CHAPTER 107 – Saphienne or Saphienne

The wind shifts like this:
Like humans approaching proudly,
Like humans approaching angrily.

 

See Saphienne on the cusp of maturity, the girl who would become a woman, nearly eighteen years old. Tomorrow was the birthday she still disdained to celebrate, and so today was to be spent with Faylar and Taerelle and Filaurel. She wasn’t sure what awaited her, but she’d resolved to deliver herself to them at noon, trusting that whatever they had planned would be tolerable.

However, first came other obligations.

Gaze upon her now, standing in the pavilion shared with Gaeleath: her brown hair was braided behind her head, and she was garbed in the androgynous, grey clothes she always wore on the mornings when she visited for practice. Beside her lay her chisels and hammer, set down so she could massage her limp palm, the enchanted finger rings and bangle that had previously supported her replaced by a superficially similar creation – in rosy gold – on which she’d long laboured.

But her attention was not on her left hand. Saphienne was studying the off-white, amber marble on the plinth before her, roughed into the bust of an elf, rendered up to the edge of the eyes so as to depict a heart-shaped face. The narrow chin, soft cheeks, and inward-curving, upturned nose very much resembled those of their sculptor…

“May I ask a question, apprentice?”

She smirked at that irreverence, still contemplating the likeness before her. “You may, Gaeleath, but unless you’re prepared to tell me what you and Thessa have been working on, I won’t promise a truthful answer.”

Her teacher chuckled. “You’ll find out with everyone else — next year.”

She hadn’t expected otherwise. “Ask, then.”

“I’ve often wondered…” They placed down their own tools and wandered over. “…Why has the illustrious magician never learned to sculpt using Far Hand? I can guess part of the reason.”

That made Saphienne turn to them, eyebrow raised. “You think it’s out of commitment to the art? Partially. If I’m going to use anything more than craft magic, why not conjure a finished piece?”

“Just so.” Gaeleath was femininely styled that day — save for the masculine piercing through their earlobe. “Yet, you do use higher magic…”

Prompted by them, Saphienne effortlessly recast a minor Translocation and Fascination spell of her own design — one of the few she prepared every morning. Neither word nor gesture were necessary, and she suppressed all outward show of her magic, invisibly weaving a connection between her mind and the flower-embellished metal. As though moving naturally, her fingers flexed. “Why don’t I go further?”

“You can’t deny that your hand still pains you.”

“Were I to use Far Hand, then yes, I would be less sore by the time I was done,” Saphienne conceded as she stretched, “but I’d lack for exercise. One day, I will heal the damage done to me, and I don’t want my arm to have withered away.”

They nodded. “Equally principled and practical… but what I’m really asking is: why not fascinate yourself, for comfort?”

Saphienne sighed as she returned to reviewing her sculpture. “…Would you believe, I’m very resistant to Fascination? I can use it on myself for a few purposes, but I’ve never been able to ignore pain.”

Gaeleath laughed. “Now that is a truthful answer — very true to you.”

She rolled her eyes.

Settling, the more experienced artist pondered her piece. “…A self-portrait?”

“I’m not sure.” She’d stopped when she’d noticed the semblance. “It doesn’t feel like I’m making one, but the similarity hasn’t escaped me. I think I’m done for now.”

Patting her shoulder, Gaeleath went back to their own work, where they were engraving a mystifying sequence of sandstone pieces with what Saphienne had recognised as astronomical symbols. “Best not to rush what you’re doing. Whatever you’re trying to show, you’ll express yourself in the fullness of time.”

“…I hope so…”

Giving up, Saphienne lifted a cloth to clean her implements, reassuring herself that they still held a keen edge.

 

* * *

 

Not having time for a bath, Saphienne gathered her fresh clothes and carried them with her as she headed to the ritual space behind the house–

Stopping as she emerged into the garden. “…Gods…”

Flowers bloomed everywhere she looked, riotous in their variety and myriad colours, daisies and roses and sunflowers and carnations and irises and peonies and daffodils and lilacs and marigolds and asters having sprung up from the flowerbeds and crawled twining over the grass and up onto the hillock, where sat a figure knitted from hyacinths, grinning with a face that was more believably elven than the spirit could formerly have fashioned.

“A godly day?” Hyacinth giggled, her sylvan speech rhythmic. “Not so, I say. But I do pray your heart to sway with this display, that I did lay at your doorway so that I may my roots betray, and give away my joy — hooray!” She leapt to the ground as she yelled, landing in a bow from which she straightened with arms thrown wide. “Saphienne: happy birthday!”

