CHAPTER 81 – Her Necessary Transgression

Allow me to paint for you a backdrop, before I stage the drama.

The summer solstice festival was a time of joyful unity for wood elves and spirits of the woodlands, the ancient ways embodied in their shared merriment. Across all three days, elves who had befriended spirits would walk abroad the forest with them — bone and wind unified, finding through each other the expression of their hidden selves, experiencing the world in vivid freedom.

As this tale has implied, relatively few elves had such personal relationships with the bloomkith and woodkin. Distinctive were the priests, who actively cultivated them, as were the wizards and sorcerers, who pursued them according to their dispositions; so too, elders inevitably found friends among the invisible multitude who worked to culture the woodlands.

No, most elves merely regarded the sylvan spirits as friendly but unknowable neighbours — while the devout laity believed they were servants of the gods, their embrace conveying divine revelation. Regardless of religiosity, this majority experienced walking with spirits only on the night of the summer solstice, where sacred rite invited each mature woodkin and bloomkith to choose a partner.

All this, Saphienne knew or suspected. What she didn’t know – and couldn’t know, not before now – was how the elves were regarded in turn.

I have told you that the wood elves and spirits of the woodlands worshipped the same gods. Does it surprise you to learn that the spirits held their elven counterparts in the same varied esteem? That the elves were friendly neighbours — or, to those among the bloomkith and woodkin who held faith, that they were servants of the gods, embodying the divinity immanent in the world?

You behold the immaterial as mystical, for you – like myself – are physical in being. Consider now that the reverse is equally true, and that these spirits gazed upon the elves as closer to the divine, for elves were not just born of the world, but born into it.

Now place Saphienne into this awe-full context. Remember the boy whom the sunflower spirit had saved, and who he became; remember the bloomkith’s punishment, and what Saphienne first did to draw the ire of the spirits; reflect upon how Hyacinth excused the girl; and recall what was done to her in anger, both then and more recently; and precisely when; and the symbolism that Laelansa read into her injuries; and from whom this doctrine was first imparted to the novice.

Is that dread I sense in you? Good.

Against this pregnant background, let us proceed.

 

* * *

 

On the uppermost terrace of the gardens surrounding Celaena’s grand house, Saphienne sat with Laelansa on the grass beside the edge of a flowerbed, watching the novice trace a circle about the marigold and hyacinths that had been placed upon the soil. Saphienne had waved to Iolas as he settled to meditate in the shade of a maple on the opposite end of the terrace, far enough away to give the girls privacy while they communed with the spirits; she wondered whether he was watching.

She didn’t turn to see. Instead, she smiled as Laelansa held her right hand. “A single circle will work?”

“I thought you knew all about invoking spirits?” Laelansa was candid but not condescending, surprised that her girlfriend knew less than she did. “Circles only make it easier for the spirits to find their way — unless they serve as an anchor for magic. We could invoke them without any circle, but they’d find it more difficult to reach us.”

Now the varied forms of circle at the woodland shrines made sense to Saphienne. “…Why use circles? Why that shape?”

“I asked Rud–” Laelansa glanced at the ritual space. “I asked you-know-who about it. She says it’s because the circle is the most magically significant shape, being a single, endless curve that passes through all dimensions. She also told me the symbolism of the circle is tied to the natural cycles of the world, most significantly the sun, which follows a circle from east to west, and which appears as a circular disc to us.”

That Laelansa avoided accidentally invoking the spirit who guided her into the priesthood amused Saphienne, who pursed her lips as she thought. “You’ve said her name freely before. If a circle is unnecessary, my conjecture is–”

“She ignores me unless there’s a circle ready!” Laelansa giggled, happy that Saphienne had guessed. “Or unless I say her name nine times; three of three sounds like a shout, to spirits.”

Hesitating, Saphienne found that she wasn’t annoyed at Laelansa for cutting her off, which typically would have been irritating.

Her girlfriend misunderstood. “I’m sorry for talking over–”

“No,” Saphienne squeezed her hand, “don’t be… I’m just not used to…”

“…Me?”

They both laughed.

“Not yet,” Saphienne admitted. “But I’m getting more comfortable.”

