CHAPTER 66 – Low Esteem

Having completed his introduction to practical spellcraft in elven society, Almon would finish the second week by at last addressing the spectre that had haunted the feast throughout. He’d unfold maps that showed the full extent of the woodlands — and then also the known world, pointing out to his students the far more extensive territories that lay beyond their homeland.

Saphienne would note that all across the foreign maps were writ three words of ominous warning: ‘Here Be Dragons.’

Yet dragons were not intended to be the subject of his commentary. The wizard would instead spend a whole day comparing how elves prospered to the myriad ways in which humans subsisted, illustrating the great elven achievements through starkly dispiriting contrast. Whereas the Luminary Vale encouraged an enlightened view of the Great Art, humans were mired in superstitions both bizarre and unwise; whereas all elves were taught to read and write and perform arithmetic, and all elven settlements had thriving libraries, humans made scant provisions for the education of their young; whereas elves understood that the health of the woodlands was fundamentally interdependent, humans frequently treated sickness and injury as moral failings — where they treated them at all.

At the conclusion of discussing human sanitation, Iolas would be grey, and Celaena would need to step outside for fresh air. Things wouldn’t improve when she came back in, as learning about the paltry efforts that humans made to steward their resources or reclaim what had been used would be shocking. So too would the enduring lack of consensus among humankind – especially the wars of ambition between their tribes, fought in service to their hereditary chieftains – fill them with despair. It’d seem to the apprentices that there was no justice to be found in the mortal world.

All throughout, the young elves were to be shown how elven magic made possible what would otherwise have required harrowing toil and sacrifice. Wise pursuit of the Great Art made the forests of the elves a haven from the scarcities and capricious calamities that abounded elsewhere. By the end, there would be no denying the truth:

Were it not for what their ancestors had bequeathed to them, Saphienne, Celaena, and Iolas would have been born into lives of hard labour and deprivation.

 

* * *

 

Yet Saphienne remained sceptical. “Are the woodlands really so unique? Has no one else achieved anything like this, anywhere in the world?”

Almon was not dismissive as he answered her. “Your question is complicated. Taking each triumph individually? There are aspects of what we have accomplished that some among the mortal peoples have imitated to noteworthy success. Dwarven education, sanitation, and crafting have much to recommend them — particularly their crafting.”

Next to her, Celaena unfolded and stretched her legs, leaning on one arm. “Father told me that other cultures are objectively inferior in the results they produce, but some are subjectively superior in the people they raise. He said he once beheld a work of dwarven enchanting that was beyond even the greatest achievements of the High Masters, and that the dwarf who made it was a finer person than most elves.”

Iolas recognised that their note-taking had paused, and he stood to pace a little, restless from both the topic and the hours spent writing upon it. “From what you’ve said about him, that sounds like very high praise. What was the enchantment?”

“A book.” She gazed up at the ceiling as she imagined it. “Father said it was a book small enough to fit in your pocket, but that it held hundreds upon thousands of pages, filled with the storied history of the dwarves.”

Almon was unimpressed. “Such enchantments are quite difficult – certainly, beyond my limited ability – but they are hardly great works. Did the craft that went into the book itself impress him? Was it the artistry?”

“No.” She smiled fondly. “Father said he was impressed by two things. The lesser was that it was one book among two dozen — all produced together, all reproduced consistently, and all made more easily than he could imagine how. She freely taught him how it had been done.”

There, the wizard’s eyebrows raised. “That is a very great secret to share… it has been said that speed and consistency are hallmarks of dwarven crafting and magic.”

Saphienne wondered what could be more impressive. “And the greater?”

Celaena’s smile broadened. “It wasn’t anything magical. It was that they had been crafted from start to finish by a single wizard, working alone, and that she gave them to whoever taught children — and didn’t just distribute them to dwarves.” The apprentice’s admiration for her father glowed for all to see. “He said she wanted everyone to have what she’d once received. He found her selflessness inspirational.”

So did Iolas. “…Couldn’t we do the same? Why don’t we share our understanding of prosperity with the wider world?”

Now Almon sighed. “Here, you’re overturning a stone to find worms… but the answer speaks to Saphienne’s question. Are any of you aware of our protectorates?”

Blank looks passed between the wizard’s apprentices.

“There’s no reason you should be.” He rose from his chair and meandered to the window as he talked, observing the changing colours of springtime through the glass. “There are forests adjacent to the woodlands in which we have permitted the establishment of mortal communities. These settlements are protected by us, and receive the benefit of our wisdom.”

Saphienne sat upright. “Do they include half-elves?”

He glanced her way with a frown. “Absolutely not. In addition to being detestable, sexual congress between elves and mortals is forbidden — on penalty of expulsion from the protectorates.” Calmer, he settled back against the sill. “…Not that it happens often. Mortals do not have freedom to wander into our lands, and any elf wishing to visit the protectorates must apply to the Wardens of the Wilds for permission.”

