CHAPTER 13 – Small Things That Matter

Upon noticing Faylar waiting in the grove, Saphienne shut the door to her family home slowly, curious about why he was just standing there. He had obviously seen her come outside from where he was waiting, but he had said nothing, pretending instead that he was preoccupied by the morning clouds drifting overhead. A gust of wind ruffled his short hair, the breeze sending ripples along his thigh-length coat. He was dressed differently than usual, less casually, and his hair looked freshly cut.

“Faylar?” She called out to him, and walked closer.

Then he had no choice but to turn and wave, his other hand tucked into a broad pocket. Yet he still didn’t say anything, nor did he approach.

Saphienne sighed and went toward him. “Did you cut your hair? Why are you wearing your winter coat?” She lowered her voice as she came within easy speaking distance. “And those shoes — are you going for a long walk?”

“Good morning Saphienne,” he said, shaking his head. He had a small smile on his lips, which usually meant she had said or done something that he found odd. “Happy birthday.”

His birthday wishes made her smile back with knowing glee, in the childish way she did whenever he missed something she had pointed out to him. “My birthday’s not until tomorrow, Faylar.”

“Well,” he said, shifting nervously, “I know that. But tomorrow, you’ll be going to see Master Almon right away, won’t you?”

She stopped before him, placing her hands on her hips. “What does that matter?”

“I was thinking,” he explained, “that we should celebrate your birthday today. Since you’ll be too busy.”

Saphienne blinked. “But it isn’t my birthday today.”

“What does that matter?” He grinned.

Saphienne hadn’t celebrated a birthday since the day she turned twelve. Faylar couldn’t have known that, and she wasn’t inclined to tell him, or explain why. Only Filaurel knew what had happened, and had understood – without further explanation – why Saphienne treated her thirteenth birthday just like any other day. Saphienne had been equally thankful that her mother, predictably, had forgotten until weeks later — and had felt too ashamed to do anything more than belatedly leave an acorn cake inside Saphienne’s bedroom.

The cake had remained on her windowsill, untouched, until it grew stale.

“I don’t know…” Saphienne hoped he would take the hint.

Faylar was undeterred. “Well, I got you a present.”

She tried not to show how deeply her heart sank when he drew a small book from his pocket, and made herself take it from him quickly, maintaining eye contact. “Thank you.”

“Aren’t you going to see what it is?”

Steeling herself, she looked down. The book was newly bound, with no markings on the green leather of the cover.

“Go on, read it.”

Her hands were cold as stone, felt heavier than gold, but at least they remained steady as she turned to the first page.

* * *

“I suppose it’s my turn. Which language do you most want to speak?”

After they had first agreed to learn from each other, Saphienne and Faylar had gone to the library every evening to study. In the beginning, Faylar was unsure he would be able to teach her, and he hadn’t prepared any lesson plan for the first session… which would have frustrated Saphienne, but he’d done as she’d told him without question or complaint, spending most of the day burrowing into her recommended books.

Saphienne shifted back in her chair, looking up at the frozen skylight windows. Her fingers drummed absently on the table as she considered the question. “My choices are Dwarfish, the language of dragons, the language of woodland spirits, and the human language?”

“Those are the languages I know, though I can’t speak the dragon tongue. But,” he corrected her, “humans actually speak several different languages, spread across different parts of the world. The common trade language is what they use to talk to us, and dwarves, and I suppose anyone else they want to buy and sell from.”

“Buy and sell?”

Faylar shrugged. “I won’t pretend I understand them well enough to explain it, but humans don’t trade in the way we trade. They’re similar to dwarves, using physical markers to represent their trading relationships, and they place a lot of value in rare metals.”

“They use coins.” She reached into her pocket and drew out her coin purse, and soon set the copper disk on the table. “I have one.”

That made Faylar lean across, and he almost picked it up before he saw Saphienne’s expression. “Um, sorry. Do you mind if I look?”

“As long as you give it back.” Beneath the table she clenched her hands.

He lifted the coin, turning it over. “I’ve not seen one like this before. Not surprising — every different human tribe makes their own, with different markings. I think the tree means it comes from somewhere near the woodlands…” Very gently, he set the coin back down. “…But, I’m really guessing.”

The way he returned the coin where she’d placed it made Saphienne relax, and she slipped it back into her pouch with a faint smile. “So, how do the coins relate to their trading relationships?”