Laelansa gave a knowing smile that made Saphienne’s pulse quicken in fear, and for a moment she thought her girlfriend was going to kiss her again… yet the novice faced the circle, conscious that the bloomkith was waiting. “Shall we invoke them together? Squeeze my hand for the beat?”

Relieved, she grinned. “Let’s!”

They each repeated the name of their spirit friend, speaking in unison, which felt strangely intimate to Saphienne. She supposed it made sense to feel that way, having only ever invoked Hyacinth with solo pageantry. Wasn’t that the difference between wizardry and priesthood? Wizards were introverted — whereas priests looked outward, both to spirits and to their community, better to get into everyone’s business.

When they concluded, while they waited, Saphienne asked Laelansa, “Do priests invoke spirits in groups?”

“For major rites,” she answered, “but they’re coordinated rituals. I practice this way with other novices.” She tilted her head. “Don’t apprentice wizards?”

Saphienne smirked. “I wasn’t taught how to call her. I figured out–”

The stirring breeze interrupted their conversation, Saphienne’s robes rippling as a living zephyr rushed over both girls to wind sunwise into the circle, cold and unsteady, like a shudder where it tossed her hair. Disquiet made Saphienne sit forward as she recognised–

Whatever Saphienne had noticed would be forever lost.

Hateful gales cut over the grass to topple both girls, whirling widdershins around the circle as they eroded the soil and unbound the marked space, buffeting then the quailing hyacinths that dimmed pitch black in petal as their pot was jostled and their stems were flattened down.

“Hyacinth!”

Saphienne didn’t realise she was the one who’d yelled, for the act was as instinctive as the mad scramble that saw her throw herself atop the flowers.

 

* * *

 

Against her expectations, the library and its steps were undamaged, the sky above dark but not stormy; this contrasted with the rest of the scene Saphienne found herself staring upon, where heavy snow blanketed blossoms that were lost to night.

A heartbeat passed before Saphienne saw Hyacinth buried beneath a drift.

Her festival dress trailed after her as she flew across the field, and she brushed aside the ice to find the spirit who mirrored her body — seeming more like Saphienne than ever before, the petals that ought have provided modesty all plucked away, the gold that ought have lit a playful gaze tarnished.

“Hyacinth!”

The bloomkith trembled. When Saphienne tried to help her stand, the spirit couldn’t.

 

* * *

 

Yet though she shielded the flowers, Saphienne did not deter the howling flurries — who vented their rage upon Hyacinth’s new shelter, rushing together to send her sprawling onto the flowerbed. One among their tempest stilled, dipping into a patch of orange lilies, and the blossoms rattled as viny tendrils shot out and gripped Saphienne’s legs before she could rise, squeezing painfully, budding with blunt thorns. Another spirit dove into bare dirt, there to writhe, green shoots erupting from the ground as scarlet tulips unfurled, melting and twisting as they grew together.

“Saphienne!”

She tried to pull the briars from her legs, but was knocked back by the tulips, winded, fully restrained by the lilies as her gaze fell to where Laelansa, kneeling, clutched the marigold and recited the name of its attendant spirit, Iolas racing across–

Warm air stilled the chaos.

Then Laelansa shook, briefly closed her eyes, and rose with an eerie grace that did not befit the young novice, holding herself upright with a sinewed, unmovable poise better suited to a fully grown woman, her now tawny gaze tinged crimson as she drew a deep breath.

 

* * *

 

Powerless to act, Saphienne turned within herself.

“…This is all in our minds…”

With great effort, Saphienne slid one arm under Hyacinth’s legs and the other beneath her back where the spirit lay amid the snow, then lifted, carrying her to the library, ignoring the screams of an imaginary body that said she should not be strong enough, at least until she reached the steps, whereupon she strained to bear her up them, setting her down before the doorway and sagging, panting, beside her.

When Hyacinth didn’t respond, Saphienne held her.

Sunshine broke through falling snow, and the hyacinths paled as they took root upon the library steps.

The bloomkith’s whisper was broken. “…My sisters blame me.”

