CHAPTER 73 – Revelations

Summer crept slowly into the Eastern Vale, announced by changing flowers and the dryness that came with the heat. What mild rains fell were refreshing to the grasses as they turned from verdant to golden green, and the trees flourished and grew splendid in their leafy gowns. So too the elves transitioned from pallid to sun-kissed, though Saphienne was among the last to turn blonde, too close to the solstice festival for her to experiment on her mismatched strands with dyes.

She didn’t have time to dwell on her misfortune. Although the fittings Taerelle demanded were completed ahead of schedule, the clothes she had promised to her friends took longer, especially when Laewyn reset her progress by gifting her beautiful bolts of silk.

Yet Iolas was not oblivious to how hard she was working, and he offered to help with the embroidery. This ended up drawing the attention of his mother, Mathileyn, who was dissatisfied with his work to the point that she insisted on lending a hand, which led to her revising the patterns and then embroidering them herself.

When Faylar teased that he must have intended this, Iolas flicked two fingers at him.

Nor was she the sole adult to assist. Jorildyn found Saphienne asleep at the table in his workshop one morning, and when she later awoke the tailor was halfway done with sewing the seams she had been struggling to align. He refused any offer of compensation, asking only that Saphienne learn one last lesson from him: to always under-promise on what she believed she could achieve.

“If you find yourself in difficulty, you will have room to breathe; if you perform exactly as you anticipated, everyone will be impressed by your ease.”

Saphienne would forever remember that advice — though would struggle to follow it.

Together with Iolas and their friends she celebrated his birthday with much revelry, and then during the week before the solstice Nelathiel guided him through his ceremony at the shrine to Our Lord of the Endless Hunt. When the singing was done Saphienne waited for him; he emerged from the cave completely sober and thoughtful, obliged to admit he had more in common with the priest than he’d expected.

 

* * *

 

Night and day, whenever Saphienne wasn’t busy crafting, her mind was on the scroll she had been given by her master.

Almon spent every session before the festival teaching the notation in which elven spells were written. Some parts were easy to follow, explaining pronunciations and gestures and conveying their precise timings. What was harder were the other elements, more representation than instruction, depicting mental and emotional states that served as proxies for the knowledge and comprehension on which spellcasting depended.

Saphienne quickly grasped that she was learning a symbolic language, intended to capture nuances that were simultaneously very specific yet highly subjective. This was complicated by her master refusing to illustrate what he taught with actual sigils — for he claimed they were too alive with magic to deconstruct.

In fact, frustratingly little of what he shared was related to the act of spellcasting. The wizard was merely teaching his students how to identify what they were to accomplish — and were to accomplish without conferring.

Almon was blunt. “To cast your first spell, on your own, is your trial of initiation.”

Throughout, the sigil in blue ink compelled Saphienne, eager to be cast, frustrated by her ignorance, reaching for her whenever she stared upon its mystery. The Hallucination spell wanted to be understood.

She just wasn’t ready. Not then.

 

* * *

 

Concluding his final lesson before the festival, Almon offhandedly told his unproven apprentices that they would be participating in an old solstice tradition on the morning of the first day. Indifferent to their anger and dismay, he commanded them to visit him early, and to come prepared for monotony.

All five friends had been planning to meet at Iolas’ home, where they were to finally see each other in their festival garb. Laewyn was particularly unhappy to hear the news. “He might be your master,” she huffed, “but fuck Almon.”

They agreed a new plan: Faylar and Laewyn would wait at the house until Iolas returned with Saphienne and Celaena, forgoing the festivities until everyone could enjoy them. The apprentice wizards would appease their master as quickly as possible, and then the group would get ready together.

 

* * *

 

Benches reappeared from storage, pavilions were raised, and floral garlands were everywhere hung about the village. Travellers arrived and were given temporary accommodations to the south, where spacious tents were pitched, the early visitors assisting with preparations, good cheer spilling out from them as they brought news from the neighbouring villages. Thousands of elves soon flooded into the Eastern Vale from the north, merriment swelling in the valley as the days grew longer and the night lost its impenetrable darkness.

But when at last the festival commenced, Saphienne was in a terrible mood.

“We shouldn’t be at his beck and call like this,” she seethed to Celaena as she stalked out of her family home. “Our master is a huge prick.”

The older girl had passed through the festival grounds on her way to meet Saphienne, and their gaiety shone in her eyes as she kept staring overhead. “Good morning! And don’t let him ruin your day; he has us for a few hours, but the rest belongs to us…” She pointed to the window that held her gaze. “…Are those the same flowers as last time?”

Saphienne didn’t stop to look up. “On my windowsill? Hyacinth has been tending them. She keeps changing their colour.”

“Odd to see hyacinths out of season…” Celaena fell in beside her. “…Can she keep them blooming year-round?”

“So she told me.” She let her arm be held. “We’ll see if she actually can.”

Celaena giggled. “You’re prickly today.”

“Am I really?” Saphienne scowled at her. “I hadn’t noticed.”