Saphienne was blushing, torn between amusement, endearment, and exasperation. “Methinks this bloomkith more intends than birthday wonder,” she replied in the same tongue. “Proposed by flowers, she requests to solace sunder.”

Fresh blossoms upon Hyacinth’s cheeks mirrored her blush; the spirit switched to lilting Elfish. “We have not walked together in a long time…”

For fear that the spirit would learn what Lenitha had revealed. “You’ve made a beautiful appeal,” Saphienne granted as she bent to inhale the scent of a sunflower, “but my birthday isn’t until tomorrow — and when I said I wanted to wait, I didn’t specify until my physical maturity.”

Metaphorically and literally, Hyacinth wilted. “As elves go, you are–”

“Cruellest and fairest of them all: so you complain often.” Swaying around her with a smile, Saphienne beckoned her as she entered the stone chamber. “Come, keep me company — and shut the door.”

Trailing after, Hyacinth obeyed, leaning back against the entrance with vine-like arms crossed in feigned offence. “…You have not even asked how this was achieved.”

“With favours from your sisters.” Saphienne set the bundle she carried on the workbench, then removed her enchanted jewellery, beginning to strip. “Possibly, with help from Taerelle, assuming she cast Lesser Gift of Sunlight.”

“…You spied the remains of the circle?”

She glanced at the floor as she slipped off her underclothes, belatedly observing the scuffed chalk. “Just intuition. You’ve been making an effort to be helpful to her, of late.”

Hyacinth rattled with laughter. “She, too, noticed.” Her yellow gaze lingered on Saphienne’s long legs — not in lust, yet with a desire for them all the same. “The apprentice was fair charmed to learn my purpose, and full of encouragement, even suggestion, for my sisters and myself.”

“Ordered you all around the garden?” She shook out her unbound hair as she paced into the centre of the chamber.

“More respectfully than some,” quipped the bloomkith.

Saphienne stuck her tongue out, deciding then to tease her friend as she turned away and commanded the red-glazed, green sigil she had memorised, posing so that – after the flickers of cleansing light had finished dancing across her skin and a conjured breeze had swept the dust away – her goldening hair fluttered in full view of the bloomkith as it was restyled.

Once the casting concluded, Hyacinth hugged her from behind. “…I miss the feel of the wind in our hair…”

She leant back into the cool embrace, enjoying the tactile sensation of petals against bare skin. “…Maybe at the solstice festival, next year. Maybe then.”

The floral shell collapsed as Hyacinth possessed the magician whom she yet yearned to have master her, and the pair chatted amiably as Saphienne dressed herself.

 

* * *

 

Gone were the days when Saphienne would go darkly through the village in the attire of a senior apprentice, and with them had departed her freedom to enjoy the rain falling on her face, kept dry now by an abjuration as she walked leisurely and unruffled through springtime downpour. Her newly blonde, elongated tresses floated behind her ankles, stunningly contrasting the opulent outer robes of falsely translucent, iridescent blue that swirled about her feet and concealed her hands to her fingertips. Beneath the hallucination, her more pragmatic inner robes were the green of summer ponds in shade, scintillating cyan, descending to just below her knees, thereby covering the tops of high boots in pale leather.

If she was to look impressive while wearing green and blue, why not take inspiration from the most majestic of birds? In rare agreement, her old friend Almon and his familiar had both approved.

She delayed until nearly at the library before she called upon the violet sigil of the First Degree she’d readied — Striking Presence. Although voluntary, the glamour nevertheless quelled conversations and turned heads as she skipped up the steps, and she welcomed being seen as she threw wide the doors with a dramatic flourish.

“Good gods!”

Taerelle had blurted out the words unconsciously, and Saphienne saw her shrugging off the effects of the fascination in her embarrassment, arms folding beneath the smoky mantle that accented her usual inner robes. Filaurel, meanwhile, was covering her mouth with both hands, failing to hide the delight that lit her stare.

Faylar was stuck in place, stunned, his hand halfway through his short hair.

Giving them a twirl, the enchantment on her outerwear making the entranceway behind her seem hazily visible through their cerulean silhouette, Saphienne elegantly dipped to her audience. “You did ask me to dress formally…”

Filaurel pulled herself free from the spell, laughing as she nudged Faylar — who needed a moment longer before he copied her, surfacing crimson and flustered.

“That spell,” Taerelle remarked, “is cheating.”

“You use it all the time,” Saphienne scoffed, hugging her.

“Yes, but I need it,” the apprentice muttered as they embraced. “You don’t.”