Roused, Hyacinth granted her comprehension to Saphienne, who heard a whine in her ears as she adjusted to it.

 

* * *

 

Like all the speech Saphienne shared with her, Hyacinth’s translation of the sylvan language took the form of undiluted meaning. I shall attempt to faithfully convey the spirit of the songs they heard, constrained as I am by this – far less florid – tongue.

 

* * *

 

“Will ye profane this sacred day?” Ruddles sang, her borrowed chest swelling as she deepened and projected Laelansa’s voice. “Will ye forever wretched be, afore ev’ry bloom and ev’ry tree? Lilied sister — wilt thou stand and answer for thy sin, where oaken mother shied? Or thou, who wouldst ‘feign’ clothe thyself ruddied — wilt thou tell kith and kin how this child died?

“What more from ye curs,” the old bloomkith went on, raising her hands to the fluttering breeze, “who tarry afore me? Ye who would fain smite — would ye be then smote? Prithee, show such burrs as shall be stripped from thee!”

No matter how much Saphienne struggled, the orange lilies now pinning her did not release her — only tightened in threat as Iolas approached, the spirit they grew from rising up in a mottled shell of flowers to glare at him before replying to Ruddles.

“We are not rebuked by you, sister reddened — for though you are our sibling true, your faith is deadened.” A flick of the bloomkith’s fingers, and her green lash raised a welt on Saphienne’s unfeeling palm.

Iolas halted with a flinch, stammering in Elfish, “Wh-whatever you’re saying, stop this! All of you should know better than–”

The lilies ignored him, continuing to address Ruddles with the sylvan tongue. “Know we what the gods decree! The youngest growth can plainly see — she is condemned. Retreat before Their wrath, or humbled be.”

Now Ruddles brought her hands to her hips, and the flowers that belted Laelansa spread across them, sprouting all over her skin. “Ye? Fie! Thou art not Their wrath divine, sister craven, for thou mistakest Their true sign — of love, deep graven.” Her mockery intensified as she wreathed herself in her blossoms. “Know ye what the gods decree? Nay! Ye youngling growth all witless be — she is belovèd!” Stems creaked as they knotted together across her closing fists. “Desist before mine ire, or stand and see!”

The tulips rose to the challenge, the spirit adopting an elven likeness as she wrenched her rooted feet free from the nourishing earth. “You are old, and your time is done, your glories past, faded beneath the sun.”

“Ay?” Ruddles suddenly smiled. “Methinks thee rash, thy lie poorly spun — hie thee away, or I will make thee run.”

“Our cause is just, we behold the right–”

“O, cease thy prattle!” She dropped into a crouch, palms to the ground. “Retreat ye, or fight!”

While Saphienne bucked and contorted against the greenery, more bloomkith descended into the garden. Monkshoods knitted together into long limbs as the first sat up; another soon followed, levering her half-formed torso of buttercups from the flowerbed as though surfacing from a pond; a third clenched her emerging begonia fists.

Unable to abjure them, memories of his own torment replaying behind his stricken face, Iolas backed away.

Although invited to commence, the lilies hesitated. “The novice to whom you cling? She is blameless. Her skin does not deserve our sting — do not be shameless.”

The old bloomkith’s red-gold eyes shifted to Saphienne. “Gladdened am I, to hear thee sayeth so…” Her smile became a childlike grin, Laelansa resuming control as she spoke in Elfish. “…Saphienne, if you trust me — do you welcome our help?”

Saphienne blinked. “Of course I–”

Cool foliage burrowed up from the soil to brush the back of her neck.

 

* * *

 

Across the snowy field, the boundless horizon was abruptly constrained.

Cliffs of jagged rock towered in the distance, eagles swooping and calling about a girl with bruises on her arms who climbed between their nests. Far below her, the snowy field rippled and bulged with new growth — marigolds erupting from the melting snow, rolling toward the library in a wave, carrying with them the descent of the heavy and ruddy sun.

Saphienne clung to Hyacinth as the flowers crashed over the steps.

 

* * *

 

Heat haze; the wilting grasses; land in need of respite from the sun, grateful for the lengthening shade.

