CHAPTER 110 – Looked, and Behold

Sleep afforded Saphienne no rest that night. She dreamt she was celebrating her eighteenth birthday in her family home, confined there while her friends were taken from the revel by the wardens, until only her mother and Laelansa were left.

The symbolism wasn’t subtle. But then, dreams’ meanings are seldom elusive, to those who know their darkest fears and tenderest longings.

She woke to fingers gliding through the roots of her hair, Laelansa stroking her scalp where she lay on a soft pillow. Yet the pillow was warm, sweetly scented, rising and falling with breaths that were not her own; Saphienne recognised she was lying upon her lover’s bare chest.

“Good morning, Saphienne.”

She stirred; she would have preferred her waking pass unnoticed. She opened her eyes to the dim bedroom, the curtains closed, her girlfriend grinning down with happiness that overflowed the novice’s wide, adoring pupils and trickled into Saphienne — unable to pool there. “…Good morning.”

Laelansa kissed Saphienne’s ear with blushing affection; she slid out from underneath – substituting a silk cushion – then lifted a waiting cup from the floor beside the bed. “I made tea,” she announced, chatting to cover her nervousness, “but you were fast asleep when I came back up, so it’s cooled. I saw you mended your gown – and the door – before you came to bed!”

Observing her girlfriend’s nudity, aware of her own, Saphienne was nonplussed.

Misreading her, Laelansa reached for the sheet–

“No.” Saphienne sat up, discovering mild pains in entirely new places. “No, it’s fine.”

Hopeful wariness. “…You’re not frightened?”

Saphienne shook her head. “Apparently not.”

“And…” Laelansa was vulnerable. “…How do you feel? About last night?”

Shutting her eyes, Saphienne reflected on all that had preceded her parting from Hyacinth — stopping herself from going further. “Our time together was one of the happiest of my life. I love you, Laelansa.”

That was enough for Laelansa to throw her arms around Saphienne, spilling lukewarm tea as she tearfully hugged her girlfriend and smothered her with kisses, laughing and apologising when she realised the mess she’d caused.

Aware that she needed a bath anyway, Saphienne told her she didn’t care. And she wasn’t lying, nor was she reluctant during the loving kiss that followed… only, she was distant, going through the motions at a remove, numb to the presence of the naked woman whom she detachedly thought beautiful.

Now that she wasn’t afraid? Saphienne didn’t feel anything at all.

 

* * *

 

They bathed together, both barely fitting into the tub. The touches they exchanged while washing each other stirred no desire in Saphienne. She tried to enjoy the ritualism with which Laelansa cleansed her long hair, wishing that she could experience the worshipful eroticism; she did her best to reciprocate how she was cherished by scrubbing the novice’s shoulders.

Fortunately, romantic sensuality satisfied her girlfriend. Laelansa did offer more as she was towelling Saphienne dry, but thought nothing of it when declined — admitting that she, too, had aches.

However, though contented, she wasn’t coy. “…I don’t regret how we got them…”

Over breakfast, Laelansa opined that it was a shame Hyacinth had left before she could thank the spirit; her flush told Saphienne that some of what she felt for her girlfriend had transferred to the bloomkith.

And why shouldn’t it?

From Laelansa’s perspective, Hyacinth had intervened to save the night. The bloomkith had swooped down the moment Saphienne fled — healing Laelansa’s injury, soothing her concerns, and walking with her to where her beloved was wracked with anguish, anguish which she’d then relieved. Through the sharing of wisdom and passion, she’d ensured the pair could have a wonderful first night together, performing a miracle on Saphienne that persisted even now.

More than this: Hyacinth had confessed to caring for Laelansa, united with her in mutual love for Saphienne. Such spiritual closeness wasn’t strange to the initiate of an elven goddess, wasn’t shameful, but rather a glorious confirmation of her faith. Hyacinth had been the answer to all her prayers.

Consequently, Laelansa asked Saphienne whether they might visit a shrine together before they rejoined the festival. Growing guilt made Saphienne accept; she excused herself while the novice set about writing a prayer.

 

* * *

 

As ever, the Great Art was Saphienne’s respite. She distracted herself by meditating and then mulling over which spells to prepare, choosing afresh rather than falling back on her previous selection.