Saphienne poked her as she drew back. “None of that, apprentice: I shan’t have you demean yourself.”

Taerelle narrowed her eyes. “…You want me to say it…”

Saphienne clasped her hands, toying with her junior in the arcane. “Say what, Apprentice Taerelle?”

Filaurel chuckled as she donned a heavy coat over her dress. “Go on, Taerelle — we are celebrating her.”

Unfolding her arms, Taerelle exhaled. “…Nothing of importance, Master Saphienne.”

Despite her largely feigned reluctance, the apprentice wizard smiled at Saphienne while the librarians laughed and jeered.

 

* * *

 

Informing the few patrons who’d been loitering that the library would be closed until evening, Filaurel ushered everyone outside, locking the doors and hanging a sign as Saphienne stood close to abjure the rain; Faylar eyed his dry umbrella and closed it, Taerelle having employed the same ward herself where she lurked at his side.

Then the group strolled arm-in-arm to their destination, revealed to Saphienne as an eatery for which it was very difficult to make a reservation, owing to the reputation of the culinary master who cooked in the kitchen. She had never requested food like this before, and was intrigued to learn that the menu was fixed, and that the meal was to be served across the subsequent hours.

When she tasted the vinaigrette on the beetroot and walnut salad, she believed she understood why the waiting list was so long.

When she tried the creamy smoked salmon crepes, it was a revelation.

And when the chef himself presented her with a fillet of venison on a bed of egg-enriched bread, dressed with fatty pigeon pate, topped with spinach, and completed by a gravy infused with truffles, Saphienne was so overwhelmed that she didn’t notice him hovering near to witness her reaction — nor recognise him as the elder who had once ignored Celaena eating sweets during a meeting of the local consensus.

“Our compliments, Master Anaeluin,” Faylar said on her behalf. “She loves it.”

Even the wine they insisted she sip was good.

So good that, for the first time, Saphienne was very faintly drunk when they journeyed back to the library, denying it until she nearly tripped on the steps, whereupon she resolved to never again touch alcohol for the rest of her life — to howls of laughter.

At last, she received gifts. Knowing her likes, all three had found books for her:

From Taerelle, secured with the consent of the Luminary Vale, a comprehensive reference for advanced enchanting, laying out hundreds of schematics and sigil patterns at a sophistication presently beyond Saphienne’s ability to accomplish. “You can show me how it’s done, prodigy.”

From Filaurel, who giggled as Saphienne peered within, an entirely blank volume with an appointment card tucked inside the cover. “As of tomorrow, you’ll be permitted entry to the restricted collection; you may copy any one book that you’re eligible to be loaned.”

And from Faylar, a gift most exceptional. “Happy birthday, Saphienne.”

As she read the title on the first page, Saphienne looked up in astonishment. “…How in the world did you get this?”

“I might have made a special request of a wily merchant… whom I refuse to name.”

Filaurel was frowning as she craned to examine the subject. “…This is a restricted work, apprentice. You should have sought my permission.”

He gave her his deepest bow. “Master: might I obtain this book, to give to Saphienne as a birthday gift?”

Her glare could have etched stone. “…Yes, and you and I are going to have a long conversation about this. Don’t think that my naked favouritism for Saphienne is going to spare you from the consequences.”

His grin was still triumphal. “Worth it.”

Taerelle nudged Saphienne. “Well, prodigy? What occult grimoire did he get you?”

The almost young woman shook her head, gaze inexplicably misty as she set the book down. “He didn’t; it’s a guide to a language spoken outside the woodlands.” Saphienne’s smile for Faylar made her chest ache. “Aiglantois.”

 

* * *

 

Soon Taerelle announced that she had tasks to attend to, reminding Saphienne of the same and so earning a complaint from Filaurel. “We were going to have you try to guess the location of the restricted collection…”

Exchanging a look with the senior apprentice, Saphienne pointed toward the back. “Below ground, accessed by what appears to be a small cupboard door under the stairs.”

Filaurel was disappointed. “You promised me you wouldn’t use magic to find it…”

“I didn’t.”

“She didn’t,” Taerelle confirmed. “She’s known since she was fourteen — she worked out a method to locate gross perceptual veils without magic, and after you made her promise, she made me watch her find the door to confirm she’d kept it.”

Faylar nudged Saphienne. “Spoilsport. Couldn’t you have pretended?”

“Why, but Faylar,” she batted her eyes, “that would mean lying.”

He snorted as he lifted the books she’d received. “I’ll walk you.”

