L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 88
🕑 Added 2025-10-03 19:45:54 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 88 – Deconstructing the Unseen
“Thou art mistaken child.” Celaena tried to pull away; the spirit possessing Taerelle tightened her grip. “Wormwood hath come.”
Although Celaena struggled and the alarm bell rang, Saphienne calmed as she learned the bloomkith’s identity. Both her tutor and Hyacinth associated with Wormwood, and while she’d been warned that the ancient woodland spirit was bitter in temperament, Saphienne trusted their judgement. “You can release Celaena — she isn’t going to run.”
Yet Wormwood was disinclined to listen. The bloomkith effortlessly lifted Celaena by her collar, one hand shaking her where she dangled in her pale grey robes. “Where hast thou hid the ring? Tell, or succumb!”
Celaena grabbed Taerelle’s wrist. “Let go of–”
The crack of skin on skin was immediate.
Wormwood threatened another slap; Taerelle took back control of her voice to warn the junior apprentice. “Answer her question — she will hurt you.”
Astonished and unnerved, Saphienne watched Celaena tremble.
“…In the sanctum, in the storage cupboard, on top of a wardrobe…”
“And the rod?” Taerelle demanded. “Is that locked in your desk?”
“…Yes…”
“And were you stupid enough to hang your robes back up?”
She nodded.
Wormwood dropped Celaena – who sprawled where she fell – as Taerelle turned to Saphienne. “Prodigy — was it Hyacinth who aided her?”
How much trouble were they in? Saphienne tried to estimate–
“Now is not the time to be clever.” Taerelle was frosty. “If I figured it out this quickly, then our master won’t be far behind. Answer the fucking question before Wormwood loses her patience.”
She chose trust. “She’s in the guest bedroom, in her flowers.”
The greenish yellow faded from Taerelle’s eyes as a cold tempest erupted from her, Wormwood gone rushing upward to confront her former student.
“Who else knows? Iolas? Thessa? Faylar? Laelansa? Laewyn?”
Saphienne gave Celaena a silent apology. “Only Laewyn — Celaena needed her for an alibi. She drank too much wine and shut herself in the bathroom.”
Bending down, the senior apprentice grabbed Celaena by the wrist and yanked her upright, spinning her around as she pushed her toward the staircase. “Move! And don’t you dare do anything to slow us down; if Almon arrives before we’re done–”
“I won’t.” Celaena was sullen, but she wasn’t foolish.
Taerelle waved Saphienne off. “Prodigy, go fetch the Rod of Cleansing — and silence that damn alarm!”
There was no choice but to obey, and quickly. Nor would Saphienne have done differently: she appreciated the immense risk that her tutor and the spirit were taking.
The only question was their motive.
Why were Taerelle and Wormwood helping her?
* * *
She caught up with Celaena and Taerelle as they reached the entrance to the sanctum.
Taerelle was idly holding the Rod of Repulsion by her side as she walked Celaena through the doors. “So much for my sealing spell. I presume you used that stamp I saw?”
Celaena confirmed that she had as they passed within. The dark grey robes she’d worn during her vengeance appeared the same as when last Saphienne had seen them, the crumpled letter still pinned to their breast where they hung upon the mannequin.
Taerelle tutted and tugged them to the floor. “Bring these — and the mannequin. How idiotic are you? Even if you cleaned them thoroughly, and even if you had the knowledge to properly contaminate the sympathy, which you do not, then leaving them in one piece would still be foolish.”
Saphienne stuffed the Rod of Cleansing into her pocket and collected the clothing. “Because just owning them makes her a suspect?”
“If you’re sharp enough to realise that,” Taerelle scowled, “then why didn’t you already get rid of them?”
Celaena was flushed with anger as she hefted the dummy. “…I was in the middle of telling her when you arrived.”
“That’s another idiotic move: you shouldn’t have. Saphienne’s the person most likely to be questioned again, and what she doesn’t know–”
“Shut up!” Celaena straightened, bracing the mannequin on her shoulder. “Just shut up. I didn’t have any way to avoid telling her. Even if it meant I got caught, all that mattered was that she’d be safe.”
Taerelle studied the pair. “…What do you have over her, prodigy?”