Her skill had advanced such that, each day, she could memorise multiple sigils of the Second Degree; more from the First Degree; and an even greater number of minor spells that were not counted within either. She retained slightly less than a comparable wizard, such as Almon, typically held in mind… yet Saphienne didn’t expend her sigils when casting. Her sorcerous reserves were sufficient to loose far more spells than could her old friend — far more than any equal in wizardry.

Not that this was obvious to the uninitiated. Spells below the degrees were the most commonly performed, and they took little effort, merely time. Saphienne was replete enough with magic to release them without fatiguing, and they were so simple that even wizards – armed with advanced mnemonic techniques – could do the same. Were she not hailed as a master of two disciplines, and at such a young age, few in the village would recognise Saphienne was exceptional.

But her fellow magicians were not disquieted by her youth, the extent of her prowess, or her unorthodox approach. Neither wizards nor sorcerers could emulate her greatest feat: defying explanation, through tremendous exertion, Saphienne could quickly replace whatever she memorised.

Abandoning a sigil didn’t return the energies invested in it; what a wizard prepared depleted him until he’d rested. A sorcerer needed weeks to renounce what she’d internalised and incorporate new symbolism. Meanwhile, Saphienne could comfortably reshape several before she began to strain — even more, were she resigned to bedrest.

All of which is to say, her preparations were much less irrevocable than for ordinary magicians. She nevertheless always took to the task solemnly… and on that morning, in the quiet of her ritual space, she fretted over unlikely contingencies, displacing anxiety.

Taerelle had taught Saphienne to reserve her most powerful spells for defence, for she couldn’t help anyone were she incapacitated. Saphienne favoured a heightened variant of her tutor’s deflecting ward, coupled with a fascination through which she might fade into the background. Inspired by Iolas, she habitually readied a Transmutation spell to heal serious wounds.

Ward Against Momentum; Ignored Presence; Healing Touch.

Constituting her selections from the First Degree, she anticipated needing to conceal her dejection from observers: the glamour that had once flustered Faylar was adequate. Were she seriously imperilled, then a more coercive fascination, which had required permission from the Luminary Vale to learn, would stop the common aggressor. Saphienne would rather deter wrongdoing with a controlled display of pyromaniacal intimidation — fire was understood by the mindless, and gave even the unusually wilful pause.

As for other dangers?

…She was being too paranoid.

Since Saphienne delighted in using the Great Art to entertain children and bewilder the pompous, a hallucination ought be included. For her last significant decision, Lesser Gift of Sunlight was forever appreciated by–

Saphienne exhaled where she sat on the stone floor.

No; not today. A transmutation instead, making her festival gown resistant to stains and tearing, sparing further repairs.

Agreeable Allure; Compel Obedience; Evocation of Flame; Illusory Display; Unblemished Regalia.

Her least spells were swiftly affirmed. To use her supportive enchantment, Saphienne’s Dexterity; should she need to lift anything heavy, Far Hand; for illumination, Mote of Brightness; for thirst, Least Evocation of Water; for the sake of the drama she’d inherited from Almon, Touch of Combustion; for personal hygiene, Cleansing; and to extend her perception of magic, Second Sense.

In the end, committing the sigils to mind only took her fifteen minutes. That in itself was as extraordinary as the rest of her arcana.

And, to Saphienne? Increasingly meaningless.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour west of the village, the shrine to Our Lord of the Tranquil Garden was well loved yet seldom attended upon by anyone other than priests. No rituals were conducted there, not by elves, for the shrine was set on the edge of a glade sacred to the spirits of the woodlands, into which few dared tread without invitation.

Saphienne thought about that as she studied the icon, her gaze lingering on the small pruning knife held in the left hand; the right poured water from a perpetually overflowing cup into a basin before the statue. Whoever fashioned the likeness of the god had elected not to have the gold-inlaid eyes stare at the observer, fixing them on where the deity watered.

Laelansa quietly asked, “What do you see?”

Saphienne needed a moment to adjust to a devout perspective.

“He asks what occupies us when we are alone,” she replied, feeling through the staging. “He asks in what do we find our composure, and of the nature of our peace. For what do we give everything we have? For what do we overflow ourselves? And what must we do, to maintain our tranquillity?”

The novice kissed her cheek. “Belovèd of the gods you are — and beloved by me.”