Resigned to the contrary young woman whom Saphienne had become, Filaurel hugged her tightly. “Pick a day, and we can have tea again: Peluda misses being petted. My reprobate of an apprentice can manage the library.”

She let out what could be mistaken for a contented sigh. “That would be nice.”

“Happy birthday, Saphienne.”

 

* * *

 

When he heard where Saphienne was going, Faylar regretted volunteering himself. “You and those spiders…”

“Just one spider — she’s due fed.” The rain had ended, the clouds dispersed, and the sky was inclining to pale red as the sun meandered with them toward the horizon. “And she’s a lovely little thing…”

“Not so little any more.” He shivered. “I don’t mind them when they’re small, but when they’re large enough to see their fangs they’re too large for me.”

The memory of Faylar squealing the one time she’d shown him her work made Saphienne chuckle. “She’s never bitten anyone! You’re such a coward, Faylar.”

“Says the girl with a death wish.”

Most elves would have been scandalised to hear him say that, but Saphienne only laughed, having learned the term after Felipe taught it to him. Her gaze drifted down to the books Faylar was holding. “You didn’t ask Cosme for that; it’s in Felipe’s handwriting.”

“When I told him what I wanted and why, he offered to write it for free.” His smile for the man was wistful. “Some trader he’ll end up being. I insisted on paying — only time he’s ever tried to haggle for less.”

That made the gift all the more touching. “This is because of my name, isn’t it?”

“That was the idea. Laewyn thought it was inspired, when I showed her.”

A more recent memory, of Celaena’s prediction, made Saphienne grin. “So you’re over Kelas now?”

“There was nothing to get over,” he lied to himself. “I was just figuring out what I like in a partner. He’s very nice, but I haven’t got much in common with him, not compared to Laewyn.”

“Any changes since the two of you ‘took a break’ from each other?”

Faylar glowered at her from the corner of his eye. “…Celaena and I have agreed a schedule. What time the three of us don’t spend together is divided equally, and we work it around Celaena’s availability. She made a rota.”

“For the bedroom, or–”

He laughed as he elbowed her. “Hush! You’re not even interested in that.”

While he wasn’t wrong, she did enjoy making fun of him. “Everyone sounds happy. I’m glad for you.”

“Iolas and Thessa made the same joke.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Their mention made her smile more tender. “How are they doing?”

“Good! Thessa has been painting at the lake most days, and Iolas continues to be the most boring elf in the Eastern Vale.” He raised a hand to forestall her objection. “By which I mean, he’s the same as he always is. Recently, he’s started writing poetry…”

“Superb.” She was sincere. “I miss Thessa visiting. Taerelle said being pined after was too distracting from her studies…”

“What a liar! Thessa stopped because they kissed again.”

Laughing together, the pair went on, gossiping away the remains of the day.

 

* * *

 

No longer mildly inebriated, Saphienne nevertheless kept on her outer robes as she entered the spider hatchery. She wouldn’t be touching any of the colonies that were the responsibility of the senior apprentice, her input strictly confined to written commentary on his notes, in order that the Luminary Vale could be confident he was not receiving inappropriate assistance or instruction. In a sense, what benefitted his future as a wizard was to the woodlands’ detriment, as she believed she could solve several problems he was grappling with…

Movement in the passage made her sigh, and she sternly raised her voice as she closed the inner door. “Don’t hide! I’ve caught you, Minina.”

The enclosure at the far end lay open, and Saphienne watched the blue spider – now the size of her whole hand – creep back out, body low in wariness. Rydel had tried weighting Minina’s door, but a week later she had worked out how to wrap her webbing around fixtures to make an improvised pully; Saphienne didn’t want to encourage her problem-solving with better obstacles. For all that she was larger, her body still had the proportions of a jumping spider, and she gazed inquisitively with her large eyes–

Then hopped up and down, waved her foremost legs, and scuttled over in excitement.

“You like my robes?”

Minina very much did, racing back and forth around the hem, rearing up for a better look before, hesitantly, crawling forward to tap on the fabric with one of her feet. She sprang away as Saphienne crouched, then came back as she heard gentle laughter, emboldened to climb as she was offered a sleeve.

“Not too different a hue from you, I suppose.” Saphienne was amused to see the wary spider taking her time climbing, obviously unnerved by the hallucination that made the fabric seem translucent. “It’s just cloth — a silk cotton blend.”

Reassured, she ascended more rapidly to Saphienne’s shoulder, there to wave a leg toward the back.