Faylar looked uncertain. “Well, the way my aunt described it, they don’t build relationships for trade. Or, they do, but the relationships depend upon exchanging coins, and not having coins means they won’t trade. Not even among themselves.”

“Your aunt, the wizard? She’s met humans?”

“She’s traded with them often. When I told her I was learning the common trade tongue, she took an interest, and she showed me her coins. There weren’t any made from copper — yours is copper, right? Well,” he went on, “hers were all made from silver and gold. She tried to explain their worth, in the appropriate language, but I wasn’t a very proficient speaker, and she ended up teaching me proper pronunciation instead.”

Saphienne had wondered about his accent. “Is that why your voice sounds strange?”

He glanced at her, offended, and then he realised she was just being descriptive, and he laughed to himself. “Yes, that’s why I speak like this. I spent half a year with her, and all we talked in was the common trade tongue, for hours every day. Even when she was… well, when she was trying to prepare me for wizardry.”

“Does she want you to follow in her footsteps?”

“Obviously! Of course she wants me to be a wizard. Why else would she teach–” Faylar caught up with her thinking, and his eyes widened. “…You know, I never put it together, but you’re right. She was always repeating what an advantage her trading was, and how eager humans are for trade with skilled wizards. I just thought she was boasting.”

“And the odd way you wear your hair — that too?”

Reflexively, he ran his fingers through his locks. “I saw some paintings of how humans cut their hair, and I thought it looked good. Different, you know?”

Saphienne nodded. “I think I like it. You definitely stand out. Almost everyone here looks and dresses alike.” Her eyes dropped to the table, and her voice became quiet. “I like differences.”

“Everyone speaks the same, too. Well, mostly. My aunt says it’s a good thing to stand out a little, as long as it doesn’t go too far.” He was watching her, recalling things previously shared. “You know, the other day, when I said an elder told us to make sure none of the other children picked on you? I didn’t mention, but it’s because you weren’t fitting in.”

Knowing that there were adults, even elders, who secretly intervened on her behalf made Saphienne uncomfortable. She changed the subject. “Why don’t we start with the common trade tongue?”

“Bad choice,” Faylar insisted. “It’s one of the hardest. Humans cobbled it together from all their own languages, along with Dwarfish, Elfish, and who knows what else. The grammar is a mess, the nouns and pronouns pointlessly gendered, and the spelling is–” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “There’s absolutely no relation between how words are written, and how they’re said. For the first month, my aunt was constantly correcting me.”

Saphienne could feel his exasperation. “Too messy?”

“Patched together. But beautiful, in its variety.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“How about,” she considered, “the language of dragons? Filaurel once told me that many wizards study dragons.”

Faylar squirmed in his chair. “I’m not very good at it. And it’s another hard one. Wizards study dragon’s speech because magic was first taught to elves by the dragons, or at least, that’s what my aunt said she’d been told when she studied at–”

“Dwarfish?”

“Very boring. Lots of compound words. And, speaking personally,” he sniffed, looking away, “I think it’s quite ugly.”

“That leaves the language of woodland spirits.”

“The tongue of the sylvan creatures — are you a good singer? It’s all about tone.”

Saphienne sank back in her chair. “Faylar,” she asked, sounding tired, “are you trying to discourage me? Do you not want to teach me?”

Guiltily, he looked down. “I’m nervous,” he admitted. “I don’t really know where to start. But I’ll try.”

That he was less than three years older than her – still a child, for all he was taller than her – meant that it was unfair of Saphienne to expect him to know what he was doing, and she knew he was making an effort. Not just to teach her, but to put up with her… prickliness.

So she clapped her hands as she sat forward. “Where did you start? Let’s begin there.”

A frown creased his brow as he looked back up, and then his eyes were bright, and his voice full of mirth. “I didn’t start with a language.”

“…You didn’t start learning languages by… learning a language?”

“Not a real one.” He laughed, and then laughed a second time, tickled by the memory. “My mother’s a Warden of the Wilds, and she used to tell me stories about her patrols. Every night she was home, when she put me to bed, she’d tell me a tale of adventure. She did impressions.”

Envious, with a deep ache in her chest, Saphienne was instantly spellbound, and leant her elbows on the polished table, craning forward to listen.

Faylar was too caught up in fondness for his past to notice how she hung on his words. “My very favourite stories,” he said, “were her encounters with goblins. The Wardens of the Wilds have to shoo them out of the woodlands every fifty years, give or take. To hear my mother tell it, though, they were always memorable encounters. You know about goblins, right?”