Saphienne couldn’t join her in bowing to the icon, having no peace within herself, only emptiness. This god was perhaps the furthest from herself, and if she’d believed she would have considered herself an intruder upon His holy ground. Laelansa didn’t expect false piety from her, anyway, content to offer prayers while she wandered to the intertwining offering trees that waited behind the grassy altar.

Tracing the dancing, singing figures on the trunks, Saphienne recognised they were not merely elves, but elves gone wildling, carved in garments of flower and branch that cared not for modesty in their ecstatic walks with spirits. Momentarily, her heart ached, and she pined for what she’d shared with Hyacinth the night before…

Saphienne had meant what she said, when she’d told Laelansa their time together had been profound. Until then, she’d conceived of the physical pleasure, but she hadn’t comprehended how sex could be more than that; she hadn’t grasped what else was being described in the romances adored by Thessa and Laewyn. How different it felt, to experience that bonding!

And her taste of belonging made her reflect on the times she’d been confined to the margins, unable to join in the joyous life.

Then again, had she been confined? Was she the one who held herself back?

She hadn’t in the beginning. When she’d first been unwanted by the other children, Saphienne had been crestfallen. They’d denied excluding her, of course. When queried by adults, they had pointed to her obliged participation, but the absence of welcome was rejection of another kind.

Only Kylantha had been happy with her, until Laelansa. All her other friends hadn’t thrived in her presence in the same way as the girl once had, and the woman now did. That didn’t change her loving them… yet it affected how she received love.

If only she didn’t perceive as much as she did. If only she was as oblivious as she’d formerly appeared, but to the truths that lay behind the carvings. More than the hazard of spiritual reflection, if only she didn’t see–

“The prayers are touching, aren’t they?”

Saphienne inclined her head to where hundreds of offerings hung from the branches. “These are all for the spirits?”

“Technically,” Laelansa said as she selected a slender limb, “we make our offering to the gods, in thanks for Hyacinth… but, practically, these prayers are an expression of love for the spirits of the woodlands.”

Watching her tie the parchment in place with a blue ribbon, Saphienne tried not to think about the lovely things Laelansa had written — nor how they would be received by Hyacinth, were she to read them.

Stepping back, Laelansa bowed with Saphienne, then clasped her hand. “Would you like to join me on a stroll through the glade?”

Saphienne blinked. “Am I allowed to?”

“You are!” Her smile was devoted. “All children of the gods can enter, but we’re judged on our behaviour. So long as we’re peaceful, and don’t disturb the flowers or trees, the spirits won’t mind.”

Having never seen within, and wanting to defer going back to the festival, Saphienne acquiesced. Together they went past the offerings, soon crossing under windchimes that tinkled in the coming and going of disembodied bloomkith and woodkin, then squeezed through denser foliage–

And emerged into a sunlit clearing, cradle to flowers and saplings where they spread around mossy, weathered stone columns that resonated with ancient mystery.

Saphienne felt the concentrated magic pouring from the raised stones, intuiting the patterns that rippled between them across the glade. “These enchantments… they’re connected to the ley lines?”

“So Ruddles told me.” Laelansa spoke in a whisper, picking her way through the glade with utmost care. “Spirits contribute their magic through the ley lines, and the floraliths spread their contributions. Their arrangement is precise, but I haven’t been taught how the consecration helps new spirits to arise.”

Unbidden, the primeval memories shared by High Master Lenitha unfolded around Saphienne. She saw the girl Lenitha had been, tending flowers before her rescue, and again on the night of her induction into the cult of the Luminary Vale. Fragments echoed just on the edge of hearing — cries of agony as suffering nourished soil, and shrieks of welcome as liberty fed the emancipated heart.

 

* * *

 

A little while later, they concluded their visit and retraced their–

Saphienne stopped as they approached the offering trees, dropping into a crouch as she commanded a violet sigil, envisioning herself withdrawing, feeling transparent against the forested backdrop.

Although Laelansa still held her hand, the novice had to fight to pierce the fascination before she could again perceive her. “Saphienne? What’s–”

Waving her girlfriend behind herself, Saphienne kept her attention on the woman whom she’d spied up ahead — not daring to breathe, lest she be noticed. She was grateful that Laelansa did as instructed without further question.

Too many heartbeats later, the woman in a gauzy dress bowed to the paper she’d secured with pale yellow ribbon, then turned and wept as she strode away, hugging herself in painful sobriety.

