CHAPTER 35 – Those Whom the Gods …

Saphienne knew she was dying.

The branches that skewered her in place prevented her from falling down, and the terrible pain of their slow writhing kept her from passing out. She could feel them growing, new tendrils budding off to burrow beneath her traumatised skin — which had gone numb beneath her sweat. Every breath she took hurt; every heartbeat forced her blood out from the tight seals between wood and wounds.

Academically, she understood how she would die. The Principles of Elven Anatomy had been quite thorough with its diagrams and descriptions of the elven body, charting the flow of breath and blood and the placement of the organs. Her left lung was collapsed – punctured straight through – and would not inflate with each gasp, which put increasing strain on its twin. She could hear her own wet wheezing as air leaked out. More concerning was the breath escaping into the cavity of her chest, which would slowly but surely suffocate her as the pressure around and within her sole remaining lung equalised.

That was how she would die: she would suffocate.

The other wounds were horrific to behold, but comparatively little blood was escaping to the ground, and they had not sliced open her arteries, nor split the channel of her throat. She would neither fade away from losing blood nor drown in it. The cold, she understood, was from her body going into shock — probably from damage to her spine, where the segments of bone had splintered in her neck. Hypothetically, it could escalate rapidly, but the odds favoured the total failure of her lungs bringing her end.

She knew exactly what was happening. Struggling would only worsen the damage, and if she somehow pulled free then she would almost certainly hasten the end. Understanding her situation was all she could do — the only thing that mattered now, if she was to find a solution. Dimly, she was aware that Laewyn was screaming, that Celaena was staring vacantly, that Faylar was stumbling away, that Iolas was glacially sweeping up the iron rod and wading through the stretching moment to throw himself upon the towering spirit with death in his eyes–

That wouldn’t help. Moving the branches would only hurt her more.

But another of the spirits caught him up in her lashing grasp, plucking away the weapon as she tossed him overhead, his fury turned to fear as he slowly fell and hit the ground beside the others — shoulder-first, the crack of breaking bone dully elongated.

No, there were no solutions out there. Saphienne only had herself.

Perhaps that was why her life began to play out before her, unspooling in reverse, moving her back to the breaking of the tree and the walk through the local woodland, to Iolas and Laewyn on the shattering table, to Almon pacing the gravel, to splashing through the rain. Around her, time had slowed to a crawl; within her, time raced, and Saphienne was embraced by Filaurel, set ablaze by her master, tutored by Gaeleath, shown the lake by Faylar, challenged by Iolas, insulted by Celaena–

Kylantha was crying, was dancing with her.

Then she was smaller still, holding her mother’s hand, tremulously walking through the grove as neighbours stared, their murmured words carrying further than intended. “Look how young she is…”

There were faces, voices without words, light brown eyes that shone kindness.

At last there was nothing, no Saphienne at all, only a redness that lay beneath the depths of her, a redness that reached for her as she reached for it, that flickered and glowed as it expanded, too much for her to hold on to–

The redness receded. A single, glittering point remained in the centre of her vision, and then it, too, was lost.

* * *

The world and all its agonies crashed through Saphienne as the flow of time resumed, and she feebly choked out a scream, helpless, suffering beyond all imagining — and still not afraid of death. What immense terror she felt was not for herself, but for Faylar where he cradled Iolas, Laewyn where she now lay whimpering, and Celaena, who remained kneeling on the same spot, utterly hollowed. Their presence in her life was sharper than ever before.

But they were not the only familiar faces. Another appeared before Saphienne, having finished weaving her form of melted flowers, and she reached up to grasp the greater spirit’s limb, tugging on it as she sang a plea in the tongue of sylvan creatures.

There, the gnarled matron who assaulted Saphienne paused, and anger dripped from the clashing, discordant syllables of her reply.

“Faylar–” Iolas tried to sit up, fell back with a wince. “Faylar, what are they saying?”

The much smaller spirit tightened her twining hold on the branch, and her voice chimed with insistence.

Eyes streaming, Faylar tried to follow their speech. “The tree, she says that Saphienne has betrayed them — but the flowers, she’s denying it, says it’s not possible–”

The matron of the woodlands all but shouted her rebuke, swatting at the mass of blooms with her other branches, every movement sending fresh waves of suffering crashing through Saphienne. Yet the interceding spirit held on, her voice rising.

