyes? Saphienne fumbled blindly with her satchel, taking out the bark-scaled pouch Kylantha had given her. She held it open, heard the jingling silver and gold fill it.
“…Thank you.”
“You’ll need this too.” Filaurel hefted her enchanted backpack, unnoticed where it had lain on the ground. “I had to pack quickly, but there’s food and camping supplies, along with my old travelling clothes.”
Saphienne needed a moment before she could pull the offered strap over her shoulder.
“Where will you go?”
She thought then of Iolas. “…Hareña. To see the roses, and the sea.”
Filaurel nodded. “Good; I’ll tell them that’s where you’re going, but Hareña isn’t your destination.”
“No? Where do you think I’ll end up?”
“In Aiglant.”
Saphienne canted her head. “Because that’s where my mother came from?”
“Coincidentally…” Her mentor peered past her shoulder, to the north. “…Your mother never told me, but I’m certain she came from Montgiste. It’s a city over the mountains, across the wilderness and the plains. You’ll know you’re getting close when the roads are paved.”
“Why there?”
Filaurel met her gaze. “Because that’s where we dump unwanted children; that’s where they took Kylantha.”
Her ears drooped. “I lied to Phelorna. I scried for her: she’s dead.”
“Are you sure? You saw her body?”
“I saw graves, like the ones in the Vale of Tears.”
Yet her mentor smiled wryly. “Saphienne… only important families are buried in Aiglant. They’re the only ones who can afford to have their ashes interred. Everyone else is scattered after cremation — after their bodies are burned.”
“…Could she have been adopted?”
“Montgiste is supposed to be very diverse, but no. Human nobles don’t adopt, and they certainly don’t adopt elves.” Filaurel was adamant.
“She might still be dead.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded, “but how will you know for sure if you don’t look? Haven’t you always wanted to go after her?”
Being known so well while knowing Filaurel so poorly humbled Saphienne, whose expression was so hopeful and so lost that the librarian pulled her into a hug, squeezing her as she floundered.
She felt a kiss on her ear. “I’ll miss you.”
“…Come with me.”
Filaurel released her and sank back down on the fallen tree. “…I can’t. I can’t. You’ve no idea how much I wish I could, but I can’t.”
Tongues licked at the edge of the rise. Saphienne wiped her face, bowed stiffly, then walked on…
Only to stop as she surveyed the path ahead.
“…You should have a child. A girl.”
Saphienne clenched her coin for strength.
“…You’d be a good mother.”
She pushed on–
“I was.”
And spun around.
Filaurel held a chain she’d pulled from beneath her blouse, lost in tortured reminiscence as she peered upon the enchanted ring that hung from it.
“I had a daughter. I met someone–” Her breath caught. “…I met the most wonderful man in all Hareña. A good man; a gentle man. He was a scholar and an artist and a much better wizard than I could ever be.” Her smile was agonised. “He made this for me; made it to hide me from the woodlands; made it to propose — to ask me to marry him. He swore he’d master magic, learn how to prolong his life.”
Saphienne crept back to her.
“I believed him! And he could have done it, I know. He put elven wizards to shame…” She pulled sharply on the delicate chain, which broke away from her neck. “Then he gave me a child, a beautiful baby girl, just like Kylantha. She had dark hair and brown eyes and a laugh that was pure and free…”
Filaurel leant forward, pressing her lips to the band.
“He died unexpectedly — an accident. He was trying to help people.”
Her whole body trembled.
“And then she– she fell sick. There was a plague.” She smothered a sob. “We thought we’d both be safe, but… I…”
Saphienne crouched and offered her arms.
Filaurel wept on her second daughter’s shoulder.
When the story concluded, her throat was raw. “…No mother should have to bury her child. Don’t make my mistake.”
“I won’t. I promise: I won’t have children.”
“Not that; I don’t mean that.” Pulling away to clasp Saphienne’s cheek and lean against her brow, Filaurel spoke with terrible insistence. “No one will ever stop you, Saphienne. No one will ever save you from yourself. Whatever you choose to do, no matter how wrong or right you are, you will always believe you’re making the right choice… and you’ll always be the one who has to live with yourself.”
Saphienne felt the ring pressed into her palm.
“Take it; I’ve held on to them for too long. Don’t let the woodlands catch you, Saphienne. Be good. Be better than me. Be the best.”
They embraced.
Now the fire had risen to meet them, and so they rose too, Saphienne slipping on the band as they parted, turning to the north and the way out of the woodlands, glancing back with emotions too heavy and heavy to ever describe.
Then she strode, then she ran, and still Saphienne is running, ever driven onward by the flames.
And Filaurel watched her go.
The End
EPILOGUE AS PROLOGUE
There are usually questions. I will answer yours as best I can.