But Celaena refused to take offence, her voice softening as she instead took Saphienne’s hand. “I remember the trouble you caused, at the last festival, when you and Kylantha ran off together. Is she on your mind?”

Grief closed Saphienne’s eyes. “I woke up like this. I nearly screamed at Lynnariel when she knocked on my door; she was bringing me breakfast.”

Celaena pulled her closer. “Would you like a hug?”

“I don’t need–”

“Saphienne,” her friend persisted, “do you want one?”

She stopped retreating. “…I would like that.” She swallowed uncertain, unshed tears. “I don’t want to spend the whole day this way.”

They embraced at the bottom of the grove, Saphienne choosing not to think about the blonde hair against her cheek — so similar to the unchanging tresses of another friend, long-departed, much-missed.

A group of older children – adult men, she corrected herself – were approaching from the south. Self-consciousness made her try to pull away, but Celaena clung on as though she, too, needed to be held. Saphienne resigned herself to being wanted, and the figures dressed in silver paid the girls no mind as they went by–

Whereupon Saphienne heard a voice she hated.

“Here we are.” His tone was different — less forced cheeriness in the way he addressed his companions. “I’ll come find you when it’s time to leave.”

One of them was dismayed. “No chance you’ll sneak away early?”

“Not happening…” His tone became knowing. “…Not that I mind: Lynnariel’s always insatiable.”

Lascivious laughter made Saphienne pry herself from Celaena, and she turned to see him handing his silvery cloak to one of his friends — and that his braided hair and pastel clothes were otherwise in adult style. He was tall and well-groomed, fastidious about his appearance yet carrying himself effortlessly, and under his arm he held a basket with several wine bottles — and a doll intended for a younger child.

“Delred, how old is your daughter now?”

“About nine or so.” He was visibly uneasy. “She’s a sweet girl. She’s very much like her mother — likes to keep to herself. Saphienne never wants to spend much time with me.”

“Then she’s not that much like her mother!”

As her father and his friends snickered, Saphienne realised her fellow apprentice was paying close attention; she dragged Celaena after her as she hurried away.

 

* * *

 

“Was that your–”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” Saphienne’s mind was whirling. “He’s awful.”

“But his friends were all still children?”

“I know.” She hadn’t known; she hadn’t known at all. How had she never known? The clues were all there. “He’s very immature for his age. He doesn’t take an interest in me at all. The only reason he’s visiting is to fu– to see my mother.”

“How old is he?”

Saphienne took solace in the fact that she wasn’t technically lying. “He’s an adult; he’s old enough to know better.”

Yet she knew she was misleading Celaena. Saphienne had understood what her father had let slip — and it explained why he took no interest in his daughter, why he wanted nothing to do with her. He shouldn’t have been a parent, not at all…

For Delred hadn’t reached social maturity.

And that suggested–

She quickened her pace. “Let’s not keep Iolas waiting.”

 

* * *

 

Though the hour was so early that the crowds had not yet gathered, going through the village and feeling the disconcerting happiness that radiated from every passerby was enough to pierce the cloud that enshadowed Saphienne.

She was angry at her parents. Had she been sad because of Kylantha? Were the two really one and the same?

Her guilt over the life she lived had been rising ever since she met the humans and helped the goblins. Buried under the justifications and rationalisations that she professed aloud, deeper than the apostacy which she kept hidden, Saphienne was aware that she was worse than the joyful people who surrounded her. Even when considering the most heartless and selfish of elves, as much as she detested how Danyn treated mortals? The warden was not living hypocritically. Nor was her mother; nor was her father.

That pivoted her anger toward herself, and her fury was clarifying.

For the first time, Saphienne allowed herself to think the questions that had consumed her all along. She wondered what Kylantha was doing. She wondered where she was. She wondered how she was, and how she felt, and what she thought about the mother who had given her up, and the friend she had been taken from, and whether the wardens had explained the truth to her, or whether she had been left in ignorance as well as heartbreak.

…If they had left her…

Saphienne wondered whether Kylantha was still alive.

Walking the early morning, surrounded by boundless warmth, she was frightened.

Yet she was not alone. “Saphienne?” Celaena squeezed her palm. “Are you alright? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this upset…”

She wasn’t. “I’m fine.” She wouldn’t be. “I’ll be fine.”

“…I can tell when you’re lying.”

How she wished that her friend couldn’t. “There’s nothing I can do.”

But Celaena stopped beside an as-yet empty stall and made Saphienne stare into her grey-streaked eyes, holding the younger girl’s gaze as she whispered “Then put it away until you can.”

Saphienne blinked.

“Stop trying to fix things you can’t fix.” Celaena lightly shook Saphienne’s shoulder. “You’re not responsible for everything that makes you unhappy. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Yes I–”

“You didn’t choose your parents.” Celaena took a steadying breath. “You didn’t choose who your father is. You didn’t choose a distant mother. And you didn’t choose what happened to Kylantha.”

“You don’t–”

“I do.” Celaena glared. “I fucking do, Saphienne.”