Faylar tried to keep up. “The tree says Saphienne has been judged, and something about an agreement… The flowers say she can’t drop what she hasn’t carried? That she hasn’t rejected–”

There, the twigs across the greater spirit’s back bristled and grew to point toward the tomb that Saphienne had shattered, her rage majestic as her retort echoed through the clearing.

Faylar winced. “‘Behold the fruits of her rejection.’ She’s saying Saphienne’s confessed to–”

But Saphienne’s advocate touched her instead – budding fingertips trembling where they brushed soothingly against her face – as she sang words that Faylar repeated. “‘She is beneath the age of choosing, and too young to judge or be judged.’”

A susurrus of whispers whistled through the leaves of the gathered trees, all of which bent toward Saphienne.

For the briefest moment, Saphienne felt the growing wood inside her hesitate, and the lessening pain felt like bliss; then the digging resumed, and her whole body spasmed, her tormentor twisting it as she replied. “‘The elf wears the garment of reason,’” Faylar translated. “‘She participated in–’ I don’t know the meaning, but she’s talking about some kind of rite–”

The bouquet that stroked Saphienne’s face withdrew, swinging toward Celaena. “‘There is the one who I walked within. This child is even younger. And all are not yet’ — I don’t know: something about embracing, swearing, carrying or being carried.” Then the other floral hand withdrew from where it held the murderous branch and lifted, beseeching the greater spirit. “‘None of this matters, for they are all too young. The’ – she’s taking about that rite again – ‘is of walking, not passing: she knew not what she did.’”

Rattling laughter ran through the matron’s branches, each vibration driving a thousand splinters through Saphienne’s flesh. “‘Ignorance does not excuse her.’”

Backing toward Saphienne, the protective spirit dropped her floral hands to her sides, her voice chiming low. “‘Then how will you excuse yourself before the elves, for striking their child?’”

Within Saphienne, the branches stilled.

Aches blossomed in every wound as the wood trembled, the skewering branches breaking off from the hand of the withdrawing matron — leaving Saphienne still trapped, still dying. The greater spirit’s eyes came back into view as she stepped away, their molten gold tinged with distrust. Faylar rushed to explain her song. “‘For what purpose did you come into being? Why are you in this moment?’”

Saphienne’s defender stood in front of her, flowers swaying. “‘I walked for the first time, and remained with them to be sure what was given was well received.’”

Seizing the opportunity, the matron accused her. “‘So you are responsible?’”

Gentler rattles arose from amidst the blooms. “‘How could that be? I did not walk in this one. All was witnessed: I did not touch her.’”

Still the matron of the woodlands pressed her ire. “‘So you did nothing? You let this happen?’”

“‘How could I stop it? I am…’” Although his translations were growing more confident, Faylar still struggled to remember the correct words. “‘…Bloomkith, not… woodkin. There was no green to wear, only grow anew. The children tried to stop her, and failed; if I had taken’ – shape, or maybe form – ‘then it would not have held long, for she was armed, and has no fondness for me.’”

Were she able to speak, Saphienne would have denied it, would have said she changed her mind — but the only sounds that came from her lips were whimpers.

Looming over them, the woodkin cast her shadow over Saphienne and spirit alike. “‘Do not refuse that you wanted this.’”

Whatever the bloomkith’s answer, it was too quiet for Faylar to catch. But then she spoke again, addressing the rest of the gathered spirits. “‘Did we not all? Is there one here who hoped for otherwise? Can one among you say that your roots did not thirst for this?’”

“‘No one has the right to set aside our ways.’” The matron drew back her limbs, the leaves across her body browning.

Yet the smallest spirit in the clearing was unmoved, and still spoke to the crowd. “‘No one but the gods. And do–’” Faylar inhaled sharply. “‘And do the gods not show their will in our passions?’”

With a horrific crunch, the matron slammed the ground, shaking a moan from Saphienne and startling Faylar, whose voice trembled. “‘T-this was acted upon by an elf, not the gods! And to elves it m-must be told. Who is to be blamed, if not the child, and if not you?’”