“I know: you’re hungry.” The magician stood, pacing to the space opposite Minina’s enclosure, aware that the busy colonies stilled as she went past. “I would have been earlier, but I had to see some friends…”

Behind the locked screen several potted vines were flourishing under conjured sunlight, their woody tendrils thick with what an uneducated observer might mistake for swollen red grapes. Saphienne set down her books to pluck several — careful not to pierce the skin, having no desire to cover her fine clothes in their fatty mixture. After setting them in a waiting dish she took out her coin, ignoring the throb in her hand as it closed over the adamantine without the use of her support.

“One moment, Minina.”

The Transmutation spell Saphienne cast was of the Second Degree, and required her absolute concentration, weaving her knowledge of the anatomy of insects into her understanding of the lipids, sugars, and fleshy matter within the skins. She broke into a mild sweat as the green fire in her palm caressed the weird, fruit-like deposits, uncomfortably close to the limit of her finesse with the discipline as she gradually, and precisely, transmuted what she touched.

Then the casting was done, and the skins had grown paler and more brown.

“Let’s sit down first,” she murmured to Minina, putting away her coin and balancing the dish on the books.

Whereas she’d once occupied a single terrarium, now the entire room was given over to Minina, who jumped down as Saphienne sat on the rough, bark floor. She did not lunge for the dish when the magician who cared for her placed it, but waited patiently to be handed a morsel, whereupon she sank her fangs in, happily gulping down the nourishing contents.

Saphienne stroked her back as she ate. “Good girl; excellent manners.”

Much of that was Saphienne’s doing. Rydel had decided against breeding ‘subject number nine,’ considering too much intelligence to be undesirable in his spiders; he’d rejected her even before the full extent of her sapience had become clear. Saphienne had taken an interest, fond of the friendly little aberration who showed no signs of slowing in her growth…

…And when Rydel had casually remarked that the spider would one day have to be killed? Well, Saphienne had taken that personally.

“Another? Help yourself.”

The problem was fundamentally that Minina was a hunting spider: the larger she grew, the harder it became to feed her with insects. Gods forbid, if she never stopped growing she might become dangerous. But Saphienne had learned from her research that many jumping spiders were omnivorous, and that there was even an unusual spider – from distant lands – which fed almost exclusively from acacia trees. That had made her ponder: could she find a way to transmute Minina to eat plants?

Conventionally, no. Transmutation spells of the Second Degree could only make minor transformations to living creatures, which meant permanent superficial changes or impermanent changes in close semblance.

Ah, but theoretically? A change that was superficial was very small, and one small change could be stacked upon another… if one had the patience, the diligence, and the insight not to make a lethal mistake. By writing a letter to Master Lylae, endorsed by Almon, Saphienne had been able to secure several specimens of the green-and-black spiders and the trees they feasted on, and in studying them she had mapped out a journey.

Spire, being well-versed in the intricacies of living and plant anatomy, had helped her remake the grape vines into hybrids with the acacias; the bloomkith had also possessed Minina at Saphienne’s urging, removing her ability to reproduce. The transmuter’s own interventions had gradually altered the spider’s digestion, requiring weekly applications of her magic along with meals of haemolymph extracted from the arachnid cousins to Minina. For now, Minina was thriving on a diet that was two-thirds vegetable — an impressive transition, worthy of a thesis for application to the Luminary Vale. Rydel, too, was excited by the prospect of feeding silk spiders through agriculture.

Yet Saphienne was more hopeful that, one day, though she was an aberration, Minina would be tolerated as harmless.

She lifted the books beside her, opening the gift from Faylar. “Would you like me to read to you?”

The spider waved in assent; she liked listening to Saphienne.

“Very well. This is a book on the language spoken in a land called Aiglant …”

 

* * *

 

Shall I tell you the last act of Saphienne, the child?

Mealtime over, reading of faraway kingdoms concluded, games of fetching and counting finished, Saphienne bid Minina goodnight and made her way to the door–

Only for the spider to chase after her, rearing up in plea.

“No, Minina. You know you can’t come with me.”

She lowered down, displaying her fangs.

“Oh, don’t sulk at me!” Saphienne bent over, softly tapping her abdomen. “I’ll come back tomorrow night. Be good, and play nicely with Rydel.”

Tilting to look past Saphienne – to the door she’d never been beyond, to the world she’d heard described but never seen – Minina sank lower, then turned and slunk back toward her enclosure.

Do you yet need to be told how Saphienne felt?

 

* * *

 

“I repeat: if you try to run away, this will be the one and only time.”

Minina danced from side to side.

“Stay under my hair — if someone comes into the garden and sees you, we’ll both be in a lot of trouble.”