Nodding along, Iolas sat back down on the floor. “So we look after our neighbours… as long as they don’t intrude upon our way of life.”

“Not our neighbours.” Almon was silhouetted by the daytime. “They do not govern themselves. They are entirely under our jurisdiction.”

Saphienne blinked. “…We rule them?”

“Benevolently.” Though only dimly visible within his outline, his face showed detachment and candour. “There are many more who wish to live beside us than we have lands to accommodate them, and we are careful only to take those who have the prerequisite humility and mildness of disposition.”

Iolas was taken aback. “…This is meant as charity?”

“We benefit from the arrangement as well,” the wizard clarified. “A significant portion of our farming occurs within the protectorates.”

The boy grew frosty. “You’ll forgive me, Master, if I mistake this for exploitation.”

“So I will — for it is not.” Shoving away from the sill, Almon paced testily toward Iolas as he reproached him. “None of the mortals were conquered, enslaved, or dispossessed of their homes — not by us. All came seeking sanctuary from the torments inflicted by their own kind.”

He grasped the lapels of his cerulean robes as he loomed over his student. “From us they sought stability, stability born of the wisdom that comes from living long enough to witness and endure the full consequences of one’s actions.” His voice softened as he moved to his chair. “They simply cannot live among us, Iolas — but we are not heartless before their suffering.”

Celaena was more willing to accept the arrangement, but she still had questions. “Are they well looked after by us? Are they happy?”

“From what I have seen,” he confirmed as he braced his elbow on the high back. “They have more than adequate food, clothing, and shelter; they are taught to read and write; they receive the attention of trained healers; and they enjoy many of the same amenities as we do, gifted from our limited surplus.”

“And are they free to leave?”

Her question amused the wizard. “Of course. Frequently, their children do — though most are swiftly repelled by what they encounter in the lands governed by mortals. We allow them to return. Some instead find work with traders who have our approval.”

Although Saphienne had been silent, her discomfort was loud. “What about the moral hazard?”

Almon jerked as though struck, clearly disconcerted. “Whatever do you mean? The arrangement is a kindness. We are more than capable of sustaining the woodlands without the assistance of mortals.”

She was undeterred. “If we’re not forced to care about them – if we can exercise our power over them with impunity – what’s to stop us sacrificing their needs for our comfort and convenience?”

Iolas had obviously been thinking the same. “Saphienne has a valid point. What’s to stop us demanding they work longer, or harder, and threatening to withhold our support if they refuse?”

The wizard recovered with a dry laugh. “…That would be exceedingly unwise stewardship. But I suppose we’ve been avoiding the depressing truth…”

Almon came around his chair, lounging upon it with all the staged grandeur of a sovereign upon his throne. “Why don’t we provide freely for all who need? Why don’t we share everything we have learned? Because mortals – especially humans – are like you: they think like children.”

Celaena crossed her legs again, pushing her writing board to one side. “Father said almost all humans act rashly.”

“He neglected to tell you their greatest flaw.” Almon held out his hand toward Saphienne as though making her an offer. “Suppose that you knew for certain that you would leave this village and never return — and that you would be beyond the reach of even the Luminary Vale. Suppose that before you did you had attained power over us. This would place you in significant moral hazard, would it not?”

Fully engaged, Saphienne saw where he was leading her. “You’re going to say that death puts humans beyond reprimand, and so their limited lifespan means that all who attain unchecked power are inherently in moral hazard. Why not take all the risks you want, if you’re going to die anyway?”

Iolas snorted. “Surely they care about their people? Or their friends and family?”

Yet Almon pitied him. “Power over human tribes is largely inherited. Without the untarnished experience of elders to guide them, each dynasty becomes estranged from those whom they rule.” The more he explained the further his pity extended beyond Iolas. “Even without that growing isolation? Human life is brutal. Most must pursue survival for themselves and their loved ones above all else. Circumstance shapes their selfishness.”

“Isn’t that an argument to change their circumstances?”

“No art may prevent their deaths.” The wizard’s decree was final. “Their unavoidable demise drives them mad, and they tell themselves all manner of falsehoods to justify continuing in the face of their despair. And when given a free hand by prosperity? They inevitably use their strength to enact their passions without restraint — punishing the world for dooming them to die.” His laugh had turned dark. “They cannot help but make what torments them a problem for everyone else.”

Saphienne pursed her lips. “So we would rather starve them than feed them, for fear they’ll bite our hand?”

“They are not our people.” He responded with quiet dispassion. “Nor could they ever be: close association with mortals only fosters envy and resentment on their part, and invites despair on ours. We are not responsible for the tragedy of their mortality.”

She suppressed her anger and its sneer. “Aren’t we? Would it still be tragic if they suffered less?”

“Even so. All tragedies emerge from the shadow of death.” He wasn’t belittling her concerns; his pained eyes fell shut. “We can only do the best we can to ease what suffering we may… and in this we are guided by millennia of experience.”

None of the children wanted to argue further.

Iolas exhaled as though he were leaking happiness. “…This is bleak. I can see why certain events in our past played out the way they did… up to a point.”