“…She was so sad,” Laelansa murmured once she’d gone. “Who was she? I feel like I recognise her.”

Saphienne didn’t answer, compelled to cross to the offering and reach up to unpick the knot–

“What are you doing?” Aghast, Laelansa didn’t stop her. “Prayers are private — you’re not supposed to tamper with them!”

Yet Saphienne wasn’t dissuaded. “…I have to know…”

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What she read was louder than Laelansa’s scolding.

 

I pray only this:

My daughter is seventeen this year.

Please watch over her where I cannot go.

Please show her more love than I can give.

Please don’t abandon her.

Please let her be happy, and forget us.

 

“Saphienne! Give me that!”

Stricken, she let Laelansa snatch the plea from her weak fingers, lost as she looked upon the dozens of frayed, bleached ribbons that were the remains of its predecessors — gone now but for the ties that had bound them. They were still as visible to Saphienne as the latest Laelansa replaced on the tree, and though she couldn’t know the specific words Phelorna had used to write them, she was humbled by the depth of the grief that Kylantha’s mother drowned in the wine of summertime.

 

* * *

 

She didn’t explain herself to Laelansa, not then.

She promised she would tell her after the festival.

For the moment, Saphienne forced herself to lie more beautifully than ever before – saying all was well – and to smile winningly as she suggested they go back to the games.

 

* * *

 

Self-hatred restored Saphienne to vigour, and she channelled the aggression she felt toward herself into the friendly challenges in the festival grounds. In keeping with her victories across the years, rage made her frighteningly competent, and she won every game that wasn’t beholden to chance, dazzling Laelansa with her rekindled vitality.

Everyone laughed off her singlemindedness. They were predisposed by celebration to look kindly on her — and besides, she didn’t insult or belittle anyone when she competed, merely crushed them ruthlessly. Their applause was easily won.

Within, she was sickened.

How dare she be so morose? So self-pitying? Her feelings of loss and exclusion were figments compared to how Kylantha and Phelorna suffered. How lucky she was to be welcome in the woodlands, and how undeserving of the place that had been prepared for her! She was a spoiled child; a stuck-up bitch; a privileged little darling who’d been handed everything she wanted, and still wouldn’t let herself be happy.

Surely, there was no doubt now: her tears for Kylantha were self-serving. She wasn’t full of compassion like Iolas or Laelansa. Hadn’t she abused Phelorna? Hadn’t she wilfully blinded herself, ignoring that the poor mother wouldn’t be allowed to go with her daughter?

Hadn’t she set it all in motion, by selfishly being born?

Saphienne won further cheers as she bowled over pins — much like she always knocked down whoever inconvenienced her. All hail the prodigy! All hail the belovèd of the gods!

Taerelle would have been disgusted with her. Were she there, she would have slapped Saphienne for her contemptible behaviour. And if she’d known the truth? If Saphienne hadn’t been too cowardly to confess that her wyrd had ruined Taerelle’s life? Why, then the wizard would have fled faster than Hyacinth.

How dare Saphienne behave so vainly! Couldn’t she summon the strength to overcome herself? Wasn’t her disconnection from Laelansa just another impediment, yearning to be struck down?

Saphienne had no right to despair.

 

* * *

 

My father was terrifically alive when he composed these words.

 

As the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud,
A dread beyond, of I know not what, darkens me.

I shall go forth,
I shall traverse the woods awhile — but I cannot tell whither or how long;
Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease.

O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this?
Must we bleakly rejoice in this performance of us? …And yet it is too much, O self!
O self! we are frighteningly dispers’d — that is too much.

 

Not long thereafter, he took his own life.

 

* * *

 

“Is that Iolas?”

Indeed it was. Iolas was unchanged since the last festival — even wearing the same outfit, having not experienced the growth spurt he’d wondered about. Perched atop stacked boxes, he carefully balanced a stone upon a pile that was precariously tall, utter concentration on his face before the hushed silence of the crowd.

His move held. Raucous applause erupted as he straightened and folded his arms, his smile for his competitor a playful provocation.

The young man across from him was also familiar, having been commiserated with by Iolas on the day when Saphienne had first seen this game. He raised his eyebrows as he took up a wide, flat rock of his own and – with well-practiced grace – immediately stretched out his hand to deposit it higher.