“We’re just close friends,” Saphienne dryly answered. “Why are you helping? Because of the Luminary Vale?”
“Obviously.” Taerelle rolled her eyes as she marched them to the twin stairs leading down from the sanctum’s foyer. “You left me no choice. Either I clean up this mess, or I risk everyone thinking you put her up to it.” She glanced back at the stained glass above the sanctum’s entrance. “High risk, high reward…”
Celaena grew angrier. “Leave my father out of this!”
“Too late for that.” She pointed down the steps. “To the ring — then show me to his workshop.”
* * *
The sanctum occupied the second of the three trees that comprised the grand house, inaccessible from below. A spiral staircase rose from its foyer to an unknown destination, while the floor underneath the foyer consisted of a windowed reading area adjoining a hallway. A large but conspicuously empty library lay to the left as they hurried along the hall, while to the right was a chamber finished in blackened stone that reminded Saphienne of the space where Taerelle had chalked her diagrams.
Another staircase awaited the apprentices at the end of the passage, descending to two more levels. The upper held tiled, spare rooms for whatever research a wizard might wish to undertake, and to the back was an organised storage space, behind which was the locked cupboard in which Celaena had secreted the ring.
The moment Celaena stepped down from the stepladder with which she’d reached the top of the wardrobe, Taerelle snatched the enchanted band from her hand. “Put the mannequin in the corner — next to that sheet.”
Prior to leaving the room, the senior apprentice cast a divination spell, her pupils white as she demanded the Rod of Cleansing from Saphienne. Studiously, Taerelle ran the rod back and forth over the mannequin – green light destroying whatever physical traces had been left by the children – before she then pulled the waiting sheet across it, pausing to give the fabric she’d touched the same treatment. She next climbed the stepladder to do the same to the wardrobe, then leant the ladder against the sheet and bathed it in the transmutating glow. Finally, she swept the floor as she backed out of the room, cleansing both the inside and outside of the door — along with the key, which was then returned to the lock and subjected to yet another pass.
“Both of you: wait for me at the stairs.”
The girls observed from the steps as Taerelle methodically removed every lingering trace of their presence.
* * *
The depths of the sanctum contained an expansive and very well stocked workshop, filled with all manner of tools and materials – both mundane and arcane – that gleamed where they were laid out. Glassware stood tall beside enchanted benches with functions that Saphienne couldn’t begin to guess, though other sections, given over to woodworking and stone sculpture, were far more familiar. Somewhere in between was the strange forge that awaited on the furthest side, taking the form of a cupreous bowl holding unlit, golden coals, placed upon black stone bricks into which were set a small iron door.
“All of this for a mere junior apprentice…” Taerelle sighed longingly, pocketing the Rod of Cleansing so that she could run her fingers over the silvery implements hung upon the wall beside the anvil.
Squinting at their unusual material, Saphienne recalled what she had been taught about magical metals. “Pale and highly reflective surface, glitters where it catches the light — are those made from mythril?”
“Correct.” Taerelle selected a long, elegant hammer and gave it an experimental swing as she swayed past the anvil. Taerelle tapped the hammer upon the rim of the forge’s bowl, causing pale white tongues of flame to rise within. “While we’re waiting for the conjuration to intensify, what about this?”
Celaena crossed her arms. “Orichalcum?”
“Are you guessing?”
“Adamantine is dull grey,” Celaena answered, “mythril is reflective and pale, while orichalcum is ruddy gold.”
“And?”
Saphienne shifted her hold on the robes bundled under her arm. “Adamantine cannot be enchanted, and mythril cannot retain an enchantment, but orichalcum can hold extremely potent enchantments. Since the forge is magical, orichalcum would be best suited to its construction.”
Their responses satisfied her. “Looks can be deceiving. You’ve been taught the gross appearances of the three major magical metals, but their alloys look different, and there are physical and magical techniques for altering their presentation. Tell me about the fire.”
Celaena tilted her head. “…Apart from the colour? It’s smokeless.”
