L. J. Amber
patreon
TEWWBAD Chapter 81
🕑 Added 2025-09-16 12:00:39 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 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.
* * *
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!”
Ruddles remained ready to give battle where Saphienne knelt, but lyricism returned to her voice. “Mother Marigold doth only as is owed, mine ire awoken foregainst foretoken of ruling broken!”
Glowering, the tulips stepped away. “Mother Oak of this will hear.”
Ruddles laughed. “Mother Oak I do not fear! Hie thee thither to huddle ‘neath her sleeves, or cometh thee hither to ruddle all thy leaves!”
Provoked, the tulips spread their petals–
“Elves come,” the lilies cautioned. “Refrain: leave Mother Marigold to explain. Abstain, and to the ancient mother complain.”
…And diminished. “There will be a reckoning.”
Ruddles laughed. “Ay, with much ado, forsooth! Tarry hither no longer, youth.”
As one, the aggressors departed, dying blooms raining down upon the flowerbed as their empty shells collapsed.
The maple woodkin lingered, switching to the same sylvan tongue in which her sisters had conversed. “…Mother Marigold, did they strike at her first?”
“Ay.”
“Then ashamed am I,” she said as she stretched up her branches, “to have assumed you ill. I fly to Mother Oak — against their outburst! I promise you this: contest their song, I will.”
At last, the winds were still once more.
* * *
When she was sure the hostile spirits were leaving, Saphienne focused on the inner vista of marigolds that inclined upwards before her. She cupped her hands to her mouth, projecting her voice to the distant figure atop the hill. “Ruddles! Can we talk?”
A response arose from the blooming flowers, which whispered in unison as though they had been waiting: “Come and see.”
Sensing that she was being tested, anticipating a challenge, Saphienne unlaced her festive shoes, leaving them behind as she stepped out–
And nearly sank into the marigolds. Resisting required an effort of will, the plants firming beneath her feet as she concentrated on the boundary between herself and Ruddles. Soon she was able to make progress up the hillside, which grew steeper by degrees, until she was clambering up hand over hand, feeling the heat intensify the closer she drew to the summit — her bare skin soon blistering against the flowers.
Ascending the hill took an age, though only heartbeats passed.
When Saphienne reached the crest of the hill the day cooled, and she paused to survey the way back, laughing as she saw a gentle slope rolling down no more than fifty feet to the library steps.
“Have you grasped my lesson, Saphienne?”
That the bloomkith didn’t speak in archaic elfish was unexpected. Saphienne gave her words their due regard before she answered. “You’re teaching me to defend myself, should one of your sisters try to possess me once you’re gone.”
“You will require much practice.”
Saphienne turned to Ruddles — who appeared as a fully grown elf, attired in shapely robes that were made from layered marigolds, her hem blended with the hilltop. Her hair was the colour of autumn, her eyes the same ruddy yellow Saphienne had seen in Laelansa, her countenance flushed.
Her appearance made Saphienne wonder, “How did Hyacinth appear to you, when you took her from me?”
“The same as you saw her.” The old bloomkith grinned. “We are formless, and so the form we habitually take in mind is grown from the elves that we have each embraced. A little of Laelansa is in this guise, along with all the other elves to whom I have given counsel.”
“I didn’t see Iolas in Hyacinth.”
“We can choose,” she elaborated, wryly. “Should I concentrate, I might appear however I wished. That she showed herself that way when distressed tells me it is her truest self… which says much about how she feels for you.”
Alas, Saphienne’s blush was not hidden by the hot red sky.
“This is not news to you.” Ruddles giggled as she sank down, patting the marigolds next to her. “Do not be embarrassed; it is not shameful. That you have inspired such devotion while still very young confirms to me that you are belovèd by the gods.”
Hugging herself, Saphienne sat where she’d been standing; trying to repress her feelings of religious scepticism only made the old bloomkith chuckle, and she changed the subject. “Do you speak modern Elfish, or have you borrowed my language? And why aren’t you rhyming?”
“I speak it fluently, and for the same reason as I desist from rhyme: better to teach initiates like Laelansa.” Her smile broadened. “Ah, but you listened to my sylvan speech! Archaic song commands respect from most younglings — loathe as they are to admit.”
The sun grew hazy as Saphienne reflected on the bloomkith who had harried hyacinth. “Why did they hurt her?”
“Many are my sisters who argue what was done to you was an act of divine condemnation. They interpret your hand as broken in rebuke of left-handed action, and argue against continued mercies. They denounce Hyacinth beside you.”
“But, if the gods willed my punishment–”
“They say she was chosen to attend upon you because her lack of virtue would lead her to fail as your guardian, and so do not excuse her.” Ruddles was quiet in her disdain. “Do not think me poor in faith when I say: those who are kind find prayers befitting their kindness, and those who are spiteful are also well-versed in scripture.”
