CHAPTER 12 – Taking Care of Her

The man who emerged from Saphienne’s family home was dressed against the cold, wearing a long, padded coat that was split at the front and back, the woollen scarf around his neck wound very tightly. He carried a saddle over his shoulder as he ducked through the doorway, and the braided tail of his long, white hair whipped back as he straightened up — to see Saphienne standing with Faylar, only a little distance away.

A pause, as he considered how to proceed. Then he smiled a practised smile. “Why, hello to you,” he said, his voice more melodious than when she last heard him through the door. “You must be Lynnariel’s daughter. I haven’t seen you in a long time, Saphienne.”

The way his smile stopped short of his eyes made Saphienne wary. “Please excuse me,” she greeted him, “but I don’t remember us meeting.”

“You were barely walking when I last saw you.” He stepped from the house and pulled the door shut behind himself, adjusting his hold on the saddle. “And please excuse me, child, but seeing how quickly you’ve grown gave me quite the bittersweet moment. You must be nearly fourteen, now?”

“Come spring,” she admitted.

Nodding, he walked across to them. “But the youth with you is a little older.”

“I’m sixteen,” Faylar answered, and promptly bowed. “Faylar. Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

Now the smile arrived at the grown elf’s eyes, which were an unusual, light brown. “Such a well mannered boy. My name is Tolduin. You two are friends?”

“Um–” Faylar began.

“We’re friends,” Saphienne answered, feeling Faylar’s surprise.

Tolduin studied their expressions. “Just friends?”

Saphienne was confused, and Faylar hurried to speak. “Just friends!” he insisted. “We only met last night.”

The tone of his voice made her look at him, and she wondered why he was blushing. “Why would that matter?”

Her question caused Tolduin to grin, and he leant over to pat Faylar’s shoulder fondly. “You’re quite fine. I was jesting. You’re patently not about leading young Saphienne into mischief; and so long as you’re patient, I’m sure the two of you will get along quite well.”

Faylar was blushing even harder. “Please excuse me, Tolduin, but you have misread.”

“The tree bequeaths its roots to its saplings, child.” Tolduin grinned.

Saphienne had no concept of what was going on, but she recognised the expression he used. “Are you an elder?”

“That I am,” Tolduin answered as he let go of Faylar’s shoulder. “But only by a hair’s breadth. I entered my second millennium a few years after your mother birthed you.”

Faylar’s eyes had gone wide. “Please forgive our manners, Elder Tolduin. I would never have addressed you so casually if I had known–”

“Oh, be at peace, child.” Tolduin waved Faylar’s worries away. “I am also a Master, and would have announced myself in the appropriate way if I cared for such honorifics. Practices of pomp and pageantry have their hour, but that time is not now.” He looked to Saphienne. “What made you guess, child?”

“That expression is very old. ‘The tree bequeaths its roots to its saplings, for the seed does not fall far from the tree.’ Since you used it, I wanted to know whether you were an elder.”

“Or,” Tolduin chuckled, “whether I was merely pretentious?”

Saphienne casually nodded, and Faylar covered his mouth, aghast — only for his expression to make the elder elf laugh loudly.

“Child,” the elder addressed Faylar, “I withdraw my implications, even though they were largely in good humour. I see now that you are a very good boy. You may have my apology, for not taking you at your word.”

The boy lowered his hand. “No apology required, Elder Tolduin.”

“Tolduin,” he corrected him. “Just call me Tolduin for now.” He eyed the pair of them with obvious mirth. Then, he grinned to himself as he reached a decision. “Would either of you like to meet my horse?”

Saphienne and Faylar looked at each other, and then both nodded.

“Marvellous. Come, let me introduce you to her.”

The horse had a dark grey coat, and the blanket draped over her back had been matched to her mane, which was blacker than midnight. She trotted over to Tolduin as the trio approached, straining at her tether to brush her long nose against his hand as he affectionately rubbed behind her ears.

“Children, say hello to my horse. Horse, meet Saphienne and Faylar.”

Faylar greeted her, while Saphienne watched quietly. She wondered how best to speak to her. “Does she have a name?”

Tolduin smiled at Saphienne, quite genuinely this time, and there was wistfulness in his eyes. “Animals should not be named,” he said. “Watching them age is hard enough on the spirit, without imparting personhood upon them before they depart.”

Beside her, Faylar reached out, looked to Tolduin for permission, then very gently stroked the horse’s neck. “She’s beautiful. If you’ll forgive my asking, Eld– um, Tolduin… what is your chosen art?”

“I have had a few,” Tolduin replied, mildly, and he brought the saddle down, gesturing for Faylar to take it from him. “Be precise with your question.”

Faylar struggled under the weight of the saddle. “I meant, which art are you currently practising?”

Tolduin untied the blanket and lifted it away, fluidly shaking it out and folding it as he answered. “In the present moment, I am practicing the art of attending to horses. But I think what you mean to ask about, young Faylar, are the arts which I use to serve the woodlands.”

“Yes.”

“In matters temporal, I am called upon to advise the towns and villages on appropriate stewardship. But rarely are my words required. Most days,” he clarified, handing the blanket to Saphienne and once again hefting the saddle, “I render aid to whoever requires it, in my capacity as servant to Our Lady of the Basking Serpent.” He braced the saddle against himself, reaching into one of the bags that hung from it, and drew out another, smaller, grey blanket. “Do either of you know of Her?”

Saphienne nodded. “She’s a goddess, isn’t she?”

“That She is.” As the horse stood patiently, he unfurled the smaller blanket across the midsection of her back, smoothing it with one hand before raising the saddle and settling it atop the blanket. “Doubtless, you have learned from your mother?”

“From the library,” Saphienne corrected him. “My mother’s not very religious.”

Faylar nudged her with his elbow, then spoke up. “I’ve heard of Our Lady. Have I heard right, that She is a goddess of healing?”

Tolduin knelt to buckle the saddle into place. “You have. That is not all which Our Lady concerns herself with,” he explained, “but I am not here to proselytise on behalf of Her faith, only to act in accordance with Her doctrine.”

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Faylar bit his lip. “Proselytise?”

Saphienne nudged him back. “To proselytise is to convert someone to religious belief,” she clarified, and studied Tolduin. “Though, that word is usually used disapprovingly. Wouldn’t it have been better to say it another way?”

Tolduin paused to look over his shoulder, his amusement evident. “Perhaps. Unless I was making a jest of my proclivity for preaching inappropriately, much to the chagrin of the young, who usually greatly prefer to meet my horse.”

Rubbing his side where Saphienne had nudged him, Faylar frowned. “I consider myself quite well spoken, Tolduin, but some of your words are…”

“Archaic,” Saphienne agreed. Then, lowering her voice to pretend she was whispering, she added, “That means ‘old,’ Faylar.”

Tolduin chuckled again, and set about slowly and gently tightening the straps. “Would you credit the notion, that I’m trying to be more easily understood? The rhythms and patterns of speech twine like brambles through the ages, and we who are elders must make haste to weed the garden of our diction, lest we become ensnared within a rusted aegis wrought from our nostalgia, and hence our meaning be obscured by the suffocation of overgrown foliage.”

Saphienne snorted. “Now you’re doing it intentionally.”

“So I am. How far could you follow?”

She thought for a moment. “With each passing year, the way people speak grows like thorny weeds, and elders have to hurry to weed out the old phrases from the way they talk, to avoid being trapped within an… whatever an ‘aegis’ is, but it must be metal and heavy… made from their fondness for how they spoke when they were young, and so become incomprehensible to new generations.”