How many people died? At least one. Should it matter how many more perished? The actions of Saphienne led to someone dying who otherwise would have lived. That the flames she conjured didn’t kill directly didn’t protect the elves from their toppling trees, nor save them from the mad and vengeful spirits she’d released.
She’d counted on that. The peril was significant enough that the spirits loyal to the woodlands were forced to choose between obeying the ancient ways and saving as many people as they could — especially the children.
For six days the vales burned; for six days the Luminary Vale tried and failed to dispel the dragon who appeared and disappeared all across the woodlands; for six days the elves huddled in their shrines, spared from the fire but terrified by the shattering of the icons which Saphienne disdained, their prayers upon the ley lines strengthening and expanding the roaring cataclysm.
Then, on the seventh day, High Master Lenitha arrived at the vault, dismissed the binding circle, and fascinated the wizard within into a deep and dreamless rest.
This was far from the end. Disorder reigned, few settlements left standing. Were it not for the prevalence of wizards, sorcerers, priests, and friendly spirits, starvation and exposure would have claimed countless lives… as would have predation. Although the bloomkith and woodkin that had been sealed away were all loosed by the time Saphos disappeared, not all were willing to leave; and they were far from the only predators that stalked the woodlands.
No, not the dragon who had accosted Saphienne. He was only having fun, and was easily persuaded to depart.
All told, the woodlands were completely overturned for a little over a year. But for the new growth that sprang up rapidly in the aftermath of Saphienne’s flames, the elves might have needed far longer to begin their recovery.
And then?
To say the consensus of the woodlands was furious would be a gross understatement, no appeal to tradition or the sagacity of age sufficient to blunt the clamouring for answers. The Luminary Vale had the sympathy of far less than half the population, and the political reality demanded that a grand conclave of the consensus be convened to air recriminations and assign blame where it belonged:
To Saphienne.
Hundreds of thousands attended that meeting. Elder privilege wasn’t invoked — to do so would have risked uncontainable rioting, for even many magicians had sharp questions for the High Masters. Behind the scenes, substantial effort went into choreographing who would speak, and what would be presented to the public. Most who had known Saphienne were in no position to address the consensus; dutifully, a young wizard who had once been close to Saphienne was invited to take the floor.
Taerelle had been told the message she was to deliver, and the consequences she would face if she deviated from what was prescribed. She therefore clarified at the outset that she was in no doubt Saphienne was entirely responsible for what had happened, taking pains to stress that the account she shared was not driven by sympathy, but rather given so that the full horror could be heard.
From her pocket, she produced a curious piece of pale, golden jewellery, exhibiting Saphienne’s horns to her audience as she talked about the strange young girl with her odd habits and views that were incongruous with the woodlands… habits like mercy, and views like compassion. Deftly, over the course of an hour, she laid out events with excessive candour, concluding by placing the crown of horns upon her head and announcing her resignation from the Luminary Vale.
Bedlam ensued. Taerelle had shredded any hope of reaching consensus. Blunt authority was invoked to declare Saphienne anathema, striking her name from history and rendering any who dared support her cause apostates.
The High Masters’ retribution against Taerelle would have been brutal, were she not protected by apprenticeship to Eletha. Unwilling to risk conflict with the ancient who had defeated Lonareath, they were forced to satisfy themselves with assassinating Taerelle’s character… not that she cared much for what anyone other than Thessa thought.
So it was that Saphienne – witch of the half-moon, she who they titled Consort to Dragons – became the second most hated figure in elven history.
Except, as befitting her ambiguous nature, in private many elves and spirits called her by other names, whispering about the girl belovèd by the gods, some furtively offering prayers to a secret shrine built to house a two-figured statue found in the wreckage of the Eastern Vale. Even the least devout shared stories about the elf who would become a dragon.
In no way was this simmering undercurrent responsible for any change. That goblins were treated cordially by the wardens thereafter was coincidence, as was the kindness shown by the consensus of the woodlands when – years later – they were permitted entry into the protectorates.
Unobserved by their oppressors, the ranks of the witches swelled.
Among them were a woman and a spirit who were believed dead. Their remains had been found and identified both magically and by the scarred hero who’d driven Saphienne from the Eastern Vale. Laelansa and Hyacinth survived, tended to with reverence as they rested and mourned and dreamed of the woman whom they loved without compare.
Lynnariel also persisted through love — as did the home that she’d shared with her daughter. Sadly, unwelcome attention meant she wasn’t able to stay there, but her lovers moved with her to the opposite end of the woodlands, where she surprised herself by quickly adjusting. Despite her professions to the contrary, she did develop feelings for Myrinel, and together with Phelorna she inspired the ex-warden with stories of distant lands that led to him writing his first – quite awful – book.