Having withdrawn in fright, the bloomkith unfurled her petals as she composed herself. “‘If not the gods, then perhaps the one who betrayed us? Did she find a means to flee?’”

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From the crowd, a spirit in the form of an elm creaked a sharp answer, surprising Faylar, who needed a moment to translate. “‘…Her bonds could not be slipped.’”

Replying to the elm, the flowering spirit asked a question. “‘What if the child reached out to our betrayer? Perhaps our betrayer reached back?’”

“Faylar!” Iolas hissed in pain as he seized Faylar’s lapel. “Tell them she touched the tree! Tell them!”

Around the children the ring of woodkin creaked, their attention drawn by Iolas’ frantic movement. Faylar wetted his lips, tried to sing — and faltered.

Rattling laughter greeted him. He flinched, and sing-song verses mocked him, causing his eyes to fill with tears as he looked down.

With every fibre of her being, Saphienne urged him not to give up. She silently pleaded, raged, begged: try again.

He could not hear her.

…But he had heard her before, and his gaze lifted to fix on Saphienne, and he wiped his tears and took a breath — and this time, his melody carried.

At once, the bloomkith seized on his words, danced closer to the matron as Faylar followed her song. “‘Then it was so — she was allured by our betrayer.’”

The greater spirit gestured to the elm as she refuted the idea. “‘It could not have been. The binding should have held. Only kith and kin could sing across it.’”

Straining the filaments of her blooming body, the floral spirit grew taller — and her song climbed with her in grandeur. “‘Either the binding failed with age, or the gods chose mercy for the aged. Did we fail, or did the gods intervene? I have faith in the strength of the binding. Where lies your faith, most ancient sister?’”

Staring down the younger spirit, the matron of the woodlands pushed closer, now-dead leaves raining from her branches.

The bloomkith held her ground. Saphienne’s breathing grew ragged.

At last, the elder spirit spoke. “‘Be this so, it is not for us to know. The child must be–’” Faylar paled. “‘The child must be given correction. And how will the elves be answered? How are they to trust, if their trust is not upheld?’”

“‘If the betrayer is caught, all is mended.’” Wilting, the spirit of flowers returned to her prior height. “‘Even if she goes free, we did not release her. The trust will hold.’”

Turning away from Saphienne and the spirit, the matron set her sights on the other children. “‘You cannot know this. And–’”

Faylar swallowed as he heard the remainder of her song. “…She says we’ve seen too much. That– that if questions are asked–”

Interrupting, the bloomkith changed key. Faylar needed a moment to recover. “‘I will ensure their understanding of what they have seen, and sing for their character. And–’” Faylar’s mouth fell open. “‘And if their names are shared when this song is sung, no more questions will be asked. I have walked this…’ I think that means she’s sure.”

A new spirit in the crowd sung out, and Saphienne could not see them — only saw Faylar twisting around. “‘What of the child? If the gods desired this, to punish her is wrong.’”

From her other side, another voice answered, lower than the first. “‘And if they did not, whatever the cause, she is–’”

Then the crowd began to argue, and Faylar gave up trying to translate across the discordant spectacle, which rang out in two disharmonious choirs, divided in melody. Saphienne focused on her breathing, aware that her thoughts were growing sluggish.

Before her, the bloomkith spun one way, then the other — and at last whistled sharp and high in a call for silence. All eyes were on her as she bowed. “‘Has she not been given correction enough?’”

Answering, now the matron, too, addressed the others. “‘Who but our young sister dares to know the will of the gods? Who will dare us risk their anger?’” She surveyed the silenced choruses. “‘No. So let her correction be this…”

Surprising them all, before she pronounced judgement in the sylvan tongue, she delivered it to Saphienne in Elfish: “Forlorn without our blessings thou shalt be, until thou hath ended thy century.”

Stunned, the bloomkith wilted, and her tones soared higher and faster than ever before. “‘That is a punishment! Should she fall sick–’” Faylar shook his head. “I can’t keep up…”

Iolas had understood the significance, and he saw Saphienne was fading. “Faylar… she’s injured now. She needs healed by them, now.”