CHAPTER 105 – Prodigal

This is how the wind shifts:
Like the thoughts of an old human,
Who still thinks eagerly
And despairingly.

 

See Saphienne as she was yet still becoming, the driven girl, sixteen years old. Her long braid was the fresh red of new autumn, and she was aglow with an inner flame — crackling like fresh-lit kindling. She was now tall enough to match most adult elves, figured enough to draw the eye of children her age, and confident enough to–

“Taerelle!”

Ah, but she speaks for herself.

“Taerelle!” Saphienne called again, hovering in the doorway to the bathroom she shared with her tutor.

Down below she heard grumbling, accompanied by the sloshing of water in the kettle as the older – but only slightly more senior – apprentice emerged from the kitchen. “Prodigy! What’s so important that you can’t–”

“Stop leaving your wand in the sink!”

A pause; Taerelle would be sighing. “Just set it by my door.”

“I’m not touching it!” Saphienne glowered at the burnished, dark rod where it lay in the bottom of the bowl, glistening from being rinsed.

“It hasn’t been used for any spells that–”

“Really?” Saphienne rolled her eyes, which came to rest on the gleaming choker beside the sink, wrought from golden waves but for a single, angular stretch of silver woven through its front. “I think not — you left your collar, too!”

“Use Far Hand!”

“I haven’t prepared it today — and I refuse to tire myself swapping out a minor spell, not for this!”

A hiss answered, along with the clatter of the kettle landing in the kitchen. Taerelle stalked up the stairs and past Saphienne’s glare, snatching the enchantments from where she’d discarded them. “You need to get over your–”

“Oh, do fuck off.” The girl folded her arms. “Picking up your used towels? Fine, but I draw the line at you leaving those lying around. What would a visitor think?”

Taerelle flashed a smile over her shoulder as she went into her bedroom. “If you must know, Thessa appreciates–”

Saphienne winced as she retreated behind the half-closed bathroom door. “Stop it! Not another word! The two of you are awful — you’re nearly twice her age!”

“We’re both old enough,” grinned the diviner as she reappeared on the landing. “But perhaps you’re less concerned about what a visitor would think, so much as what the visitor might. Starting to feel nervous, prodigy?”

Saphienne narrowed her eyes.

Taerelle continued to grin.

“…Yes.” Saphienne melted, fully opening the door. “Yes, I am.”

Cool gaze softening, Taerelle hugged Saphienne before going back down the stairs. “Leave the cleaning: come have breakfast.”

“She’s arriving tomorrow–”

“I know, and I’ll do the cleaning for a change.”

Saphienne trailed after her. “…You prepared Cleansing Touch?”

“Along with Sorting Zephyr, Locate Belonging, and Lingering Perfume,” she confirmed as she glided down to the sitting room. “Ironically, prodigy, I intended to place them into the wand in sequence, for ease of cleaning…”

Touched by Taerelle’s consideration, Saphienne went after her into the kitchen, ignoring the dishes piled on the counter as she watched the young woman refill the dented kettle. “That’s almost all your daily castings.”

“Fret not: I kept my ward.” The girl’s tutor set the water to boil, whispered the syllables for Cleansing Touch while grasping a pair of dirty teacups. “Unlike you,” she said as she shook off the dust the red-green flash left behind, “I don’t need to leave the house today.”

“Don’t remind me…” Saphienne sat at the kitchen table, massaging her tingling hand. “…I’ve got too much to do before she’s here.”

Taerelle smirked as she slathered blackcurrant preserve on toast. “You always have too much to do. Which reminds me: Rydel said–”

“I’m seeing him this afternoon.” Arms folded on the crumb-strewn surface, Saphienne leant her chin on them as she tapped her foot. “Any idea what he wants?”

“I’ve loaned you to him; he’s working on something special.” Bringing across the food and the cups, Taerelle set about steeping the tea.

Rydel had no ambitions of applying to the Luminary Vale. “Wonderful.”

“You say that…” She placed the teapot on the table as she sat. “…But I think his project will interest you.”

Saphienne was sceptical as she helped herself to the toast. “Why?”

“You’re both pursuing Transmutation, and he’s applying it to solve a problem faced by the woodlands.” Taerelle declined to elaborate on the specifics. “He’s hoping to secure a prime position by demonstrating what he can do, and I believe his idea has merit — or I wouldn’t have offered you.”

“Crossbreeding plants? Tedious.”

“Forget that.” Taerelle poured the tea. “Why are you worried about Laelansa?”

Saphienne swallowed. “…We haven’t seen each other in over a year.”

“So? You write every week; you seem well matched.”

How could she explain? “Lots can change.”

“Unfounded fears, then.”

She said nothing, blowing gently before she sipped her bitter green.

Yet Taerelle was adept at reading her junior, and she wryly glanced up at the ceiling. “…So that’s your preoccupation. You’re worried she’ll have grown impatient?”

Saphienne looked away. “Maybe.”

“Forever the tragic girl,” Taerelle murmured, affectionately.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“Not this time,” she conceded. “I won’t try to rally you to bravery, either. My only remark is that I think you’re curiously blind when it comes to your girlfriend’s feelings for you, Saphienne.”