Saphienne recalled the magical fireplace in the village library: it burned wood slowly, didn’t need to be lit, and translocated its thin smoke far above the building. “Is it actually smokeless? The library has an enchanted fire–”
“This beauty,” Taerelle interrupted, “is entirely different. The coals consume no fuel — whatever they burn is reduced to powder and collected in the trap below.”
Belatedly realising what was to be done, Celaena sagged. “…We’re burning my robes…”
“And impeding divination on the ashes.” The senior apprentice pointed to the forge. “Toss them in, prodigy. You needn’t be wary: the fire isn’t yet hot.”
Mystified by that claim, Saphienne awkwardly dropped the clothes into the bowl, seeing that the blaze didn’t spread to them. She flicked her working hand through the ghostly flames, barely feeling any warmth as they danced through her fingers. “…I suppose, if the fire is entirely magical, it doesn’t need to abide by natural law.”
“You’ll note the absence of bellows.” Taerelle lay the head of the hammer against the lip of the forge, ran it precisely along the curved edge — causing the tongues to redden, then take on an orange hue, soon eagerly spreading across the cloth. “This is pure Conjuration, for what is being conjured cannot otherwise exist. The closest representation in the natural world would be a dragon’s fire… but the breath of dragons can burn far hotter, and weirder.”
Saphienne blinked. “What do you mean by weird–”
“Irrelevant to the moment. Our master will teach you.” She leant the hammer against the anvil, then held up the Rod of Repulsion to examine the ruby on its lower end. “Assuming, of course, we make it through this farce without losing our apprenticeships and being arraigned before the elders.”
Remaining by the forge, Celaena was morose as she watched the threads disintegrate.
“Don’t be so sentimental.” The senior apprentice delicately twisted and pulled on the red gemstone capping the black iron rod, revealing that the smoothly polished ruby was one end of a cylindrical prism. Her tone was withering as she tossed the rod to Celaena. “I presume your father is more attached to you than to his old robes.”
Saphienne shifted closer as Taerelle retrieved the ferned ring from her pocket. “Does that ruby contain the… charge?”
Slipping the band around the gem, Taerelle answered as she prepared. “The reservoir for the magic is also the embodiment of the spell. The rest of the rod attenuates and controls the expression of the conjuration, but it’s held within this crystal…” She carefully set the banded gemstone on the anvil, pausing to gesture in quick flourishes and enunciate semi-familiar syllables that caused orange light to coalesce into her palm; she touched the anvil, the abjuration expanding to a spherical shell around it that soon faded. “Enchanting one of these is beyond me. Fortunately, breaking the enchantment is easier…”
Celaena stepped back. “…And safe?”
“Oh, now you care about risk?” The woman in black laughed as she brought the hammer to her mouth. “We’re well beyond that point, birdbrain.”
Taerelle conjured, glittering red gathering on the senior apprentice’s lips to be whispered into the metal, where the word resonated, staining the mythril scarlet as the magic flickered and shimmered and sought an escape. She raised the hammer over her shoulder, turning so that she stood in profile and at distance from the anvil. “You may wish to retreat…”
On cue, Saphienne slipped behind Taerelle — peering around her. “Does this apply the principle you mentioned when y–”
The disenchanter swung.
* * *
After the blinding flash of red and violet dimmed and her vision returned, Saphienne put together what had happened while she went to fetch the wholestone.
The Ring of Misperception had been magically enchanted by a wizard of at least the Second Degree, reinforced with a spell more potent than any senior apprentice could equal.
How, then, had Taerelle broken it?
Saphienne’s tutor had previously shared that conjurations of force which contested each other would cause the weaker to rebound, amplified by the magnitude of the greater conjuration. The crystal was the embodiment of such a spell, and quite strong, which served both to power the Rod of Repulsion and prevent itself from being damaged. Except, in all likelihood, the portion of the spell reinforcing the crystal wouldn’t be as great as that which could be loosed from the rod.
Taerelle had inverted the ward she readied each day, creating a binding around the anvil that repulsed – but didn’t amplify – weaker conjurations of force. Meanwhile, mythril radiated magic cast upon it, forming intense magical sympathy with whatever it touched; knowing this, she had cast a lesser Conjuration spell into the hammer.