At that, all Saphienne could do was weep.

And all her kin could do was hold her.

 

* * *

 

Before, I told you that Saphienne was but a child. I told you that Saphienne was not responsible for the evils she bore witness to. I told you that no one expected anything from her — no one, but her.

…Except, that isn’t wholly true, is it? Everyone expected so much from her. Filaurel expected her performative conformity; Almon expected her surpassing excellence; all the elves expected her to belong within the woodlands.

Haven’t you expected things from her, in your own way? All who come here yearn to hear the story they have imagined from its title — to be entertained by the transformation of the elf who, one day, so they had been promised, would become a dragon. How eager so many are for her change…

…I have told this story very slowly, until now. Some imagine it is because I am an elf, and so inclined to patience in all things. That is not the case. I tell it so out of respect: both for you who come to listen, and for Saphienne herself. I have not glossed over any pertinent details. You have heard her lie, deceive herself and others, betray her word, act impulsively and with overconfidence; you have also heard her speak truth to power, show more than was wise, uphold her justice, and act passionately and with brilliance.

Are you ready to judge her? Have you already been judging her?

If so, then it gives me no pleasure to say: you are a fool.

Speaking about me, my father once said “Give me the boy and I will show you the man.” He intended to make me in his likeness — to partial success; another improved upon his work.

That I might give you the woman to judge, I have shown you the child.

Saphienne, as you yet know her, is still but a child. Where she has done wrong, the wrongs are not hers. Where she has failed to be the perfect girl that too many people have demanded she be, the failure lies not on her part.

As she exists in this moment of her story, for all that she has been deprived of her innocence, Saphienne is wholly and eternally an innocent.

And on that morning, on the first day of the festival of the summer solstice, when she sobbed against Celaena’s shoulder without restraint?

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

That was when Saphienne believed it.

 

* * *

 

Years after Kylantha was taken away, Saphienne forgave herself.

There was still so much wrong with the woodlands, and so much that was unfair about her life, but she accepted what Filaurel had told her on the steps of the library: she had done nothing wrong. She couldn’t have prevented what had happened.

That she hadn’t been able to accept this was why, she supposed, she was always upon those steps whenever she met with Hyacinth. And her rage at herself had driven her onward — through all the good she had done, and all the bad.

Intellectually, she had tried to let her anger go. Ever since she had understood what Filaurel was teaching her, she had tried to reconcile herself to her powerlessness, and so to put aside desires she couldn’t act upon. There was no point in fighting battles she couldn’t hope to win. Yet, until she doused her burning self-recrimination, such attempts were futile.

Futile, until she saw herself in Celaena. Futile, until her sympathy for Celaena reflected back upon herself.

Iolas had called it correctly: Saphienne was only fourteen. So why not be fourteen? Why did she have to make the problems of the world her personal problems? That way lay madness, she knew too well.

So she forgave herself.

But Saphienne didn’t forget herself: she made herself a promise as she accompanied Celaena to meet with their teacher. Once Saphienne mastered the necessary magic, and once she was in a position to do something about whatever she would discover?

Saphienne would scry for Kylantha.

 

* * *

 

Until then, it was summertime.

“Celaena! Saphienne!”

They kept holding hands as they looked across their shoulders, seeing Iolas jogging along the grove toward them.

He smirked when he came closer. “I’m getting better at timing this…”

Celaena tutted playfully. “What’s the point of walking Saphienne here, if you’re just going to meet us on the doorstep every day?”

Saphienne spoke without thinking. “…I like your company…”

The older girl flushed deep red, misty-eyed and speechless.

Iolas, too, was surprised by her abrupt sincerity. “It’s been a while since you’ve taken things so literally… wait, have you been crying?”

Celaena was protective, and stepped closer to Saphienne as she recovered. “She’s fine. Her father’s visiting, and he’s a colossal prick. I’ve never disliked someone so instantly, or intensely.”

Saphienne surprised them both again by throwing her arms around Celaena — though not in sadness.

Chuckling to himself, Iolas walked on. “Saphienne told me he was awful. I’ll admit, I wondered what he was like. That seems conclusive; sorry for doubting you.”

Celaena quietly fumed as she and Saphienne followed. “He thinks she’s still nine!”

“A lot of people forget how quickly children grow.” Iolas couldn’t help but try to see the good in everyone. “How old is he?”

Laughing at the absurdity of her own answer, Saphienne shook her head. “Not old enough… believe me…”

“He’s so immature,” Celaena sniffed. “I won’t repeat the awful things I heard him say to his friends. I hope you and Faylar don’t talk like that, when we’re not around.”

Now Iolas’ lip curled in distaste. “That kind of man, is he? We don’t. My mother and father taught me manners.”

Still holding Celaena’s hand, Saphienne skipped forward to catch Iolas’ palm as well. “You’re nothing like my father. You’re a better man than he is.”

Iolas snorted. “Kind of you, but you’re nearly a century early.”

She laughed again. “…You’re more mature than you realise.”

 

* * *