Caressing petals, warm and firm, enshrouded her — and gently pried at her fingers around the hyacinths she held. Saphienne wouldn’t let go. Laughter, brazen and deep in her ears, certain of victory. She kicked and screamed.

A moment of amused stillness… and then the memory of Laelansa, kissing her, loosened her hold on the stems.

 

The author’s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

* * *

 

When the marigolds receded, Hyacinth was no longer in Saphienne’s arms — and the scene before the library was transformed, the field of hyacinths replaced with a steep hill of marigolds tinted red beneath the sunset.

Atop the hill, Saphienne spied a woman–

 

* * *

 

“What have you done?”

Ruddles insistently pressed Saphienne to give up control over her body, then caused her to nimbly spring to her knees as the vines which had ensnared her spasmed and contorted beneath an outbreak of pox-like marigolds. “In faith, Hyacinth doth shelter in Laelansa,” the old bloomkith replied to the lilies, icily dropping all melody and rhyme from her song as she bent to her will the foliage that had bound Saphienne.

The woodland spirits surrounding them drew back, astounded.

“Will ye strike down the innocent to get at our sister? Methinks ‘tis most unlikely.” Saphienne’s gaze drifted to where Laelansa crouched, swaddled in forest growth that yet retained a measure of Ruddles’ power. “I further pray ye, hear me: Saphienne is defended to the uttermost. Perchance ye know from whence came my name? Nay? Then let ye try ruddle my marigolds — ne’er hath they been wet with the blood of elves in my care, though oft and well hath they been watered!”

Petals darkening with rage, the bloomkith of lilies let out a wordless, ululating cry that whipped the winds into frenzy, then advanced on Saphienne. “Apostate! No one but Hyacinth may bless–”

“Nor may ye aggress!” Ruddles spat the words. “Thou wouldst have me ignore thy transgression? Beshrew thy roots, for thou art unrepentant in thine apostasy!”

Cracking and crunching of breaking wood startled them all, and Saphienne saw Iolas blanch as the maple tree on the other side of the terrace uprooted itself, the woodkin who inhabited it thumping over the grass in a murderous rage.

Within, Saphienne felt Ruddles’ pang of worry.

Yet for all that Iolas didn’t understand what the bloomkith had been saying, he was not clueless; nor was he a coward, the ominous advance of the maple urging him to action. “So this,” he shouted at the assembled spirits, outrage swelling in his Elfish, “is how the ancient ways die!”

Lilies, buttercups, tulips, monkshoods, and marigolds faced him.

Responding in the same tongue, the buttercups dismissed him. “Be quiet, elf. You know not what you say.”

“Don’t I?” He gestured to them. “From where I’m standing, it looks like spirit wars with spirit — what a great example you set for we elves!”

The bloomkith of tulips was undeterred. “Some wars are just — and more, long overdue.”

“Listen to yourselves!” Heedless of danger, he moved between them. “This is what the ancient ways were made to avoid! You think Saphienne is guilty of breaking them–”

“Break them she has,” the lilies asserted.

He stopped, snorting. “Gods, perhaps she has! Perhaps she has broken the ancient ways — completely shattered them! How else can you excuse yourselves?” He clasped his hands together as he beseeched them, “What are you doing?”

Furious with him, the bloomkith of tulips elongated her fingers to grab him by his neck. “Uphold the ancient ways is what we do!”

Nearing the flowerbeds, the woodkin’s stride faltered, teetering.

Choked, Iolas nevertheless gasped, “By seizing a defenceless elf…?”

The buttercups trembled. “Sister, they were only words,” she insisted in the sylvan tongue, her melody frail. “Listener, heed what you have heard.”

Having said nothing throughout, the bloomkith of monkshoods maintained her silence as she approached her tulip sister and clasped her arm; her petal-hooded head shook.

Iolas gasped for breath as he was released, staggering away.

Then the maple groaned in Elfish. “We profit not, to rave and raze this day. Words ancient warn us: this is not the way.”

Her attention on the woodkin, the bloomkith of lilies refused to surrender her anger, singing her accusation in sylvan. “Mother Marigold her blessing has bestowed, the judgement spoken by mother oaken now clearly broken!”