When she’d swung, the hammer had passed through the unidirectional binding unimpeded, then impacted on the ruby — imparting the spell as a small wave of magical force. Encountering a stronger conjuration, that wave had rebounded, increased in magnitude, knocking the hammer aside as it continued on toward the abjuration…
…Taerelle couldn’t have been sure the Abjuration spell would hold, but she’d been proven right. The binding had redirected the force inward, concentrating it right back on the crystal — which it was now very slightly stronger than.
The ruby had crumbled, discharging the spell it contained, unleashing a shockwave that had exploded the Ring of Misperception wrapped around it. Without being focused in any particular direction, however, the blast had dissipated enough to be contained by the binding, thereby reversing to converge on a single point…
“Shame about the anvil,” Saphienne murmured to herself as she collected the Stone of Making Whole.
* * *
Once the anvil was repaired, Taerelle easily disassembled the Rod of Repulsion and broke its inner components with hammer blows, putting the fragments into an adamantine crucible along with the remnants of the disenchanted ring. When the robes in the forge were completely burned Taerelle heightened the flames to searing purple, placing the crucible amid the coals, the adamantine remaining dull as it warmed and melted its contents. To this she added copper, tin, and a red powder, using mythril tongs to grasp the crucible and swirl the mixture until she was sure the ingredients were evenly distributed.
Then, to Saphienne’s amazement, she ran the hammer along the lip of the forge in the opposite direction — so that the flames blackened. Where there had been heat and light, cold shadows danced.
As adamantine was nigh indestructible, so too nothing would bond to it. The cooled hunk of bronze was easily decanted, Taerelle weighing it before deciding not to put it in her pocket, resolving to carry it out by hand.
Prohibiting divination of the ashes required contaminating their sympathy, which proved quite simple. Taerelle examined them with her mystical sight, did some calculations, then warmed the fire one last time and fetched two lengths of wood from elsewhere in the workshop, breaking them apart and feeding them into the flames. After they were consumed she double-checked her work, then extinguished the forge.
“…Anyone divining the ashes will find they’re burned wood?” Saphienne guessed.
“Unless the diviner has very strong sympathy of identity with the robes,” Taerelle explained as she set to work with the Rod of Cleansing, “the most that a very well composed divination will return is that the ashes are primarily derived from burnt plant matter, and further inquiries will point to the store of wood.”
* * *
Taerelle cleansed every surface they had touched on the way out, shutting the doors to the sanctum and waving the rod over them as well. Curiously, she insisted that Celaena then touch the handles.
Saphienne asked the obvious question. “Why?”
“Trying to hide that she’s ever been inside would take too long, and likely fail.” Taerelle shook her head. “I also daren’t risk sealing the sanctum again — our master knows the signature of my spellcasting too well. Celaena, your father simply told you not to go inside; you disobeyed him to have a look around, but found nothing you were ready to use.”
Celaena frowned in concern. “But, won’t my father know the truth?”
Taerelle grinned cruelly, taking hold of her elbow.
* * *
Writing the confession to her father was very difficult for Celaena.
She resisted — begging, pleading, even crying.
Taerelle was merciless. She sat Celaena at the desk in her study and compelled her to lay out the whole, terrible affair in exacting detail, up to and including what the senior apprentice had done to cover up her crimes.
Nor was Saphienne spared. When Celaena was done, Saphienne was made to attest to the truth of her confession below her signature, then countersign.
The lengthy letter went into Taerelle’s pocket.
Full of ire, but aware she was powerless, Saphienne glowered. “Blackmailing us?”
“Not in the slightest.” Taerelle hefted the lump of grey bronze from where she’d set it on the desktop. “You’re already going to do whatever I ask. No, Celaena’s father will eventually learn enough to guess she was involved: this is so I can reveal it to him in the kindest possible light.”
Celaena shut her eyes and lay her head on her folded arms. “He’ll see my apprenticeship ended.”
“Now, whyever do you think he would do that?”
Saphienne nearly snapped at Taerelle — only catching herself when she perceived the senior apprentice was sincere. “…You believe he won’t?”
Her tutor managed a wry smile. “Ignoring the many mistakes she made in covering up what she did? Celaena’s only substantial error was in not going to our master for his approval before she acted.”