Not only those who still loved Saphienne prospered. Celaena was lauded for her self-sacrifice in freeing Sundamar at the expense of her health, and she moved to the Vale of the White River to resume her studies under the same wizard as taught Faylar. Laewyn did her best to soothe her aches and help with her exercises; in little time she limped around her new vale accompanied by her cat, beloved by all, though ever after she would walk with a cane.
Faylar went on to become a competent enough wizard, though unlike Celaena he wasn’t accepted into the Luminary Vale. His aunt promised him that – in a few hundred years, when tensions had eased – she would take him with her to trade.
Would you be surprised to hear that Mathileyn, Athidyn, and Thessa remained friendly with all three? Perhaps Faylar would have been received differently if they’d known he’d betrayed Saphienne to the wardens. Celaena’s adopted family visited every five years, and otherwise carried on as best they could in the absence of Iolas, whose letters back to them were intercepted and examined closely for hints as to the whereabouts of Saphienne.
Ah, but Iolas! Much could be said about his adventures. He did indeed reach the shores of Hareña… but he didn’t stop there. The tattooed elf would sail the ocean for many years, cousin to sea elves, grown wise in communion with the spirits of the deep. His poetic tongue gave rise to shanties that sailors then sung to calm the storms; and those songs continued after he returned to land in search of a friend he had believed dead.
He liked to claim he was boring — at least compared to her.
I could wax long about the others. To summarise: Holly and Nelathiel parted ways, the spirit taking up the slow reforms of the missing Mother Marigold, the priest having a crisis of faith that led to her seeming suicide and a new sisterhood in the wilds; Gaeleath was completely unchanged, but they did finish more sculptures, and got into trouble with the pieces’ resemblance to their former apprentice; Calamity was adopted by Celaena’s father in honour of his deceased owner, which led Illimun to discover the companionship that came with pets and to – eventually – retire from office in the Luminary Vale; Syndelle moved away with Iradyn, continuing her apprenticeship to the master painter; and Rydel found plenty of opportunity for practical spellcraft during the rebuilding effort.
Most poignantly, Filaurel remained in the Eastern Vale despite the continued presence of her mother — trying to find the courage to set out after her daughter. She passed her days tending to the library that had weathered the cataclysm unscathed, and found consolation in listening to precocious children reading aloud to their friends.
What of Cosme? Felipe? Kob? Minina? They lived; they died. Their stories are for another season, which leads me to our conclusion.
Throughout the year I tell the stories of Saphienne. Spring I reserve for her youth in the woodlands, least attended of these tales, for this is the season of her birth, and she was fond of the wind and the rain and the hyacinths that followed the melting snows. Come summer I shall begin a more popular drama — speaking of her deeds as known by the aging peoples, among whom her name is not a curse.
I invite you to return, if you wish to hear what followed after her tragedy.
Then again, why should you trust my word that what comes next is brighter than what you have heard? Have I not confessed to telling a lie?
You will recall that I promised the lie was not in either title of this story. While I believe Saphienne was born a dragon, I did not deceive. The elves call her by the title you know, and thus that is the name given to her saga.
No, the lie was simply this: Saphienne was not defined by five moments. Nor could ten, nor a hundred, nor a thousand moments have made her the woman – and the dragon – she grew to become. How could anyone be defined so cleanly? So shallowly?
Every moment I have shared with you counted, in ways neither you nor I could ever fully comprehend.
And behind every moment?
Not prophecy — but people.
Those were the fires of her ambition! To know them is to know her.
…But I have forgotten about one of them, haven’t I?
The man who had been Almon awakened in the care of Our Lady of the Basking Serpent, where kind priests did their best to understand what Saphienne had visited upon him in her vengeance. He told them little; he told the Luminary Vale even less. He dared not say that he felt her presence all around him in the world.
Even bereft as he was of his magical praxis, if they had known what she had taught him, they would have slain him in fear.
Come the new year, the new man went with Jorildyn and Iradyn into the west, supported in his recovery by brother and former lover. Terrified of what lay coiled and potent within him, he renounced all arts, succumbing to the fears of his father after all, taking up the family inheritance of tailoring.
He remained in denial for many years… until a friend paid him a visit.
Aldyn soon journeyed west, to the Vale of Tears, to the grave of Kythalaen, where he rolled back the stone to reveal the hidden grotto in which we now dwell, finding here the jewels, and the coins, and especially the art that has been recited for your pleasure.
He read the volumes he found; he committed to memory the stories of Saphienne; then the draconic magician burned the books.
Here I have remained since. In the absence of visitors, I enjoy my own company.
Now you may wonder: how can you trust a word I have said? I have admitted my mind was sculpted by Saphienne. Unknowingly, I may have lied about the books; lied about their author; lied about the treasure, which could well be another figment.
Is this all the work of an evil magician? And if so, who?
Believe as you will. But if you believe in the wealth spread out before you, I would ask you one last question.
Knowing what it cost her…
Do you still want it?