Once, Saphienne would have resented being told that. Now, she warmed her hands on her teacup and inclined her head. “Go on.”

“Laelansa obviously wants to sleep with you.” Taerelle held up her palm, forestalling objections. “But! For all her awkwardness, she is not a fool, and she knows what she values. Your happiness matters more to her than her curiosity.” A faint note of judgement crept into her voice. “You’re the one with conflicted feelings, prodigy.”

That Taerelle was correct didn’t make hearing the truth easier. Saphienne resisted crossing her arms. “…Most girls my age are–”

“Repeat this,” Taerelle threatened, “and I will murder you.”

Saphienne blinked; a grin spread across her cheeks. “…How old were you?”

“Twenty-one.” Her senior’s expression was frosty. “I mean it: I know how to conceal a crime. I’ll bury you so deep in the wilds–”

“You hypocrite.” Saphienne leaned forward. “All this time, ridiculing me–”

“It wasn’t lack of interest…” Taerelle drained her cup. “Nor was I afraid. I just hadn’t met anyone whom I felt worth approaching…”

Snorting, Saphienne resumed her breakfast. “More likely, everyone was too afraid you’d bite their ears off for making a pass, and you didn’t know how to express interest.”

“…Deep in the wilds, prodigy.”

She shook her head, finished eating, and stood. “I need to get going, Faylar–”

“Clean the kitchen, first.”

“You said you would do the cleaning!”

“Not all of it.” Taerelle rose with her teacup, swaying into the sitting room with exaggerated relaxation. “You might as well use those spells you prepared.”

Saphienne stalled in the doorway. “…This is unfair.”

Her domestic nemesis was remorseless as she sat in the armchair. “Need I remind you? My house, my rules. Better get to work — you wouldn’t want to keep your dear librarians waiting.”

 

* * *

 

On her way to the library Saphienne stopped in at the bakery, where Tanelia cordially presented the wrapped box that had been waiting for her arrival. Saphienne tried to hold it onehanded, thought again, then fished in her pocket, taking out a beautifully patterned, bronze bangle and matching finger rings.

The enchantment was unpleasant as she slipped the band over her left wrist, whining against her mind until she secured the rings on her fingertips and forced herself to admit the intrusive divination. At once, the conjoined conjuration throbbed as she bid her fingers spread, manoeuvring her unresponsive hand as she went through her warmup exercises.

Behind the counter, the baker only observed.

With stretches accomplished and her palm commanded to lay flat, Saphienne supported the box with it as she used the other to stabilise her hold, rotely thanking Tanelia as she shouldered her way out into the brisk autumnal morning. She hastened to the library at a dignified pace, her severe countenance and forbidding robes enough to deter the few who might otherwise have been inclined to hail her.

Filaurel was stern at her desk. “Saphienne! No food in the library, young wizard!”

Saphienne let the doors close at her heels. Scowling, she tilted back to peer down her nose. “I think you’ll find I’m also a sorcerer, not merely a wizard — and, in any case, I’m quite above the quotidian concerns of mere book-minders.”

“Really?” The librarian cracked a smile as she beckoned. “In that case, I’ll make an exception…”

Setting her gift on the desk, Saphienne came around to hug Filaurel, all discomfort forgotten in their embrace. Whereas for a time their caring had been fraught from wounds old and fresh, now her mentor held her firmly, without the anxiousness that had deformed their bond when its limits were untested, better able to give of herself in the security that Saphienne did not need from Filaurel what she could not bear to be. Their closeness surpassed old heights… but not abandoned dreams.

“Did you miss us?”

“You, certainly.” She let the moment stretch, then reluctantly withdrew. “Faylar’s absence was a welcome reprieve. Is he upstairs?”

“He’s late, is what he is.” Filaurel was unbothered. “He stayed up late before we travelled home, and moaned the whole way back. At least he wasn’t hungover…”

“A hangover? I remember that term.” Saphienne tilted her head. “You never did explain what it meant… or what it means to ‘sod’ something…”

“And you,” Filaurel tutted as she unwounded the cloth covering the box, “didn’t wait to start using the word: don’t think I never noticed how all your friends suddenly began saying it.”

Her blush was mild. “Must have been Faylar, reading up on human languages.”

“You’re a better liar than that…” She hummed as she saw the cake. “Chocolate? Faylar will be pleased. And a hangover is dehydration, headache, and temporary illness that humans acquire by drinking to excess — elves don’t suffer them, and dwarves consider them impressive to acquire and shameful to admit.”

Wincing as she made her left hand relax, Saphienne reflected. “…There’s a dwarven saying I never understood: ‘A man once denied the night sky was too bright, but his cellar looked empty.’ Referring to the same?”

“Probably.” Filaurel shrugged, candid in the absence of patrons so early in the morning. “I gave up speaking Dwarfish. Every time I did, I was treated like I was being rude. You should hide this in the–”

“Hide what?” asked Faylar as he entered through the front doors.

Saphienne didn’t turn around. “Chocolate cake — only for those who’re on time.”