Celaena slowly raised her head. “He would never have given it.”
“Which is why you didn’t.” Taerelle snorted. “And of course he wouldn’t have! You’re only an unproven apprentice, and your vengeance was far too obvious — everyone in the village will hear. Still, neither of those facts makes you unfit to become a wizard.”
Saphienne felt dizzy. “…Fuck. You don’t think it was unjust…”
“Unjust? No.” She leant beside the door. “Unwise? Yes, but not in the ethical sense, not from her perspective. Disloyalty to our master is the only significant wrong, because it means she acted without the implicit consent of the Luminary Vale.”
And as proven by the letter Taerelle had received about Saphienne, the retroactive consent of the Luminary Vale – in which Celaena’s father was influential – could outweigh disloyalty to their master. “…Her father will keep quiet about it.”
“In public.” Taerelle’s long braid swayed in a cold breeze, and she momentarily shut her eyes, opening them to reveal the greenish mark of possession by Wormwood. “In private? We’ll see what he makes of my request.”
Trapped between hope and wretchedness, Celaena’s voice was pitiful. “…What will you ask of him?”
Yet the senior apprentice smirked as she departed through the doorway. “Perhaps you may anticipate further grievances from me, Celaena. Farewell for now.”
* * *
In the guest room that had become her bedroom, Saphienne saw that the window was open, unlatched by desiccating tendrils sprouted from the hyacinths. The blooms swayed toward her as she approached.
* * *
“What did Wormwood want from you?”
Hyacinth was subdued where she sat on her field, her blossoms white. “We flew about the woods on feathered wing. I showed her where we swift our wrath did bring, and Wormwood worked to thwart the wizard’s sight.”
“You possessed birds?”
“‘Twas best to hide we were abroad in flight.”
Unsure what more to say, Saphienne lapsed into silence where she stood on the steps.
“…You are upset.” Hyacinth’s golden gaze was lidded. “Or worse: you are afraid.”
Holding herself, Saphienne paced the edge of the field, mist gathering about the library as she wrestled with her anxiety. “Celaena believes she sought your help…”
“So it occurred.” The bloomkith wilted. “You ask if her I played?”
“No.” Saphienne stopped and stared up at the sky. “No. Seeing you now, I know you did. I know for certain that you manipulated her into this.”
“And why are you so sure?”
Her smile was self-aware and bleak. “…Because I feel it’s what I would have done, were I in your situation. You had no other way to affect the physical world and avoid getting caught without involving me — no one else knew what had happened, and even if you were to break your oath to me, Iolas would never have assisted.”
Hyacinth lowered her eyes, plucking at her petals. “I kept my word.”
“I know.” The mist grew sweltering. “I know why you did it, too. Your self-recrimination, the shame you felt, your anger at your sisters for forsaking me, your rage at the harrowing you received…”
The bloomkith didn’t reply.
Saphienne slowly exhaled. “…The fact that you love me.”
How faint was the pink upon her flowers. “You sound quite sure.”
“Do you deny it?”
“Such love would be absurd.”
Laughing in exasperation, Saphienne sat. “…That still isn’t a denial.” She studied the bloomkith as she reflected on their past. “Hyacinth, I know you’ve gone through the rite that affirms you as a mature spirit… but I don’t actually know your age.”
“Our time is not the same as yours.” She still wouldn’t look at her. “We do not grow in flesh. Maturity comes through a sense of self alone — one strong enough that influence of elf we may rebuff.”
“Does time pass the same for you, when you’re not in the world?”
“Before we wake, we sleep outside of time.” She drew her knees up to her chest, and slipped her arms about them. “After we wake, our sense with yours does rhyme.”
“So after you arise from the woodlands as a conscious being,” Saphienne translated, “time passes at the same rate for you as for me. Then–”
“A dozen years.”
Saphienne blinked. “You’re twelve?”
Hyacinth rolled her eyes. “…Of this, I was in dread…”
Utterly confounded, she leant back on her hands. “I thought you were about the same age as Iolas?”
“We do not grow in flesh; I am ahead.”
“How can you mentally be an adult after only twelve years?”
Tired now, Hyacinth pointed to the marigold that grew on Saphienne’s arm. “You hold the means. We are bequeathed our roots.”