Saphienne had once asked Nelathiel how she knew she wasn’t believing whatever she wanted to, and the priest had claimed that it wasn’t possible, arguing that faith required uncertainty; how ironic, that these zealous spirits could be so sure. “I know there are woodland spirits who aren’t as devout. What do they make of me?”
“They do not say.” Ruddles’ smile grew wan. “They think us dogmatic, but they in turn let themselves be carried by the stronger wind.”
And so they’d stood by, and allowed Hyacinth to be tormented. “…Why did no one else defend Hyacinth? Is the perspective of your unkind sisters the most widely shared?”
There, Ruddles grew animated, and she swayed back and forth, her accompanying gestures precise yet fluidly delivered. “I do not know the roots of all my kith and kin, but I believe the minority are vocal — to our shame, and detriment. Were we not within the festival days, fewer would be walking, and so more would have gathered to interdict their aggression.”
“…I wish Hyacinth had fled to me.”
“She likely feared that doing so would draw their ire to you. Rightly, in sooth.”
Her chest hurt, hearing that. “She’s maple-blooded.”
Ruddles paused, then sprang up on the balls of her feet. “Yes! She hides it well. She could have fled from their barbs, but she chose to stand against all censure, in imitation of another sister — for whose sake you both now suffer. For all she is my kith in blooming, the saps of the maple and the ironwood both run from her wounds.”
Sweet, and stubborn. “I want to protect her.”
“And she you, I believe. Spire spoke of her savage distress, when she flew to heal your wounds.”
Little more than a day had elapsed, the memory of Hyacinth’s panic still sharp enough that Saphienne needed to swallow it. “…Thank you for saving us. Will you be punished?”
Her concern made Ruddles smirk. “By Ansuz? Let Mother Oak try if she dares. She has not the authority to do to me as she has done to you. Her condemnation of you was impetuous, Saphienne.” The bloomkith of marigolds canted her head. “Do you know why you were so urgently condemned? How much has Hyacinth shared–”
* * *
“Saphienne…?” Iolas was standing over her. “Or am I talking to a spirit?”
Feeling the roots that burrowed from her palms withering away, Saphienne nudged the bloomkith to cede direction of her body. “Her name is Ruddles, and you’re talking to both of us–”
The weary sigh that Iolas gave was swiftly buried in her neck, and she felt his annoyance at her in how firmly he hugged her. “Are you alright?”
Answering that question was getting more difficult. “I’m not hurt. Are you?”
His tired laughter was reply enough.
Laelansa appeared over his shoulder, the armour of marigolds fallen away — and the yellow in her eyes alarmingly faint. “Ruddles, I don’t know what to do for Hyacinth–”
Rather than respond directly, the old bloomkith let Saphienne speak. “…She says that Hyacinth will recover, she just needs to… rest in her cradle?”
Together with Iolas, Saphienne watched as Laelansa went to where the pot of black hyacinths lay knocked over on the flowerbed, which the novice righted, supporting the broken stems as she communed with Hyacinth. A moment later, the plants she was holding all withered.
Saphienne felt Iolas tense where he still clasped her, and she grabbed his arm. “It’s fine,” she reassured him, telling him what Ruddles told her, “she’s wintering in the bulb. She’s resting.”
He let go. “What happened to–”
“Excuse me!” called an unfamiliar, masculine voice. “Are you all well?”
Three adult elves – two women and a man – had walked up through the gardens, all in festival clothes, all with yellow gazes of spiritual possession, all lightly perspiring as though they had been hurrying.
One woman recognised Saphienne. “Wait — she’s the girl who was attacked!”
The other inhaled sharply.
Glancing to the flowerbed, the man took in the disarray, lingering on the wilted flowers littered about. “…We’re priests. Our companions informed us there was a commotion.”
Iolas stood–
“A misunderstanding,” Saphienne insisted, sounding calmer than she was. “Some spirits were arguing with my friend when I invoked her, and tempers frayed. We’re all fine.”
The woman who had inhaled folded her arms, and she spoke with the lilt of a spirit. “Heard we the call against apostacy — to arms, they cried, and so we came to see.”
Climbing to her feet, Saphienne dusted herself off as she conceived a necessary deceit, aware that Ruddles was observing firsthand. “…Ruddles was concerned that the festival was about to be desecrated, and to calm everyone down she took control of the situation, which was misinterpreted as breaching the ancient ways.”
The three priests – or rather, the spirits present within them – looked at each other, clearly aware that no one but Hyacinth was meant to bless Saphienne. Yet they said nothing, and the following bewilderment of their hosts told Saphienne the same, confused question and refusal to answer was playing out in triplicate.
“So you insist,” said the spirit, “but we are unconvinced.”