He laughed. “Ever think you missed someone, then realised what you really missed was your relief when they left the room?”

“Not until now.” She pivoted to him. “Welcome back.”

Faylar dropped the backpack he was carrying and hugged Saphienne, his long red hair dishevelled and unbraided; she wasn’t used to that change, though she had to admit he suited his fashionably tailored, silvery clothing. She felt him consider raising her off her feet, then reconsider, afraid of embarrassing himself now she had caught up to his height.

“Good to be back,” he replied as he let go. “Felipe sends his regards.”

The message made her smile — timidly. “…And how’s Cosme?”

Filaurel gasped. “Sorry, Saphienne! He’s completely recovered. He was falling over himself to apologise for the delay.”

Learning that heartened her. “Did you get a good price, then?”

“Bled him ruthlessly,” Faylar quipped as he eyed the cake. “You can laugh, but he actually looked fitter than last year. We stayed up late–”

“Drinking: Filaurel said.” She poked him in the chest. “No eating that here: take it through to the kitchen.”

He scoffed as he lifted the box. “Of course — do I look like a child to you?”

“Filaurel has you well-trained.”

“Housebroken, like Peluda,” he agreed as he headed for the back. “Oh, and you won’t believe it, but Felipe grew a beard!”

She wished she could have been there. “I’ll see it next year!”

Meanwhile, Filaurel had collected the backpack Faylar had dropped, and she slung it over her shoulder as she patted Saphienne’s. “If I let you take your cups upstairs, will you make the tea?”

“Only if you tell me what ‘sod’ means.”

Filaurel turned scarlet… but leant in to whisper the answer.

Ears drooping, Saphienne cringed. “…We’ve been using it like ‘fuck’…”

“That’s how humans do it in practice– that is, how the word–”

They stared at each other in mortification.

And then they laughed, and went to rescue the cake from Faylar.

 

* * *

 

“…I genuinely don’t know, Saphienne.” Faylar pushed the book they were reading back toward her. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve never heard it spoken — I only learned to read it, same as you.”

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Setting set her cup down on the spotless sheet of paper she was using as an improvised coaster, Saphienne frowned as she surveyed the well-thumbed pile of texts before them. “Tone has to matter. I did some light research, and none of the languages I read about lack interrogative or subjunctive moods. If they’re not formed by declension or sentence construction, then the language must incorporate tone, even if less so than the tongue of sylvan creatures.”

“Just how ‘light’ was your research?”

“…I only skimmed…”

“For how long?”

Saphienne resigned herself to his mockery. “About eight hours.”

Where he sat beside her in the upper collection, the young man only smirked.

“Are you sure these are all the books that–”

“Yes.” He tired of her asking. “We checked the restricted collection as well: the only other books are held at the Luminary Vale, and only wizards or sorcerers – or both, I suppose – can request them. We’re not even allowed to read them.” He flicked to an earlier page. “And they aren’t even about the language: this reference, here, is the best the woodlands has to offer.”

She surveyed the curved markings, still reminiscent of magical script; the pronunciation key was detailed, but felt wrong. “…I really don’t want to have to ask my masters.”

“Why not? They’re supposed to teach you–”

“Because Master Almon bloviates whenever he has chance to lecture for me again,” she sighed, rubbing the back of her hand as she felt the threat of a spasm, “and Master Vestaele explains everything – everything – through mysticism; getting a simple, yes-or-no answer involves exploring the contradictions inherent in the asking.”

He stuck his tongue in his cheek. “And, you don’t like her.”

Saphienne was sure they were alone, but nevertheless lowered her voice. “…No, I don’t. She’s still trying to befriend me.”

“Is that bad?”

“Depending on intent.” She didn’t trust the master of Fascination. “She’s not the only one, but at least with others, it’s because they want a talented magician for a friend.”

Faylar canted his head. “That’s not what she wants?”

“She wants to shape me into someone I’m not.” And that High Master Lenitha didn’t want her to become, she suspected — for why else would the elder have chosen to impose Vestaele, of all people, on Saphienne? “I’m not interested in politics, nor ‘guiding’ the consensus.”

He nodded in sympathy as he returned to their studies. “Then ask Master Almon, because Filaurel doesn’t know anyone else in the vale whom you can ask.”

“…Such a stupid language…” Saphienne didn’t mean that, but right then she felt it. “Almost no gender, not even in pronouns; but no translation for ‘male’ or ‘female,’ with the closest concepts being ambiguous. Unless someone uses the gendered construction of a name, good luck guessing! If I’m wrong about tone, the lack of a subjunctive mood would mean you couldn’t even prompt them with a hypothetical statement.”

Faylar leant back, fingers interlaced behind his head. “Do you think,” he wondered, “that the reason their tongue ‘sounds like a shouting match’ is because they’re always arguing?”

His joke won a smile from her. “…That would redeem it…”

“Imagine trying to agree on dinner…”

She giggled. “Speaking of the subjunctive mood: I imagine a dragon would eat whatever they wanted — probably you, if you were annoying.”

“I doubt I could be, not without asking questions.”

“I have absolute faith that you’d manage.”