Saphienne had forgotten the cutting that Ruddles had left behind, having been avoiding Hyacinth until her plan was complete… which was exactly what the spirit had been doing as well, she realised. She touched the marigold as she contemplated the mystery. “The memories of your predecessors can’t be the same as learning yourself.”
“From them we grow. As like the tree sprouts shoots, we sculpt ourselves, new wood emerged from old.”
That the bloomkith was simultaneously both younger and older than her struck Saphienne as utterly bizarre. “…I don’t believe you’re more mature than me.”
“Alike we are, in many ways.”
“And you’re denying what you feel until I’m older.”
Hyacinth threw herself back on the field as gentle snowflakes drifted down. “Saphienne,” she said, abandoning her rhyme as she stared into the sky, “leave this matter be. Even were you fully grown in mind and body, and even were you proven right? How little difference it would make. I am of wind, and you of bone. To love you would be to become your slave, so Wormwood warns.”
Then horror bloomed in Saphienne, who understood Hyacinth was guarding herself, vulnerable to change from the intense sympathy that the intimacy of that bond would establish — perhaps had established.
And yet…
The snow was not accruing upon the field as Hyacinth contemplated it.
Saphienne stepped onto the flowers. “…What is your true name?”
She didn’t want to know; she only asked so she might feel what the bloomkith felt as she surprised her, to know the heady mix of longing and fear and thrill that swelled in her as Hyacinth groaned and covered her petaled face. “Stop.”
Yet Saphienne didn’t stop, only knelt down above her and moved her hands aside, smiling in her conclusion. “You nearly told me; you want to tell me.”
Utterly lost, Hyacinth’s smile was painfully fragile. “As moth is drawn toward the burning flame.”
“We really are bad for each other.”
They beheld one another in ceaseless surmise.
Lying down beside the spirit, Saphienne propped herself up on her elbow. “Why do you love me, Hyacinth? And how long have you loved me for?”
“Ask not–”
“The day I told you who hurt me,” Saphienne went on, “I figured out that you deceived me. You told me that if I hadn’t freed the sunflower spirit, that you’d have possessed me and then fled with her into the east.” She reached out to prod her side. “That wasn’t a lie — but it misled me. You wouldn’t have left me in the clearing.” She leaned close to the bloomkith, whispering in her ear. “You were prepared to take me with you.”
The snow no longer fell.
“I don’t know what it is you’re hiding from me,” she conceded as she shifted back. “There’s something else you’re not ready to share. And I feel I’ve guessed, deep down, but I’m too much of a coward to face it.”
Hyacinth wore a sad smile. “You are no coward.”
“Now you’re lying, maple-blooded.”
Beneath them, the hyacinths bloomed crimson.
Saphienne laughed and lay back, drinking in the warmth. “…Don’t ever do anything like this again. No more manipulating my friends, and no more acting in my interests without seeking my consent. No more lying to me, either — be honest about what you won’t tell me.”
“Have I no say?”
“No.” Saphienne recalled their time together with fresh eyes, snorting. “Gods… ‘Why not resign yourself to her command? Set down your pride — allow the elf to take the role implied.’ Just who were you really speaking to, when you said that to me?”
Utter embarrassment boiled from Hyacinth.
“…You talked yourself into this.” Saphienne let her simmer. “You knew then and there that I’m going to be your master. You’ve even joked about it. Will that make you my thrall?”
“Your familiar,” Hyacinth quietly admitted. “Just as Wormwood was ensnared by her master — whom she loves more than anyone, even herself.”
“…Taerelle?”
“No.” She faced her. “Do not ask, for none of us may say.”
The reason that Wormwood was so irate was partly visible. “She doesn’t want you to go down the same path she did.”
“There is no escape from it; nor the will to be freed. To be so is to forever be estranged from our sisters.”
“Almon told me that familiars are invested with sentience by their masters,” Saphienne wondered. “Taerelle said they embody part of their master’s mind, which grants them sapience. You aren’t mindless.”
“To become your familiar would be to receive stability of identity,” Hyacinth revealed, “my being thereafter maintained by yours. Part of your unconscious mind would find expression through me, and part of my mind would dwell in you.”