His admission roused his master from sadness. “Your eighteenth birthday is next month,” Almon reminded Iolas as he sat forward. “You are nearly at your mental and physical maturity. When you attain the social maturity of your first century, you will have gained sufficient perspective to temper your laudable sympathy with experience. I am assured that we are to become further tempered as we become elders.”

For her part, Celaena’s few concerns had been addressed long before. “If dwarves live longer than humans, does that mean they tend to have better governance? What about other mortals?” A novel thought struck her. “Are we the only ones who don’t wither with age?”

Her academic interest was received in kind. “Now you’re testing me. In answer to your first question, I’ll confess that my knowledge of mortals isn’t comprehensive: you would do well to seek the opinion of an expert. Your conjecture seems plausible on the surface…” He hummed as he drummed his fingers on his chair. “…But I have nothing significant to substantiate that impression, so I’ll admit ignorance and withdraw my remark.”

“And what about aging?”

Almon shifted to lean upon his armrest. “To the knowledge of the Luminary Vale – and discounting ephemeral entities such as spirits – the only beings who are ageless by nature are elves and dragons. Yet dragons are very much unlike us.”

Saphienne’s scepticism hadn’t diminished. “How so?”

Iolas was relieved for an opportunity to be light-hearted. “You mean, apart from the wings, claws, scales, massive size, and breathing fire?”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Even Saphienne joined in with the welcome laughter.

“In all seriousness,” Almon replied through a poorly restrained grin, “they are distinct from all other creatures in the world — and their nature makes them incompatible with society.”

She still doubted. “Why?”

The wizard spoke as though reciting. “Dragons do not relent: they insist upon themselves. Be they behemoths or leviathans, all are tyrants by nature, forbidding that anything abide without their consent, regarding all that exists as extension to their fearsome and varied appetites. Only the foolish or desperate entreat a dragon for mercy.”

That was very interesting. She wondered–

But her master shook his head. “We have once again strayed into future lessons. Let us come back to the subject for today…”

Yet her mind wandered as the lesson proceeded, distracted by what she had learned from Faylar and Filaurel. Dragons had taught magic to elves; dragons considered the woodlands claimed; dragons held the Luminary Vale in esteem befitting an ancient wyrm. They had also returned with fire and fury, when the elves fell upon each other in war.

Saphienne found herself idly pondering:

Were the woodlands but a protectorate of another kind?

And if so: who ruled them?

 

* * *

 

Having passed Filaurel’s spoken examination – albeit barely – Saphienne had agreed with Faylar that they would spend the day before they were due to travel celebrating.

She’d been reluctant at first. Then Filaurel had assured them that she’d already taken care of the arrangements for their journey, and all that the pair had to do was visit the library the evening before departure so she could go over some pertinent details with them.

“You’ve already prepared?” Faylar had asked.

Saphienne had been mildly upset to learn that the test was, as it turned out, her mentor’s way of poking fun at them. The fact that Filaurel had been confident in her from the start soothed the minor wound.

The morning before turned out to be the first warm day of spring. Saphienne arrived at the teahouse to see that the doors were thrown wide open, elves of all ages crowding the comfortable chairs and couches and spilling out into the clearing in laughter and merriment. Enjoying the sunshine suited her mood, and she took the time to scan the wild garden for a comfortable place to sit — catching sight of pale grey outer robes, draped like a blanket on the grass behind a thriving patch of rhododendrons. She expected she would find Faylar and Celaena there, and headed over to greet them.

Yet Iolas was sitting alone atop his garb with an empty cup. “…Hello, Saphienne.”

She hesitated: Iolas didn’t seem himself. For all that his hair had now completely turned the joyful blonde of summertime, he looked very troubled. His cyan gaze hadn’t risen from the ground with his greeting, and he was hunched where he sat, arms folded atop his knees.

“I’m not very good company today.”

Faylar could wait. Throwing off her outer robes, Saphienne draped them on the grass beside him and sat, pressing up against him as she mirrored his pose. “You’re never bad company.”

He couldn’t manage a smile.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Iolas shook his head. “I can’t.”

She waited.

“…Not until you’re eighteen.”

Saphienne clicked her tongue. “You’re not eighteen. Not yet.” She checked that no one was within earshot, and lowered her voice. “I’m guessing someone told you about the ancient ways before they were supposed to.”

He didn’t answer directly. “I was talking to my family about my ceremony… I wanted to know what was involved before I tried to decide where we should hold it…”

“Is it something in the ceremony that’s upset you?”

He shook his head.

Saphienne leaned against him. “…Then I think I know what’s bothering you.”

“You can’t–”

“Only the elves and spirits of the woodland matter.” She breathed the words up into his pointed ear. “Everything is about maintaining that alliance — and excluding anything or anyone that could threaten to come between us.”

He turned very slowly to face her.

Then, he did smile, albeit weakly. “I should always expect you to have gone ahead of me… who told you that?”