“Do many spirits do this?”
“Rare are my sisters who have submitted to the bond.”
“…And you want to submit to it.” Saphienne was disquieted. “Or you’re compelled to, out of love for me, because of whatever secret you won’t yet share.”
Hyacinth moaned. “Why must you pry?”
Seeing her half-willing torment made Saphienne let the matter go. “…I’ll wait until I’m old enough to make an informed decision, before I press you any further. But you’ll tell me everything when I finally ask.”
“…When I judge the moment right.”
She assented. Then, sitting up, she felt a twinge of mischief worming through the layers of absurdity, her mood brightened by their embrace. “…You know, I have a girlfriend. I suppose you’re jealous of her?”
“…Saphienne…”
She laughed as she felt the answer. “No, then; I’m sure Laelansa will be relieved.”
“As elves go, you are an ass.”
They stared together out the window in the guest bedroom.
“Hyacinth… I should be much angrier with you. Why aren’t I?”
The bloomkith swung up beside her. “Saphienne,” she said, “you believe you should be furious with me — but I know you well enough to know the truth you flee from. You would not have enacted it yourself–”
“But I wanted them to hurt.” Saphienne pursed her lips. “Underneath it all, I wanted them to suffer. Even Syndelle.”
“…That was why I led Celaena to them.” Hyacinth was nervous. “There were many causes, but that was the reason: to do for you what you could not do yourself.”
She closed her eyes. “If I forgive you for this, will it encourage you to do it again?”
“No.” Hyacinth opened herself as she said it — letting Saphienne know the truth.
Accepting her word, the relief that surged though Saphienne carried with it the exultation she had repressed throughout the day. She turned upon the field, and threw her arms around Hyacinth. “Walk with me. I have things to share.”
* * *
The gift from Ruddles; memories of Laelansa; sensations returned to her hand.
Dark contentment in her revenge.
Saphienne-Hyacinth sighed in happiness.
* * *
No more of consequence happened for nine days.
Yet, there were events that occurred.
Saphienne was called before a trio of elders to testify to what had been done to her, and to be questioned on what they had been told. She did not exaggerate – but nor did she soften – the horror of the attack. Unprompted, she presented the true letter from Syndelle, referring to her forgery as an ‘elaboration’ when she explained how she tricked Alynelle, Elisa, and Tirisa into revealing their complicity.
Asked if she had any more to say, she pleaded for mercy for Syndelle.
Alavara later told her the sentences. Elisa and Alynelle avoided fascination, and were both sent to different, distant villages where they would live strictly regimented and closely monitored lives until their social adulthood. Syndelle was remanded into the care of Our Lady of the Basking Serpent, where she was to be assessed for her competence to be held culpable; the likelihood was that she would receive a permanent enchantment to pacify her. Whether or not she would be returned to her mother would, but of course, be at the discretion of the priests.
Tirisa’s cooperation was taken into account, and she was delivered to a remote woodland shrine to Our Lord of the Stilled Reflection, where she would spend her days under close supervision, fascinated when she was not receiving counselling. Her rehabilitation was to be regularly assessed, and once she had made sufficient progress – perhaps in fifty years – her sentence would thereafter play out much like Elisa and Alynelle’s.
As for Lensa? For her role, she was judged to be a danger to the consensus of the woodlands, thereby receiving the harshest correction available to a child.
The wardens removed her to the westernmost edge of the forest, where she was to enter the Vale of Tears and maintain the graves within until adulthood. She would be fascinated throughout, counselled by the sorrowful priests of Our Lady of the Untarnished Memory, and when permitted to emerge she would spend a further two hundred and fifty years serving the woodlands under heavy restrictions.
If she reoffended in adulthood, her apostacy would be confirmed.
* * *
On the ninth day, unsure what awaited them, Saphienne and Celaena attended their first lesson with Almon since the festival. Their worries began in earnest when they arrived at his home to find it encircled with salt.
He said very little before the lesson. “Are you adequately recovered, Saphienne?”
“Yes.”
No further comment followed.
Once Iolas arrived, the wizard immediately launched into his next lecture on the notation through which spells were symbolised, dryly and thoroughly proceeding through the remaining fundamentals of magical writing. The apprentices were to teach themselves the rest over the next two weeks — and were loaned their first book from his shelves, given strict admonishment to keep it secure and share it only with each other. Whoever read it last was to return it to him no later than a fortnight hence, after which point it would be available by request.
When the instruction was finished, however, Almon politely asked Saphienne and Celaena to wait behind.
Iolas had sensed the mounting tension. “…I’ll be in the garden.” He clicked the door shut as he went out.
The wizard nodded to the girls. “Come with me.”
As Almon started up the stairs, Saphienne saw Celaena glance her way in worry. She did her best to reassure her friend with a nonchalant shrug as she went ahead: whatever the wizard intended, there was no point in fretting.
Yet he didn’t pause in his sitting room, beckoning the pair to follow him down the other steps and into his kitchen. She hesitated as the space came into view, surprised by how snug it was, the orange tiles of the floor and warmly stained beech cupboards and counters contrasting vividly with the bright blue robes of the man who now busied himself with filling his kettle — conjuring water from his hand.
Equally uncertain, Celaena came to a stop behind her.
There were no chairs, nor even a table, so Saphienne elected to linger by the entrance while her master fetched out a cup and waited for his enchanted kettle to come to a boil. Celaena descended to stand beside her. Together, they watched Almon fill the pot and set it to steep — then lean forward on his palms, his back to them as he spoke.
“I very nearly put it together by myself.” He spoke without inflection. “All the pieces were scattered before me. Saphienne acquired a guardian spirit — the same bloomkith who had participated in your lesson on Invocation; she was also refused healing by all other woodland spirits, who subsequently had an altercation with her on the last day of the festival; previously, she had forced her participation in an excursion undertaken for the Luminary Vale, where her ignorance obscured the perpetrator of an act of apostacy; Taerelle had speculated that the act was performed with a Rod of Repulsion; later, a Ring of Misperception was lost by Saphienne after being stolen by goblins; and both a perceptual veil and conjuration of force were used to avenge Saphienne upon her malefactors.”
Defeated, Saphienne closed her eyes.
“Saphienne’s alibi was unassailable; someone else struck, and by process of elimination that someone had to be Celaena — so devoted that even the prospect of losing her apprenticeship couldn’t end her fascination, not when it was for Saphienne’s sake. But how had she earned such utter devotion? What was the precise sequence of events that made sense of this? How did the fragments fit together?”
He turned around. “You’re the one who shattered the tree…”
So this was how it ended–
“…And Saphienne covered for you, didn’t she?”
End of Chapter 88
Note from the author:
Due to the constraints of the web serial format, I previously wrote a note about Saphienne's emerging sexuality, reassuring readers that future chapters would handle the subject of her development with discretion and taste. The story has since progressed to the point that Saphienne's issues around her sexuality are apparent enough that their impact on the overall plot is hazily discernible, and the reasons for why the subject is touched on have begun to coalesce.
In the same way, the relationship between Saphienne and Hyacinth has not been written lightly. How it appears, both subjectively and objectively, is very deliberate, intentionally discomfiting, and in service to a narrative purpose other than what the reader may expect.
It is my hope that, when dealing with difficult and heavy subjects, I continue to have your trust.
Comments
kyle
A permanent bond with hyacinth gives me bad vibes. It's implied that Saphiene will eventually separate from the woodlands. (Her kind will pretend she never existed). What happens to a Woodland spirit outside of the woodlands? Somehow I doubt the awnser is mundane.
L. J. Amber
I don't think it's a great surprise (given it's right in the blurb) to confirm that one of the major themes of the story is the ambiguity inherent in questions of perspective and truth. You can absolutely make the argument that the woodlands are a utopia, but you can also absolutely make the argument that they're a dystopia. You could say that Saphienne is an insightful genius, but you could also say that she is an oblivious idiot. And so on, and so on.
Uwerta
This story places the smartest protagonist of any book I’ve read inside a setting that is closer to a genuine utopia than that of any other book I’ve ever read, and then examines all of the flaws with each of them in a way that, more than any other book I’ve read, asks me to think about them in a profound way