Saphienne could feel Ruddles wanting to roll her eyes, but the old bloomkith refrained as she was given opportunity to respond. “Be thou at peace, good sister blooming fair. In sooth, to Mother Oak accounts flieth, and she I trust to rule I did not err. Ne’er would I break ways ancient — nor fain dare.”
“Then let us wait–”
Laelansa had lifted the plant pot, and she protectively moved in front of Saphienne as she talked over the spirit. “Be humble: you address Mother Marigold.”
Inwardly, Saphienne felt Ruddles wince.
Yet the words had their intended effect. “…The child speaks true,” said another spirit, within the other woman. “We have no cause for doubt.”
Bracing the pot against her hip, Laelansa took Saphienne’s arm. “We’re going inside,” she announced, and led her toward the door, leaving Iolas to deal with the three worried priests — and the two more who were arriving at the gate.
* * *
“I should quit you for now,” Ruddles told Saphienne upon the hill. “My sisters fear that I could bless you without their knowledge, while we are entwined.”
Studying the matriarch, Saphienne crossed her arms. “Doesn’t teaching me to defend myself against possession count as blessing me?”
There, Ruddles’ flushed face grew hotter around her grin. “Thou who wouldst judge, know thou wilt be judged in turn. I pray thee: keep a wise and happy silence, and abide with me in the kind judgement of the gods alone.”
Even aware of what the bloomkith was doing, Saphienne had to admit: archaic Elfish did have a weight that commanded respect. She smiled thinly. “…Fine. Forsooth, it’ll remain our secret.”
* * *
Prior to leaving, Ruddles moved to Laelansa and helped separate and rejuvenate the sunflowers and white roses, the latter of which the novice temporarily repotted in a pitcher she found in the kitchen. Saphienne sat at the table – more exquisite than the one in her family home – to observe the girl and guiding spirit as they went about their work, occupying herself with imagining their conversation from the frequent, easy giggles the spirit won from her girlfriend.
Distantly, Saphienne found it surreal how readily her life flowed between horror and normalcy; she had enough distance to ponder what effect that was having on her. Undeniably, she was traumatised to such an extent that she wouldn’t be able to tell… or would have great difficulty discerning. Was being fascinated different from being traumatised? Supposedly one could counter the other — didn’t that suggest that they were related?
Could she uncover the influence of her trauma by examining how she–
“All done,” Laelansa said, closing and latching the window through which a warm wind egressed. She patted her hands dry on the hem of her dress as she decided what to do next, then set about making tea, bringing strawberry-shaped chocolates from the pantry while the water warmed. “…I don’t mind you staring at me, but conversation would be nice.”
Saphienne was placid. “You’re acting like nothing happened.”
“Ruddles wouldn’t have let them hurt you.” Yet she wavered, and couldn’t look Saphienne in the eye. “…But, you didn’t do anything to deserve their anger, did you? Ruddles promised you didn’t…”
Never had Saphienne felt such a destructive urge to confide. “…Can we take the tea and chocolate upstairs?”
Laelansa nodded, and fetched the floating tray.
On their way through the foyer a rhythmic knock opened the doors, and Iolas let in a woman that Saphienne didn’t immediately recognise — not until she spied the toned arms exposed by her androgynous festival garb.
Saphienne remained at the bottom of the staircase. “…Nelathiel?”
Her husky voice confirmed it. “Should I paint my face, so you can be sure?”
Blushing, Saphienne promised Laelansa she’d follow soon, then went over to meet the priest where she waited. “You heard the commotion?”
“No, but word travels fast — Holly told me.” Nelathiel was distracted by the grand entranceway. “This home… I assume this is Celaena’s? May I speak to her guardian?”
“...I suppose you could write her father a letter?” Saphienne caught herself being literal. “Sorry, I mean: he doesn’t live here. Celaena doesn’t live with anyone else.”
Unnerved to hear that, Nelathiel pursed her lips. “Is an adult taking care of you?”
Foreboding filled Saphienne as she shook her head.
“…I see.” The priest almost concealed her anger. “I was going to talk to an adult about what happened outside. I’ve heard Iolas’ explanation.”
Saphienne had to trust he’d repeated her own. “And?”
“I spoke to Tolduin yesterday, too.” Her mottled gaze held Saphienne. “He wanted me to share some truths with you — which can wait, I think. I want to ask you something.” She stepped closer. “Saphienne, why is your guardian spirit the only one who can heal you? Don’t pretend it’s penance on her part — the spirits wouldn’t let that endanger you.”
Did she really have to deal with this now? Saphienne shut her eyes, drained. “Unless the spirits tell you, I can’t talk about it.”
“That’s what you told Gaelyn.” Nelathiel’s consternation was quiet. “And Holly told me the ancient ways won’t let her share, either. Tolduin asked a matriarch, and she told him that he was prohibited from knowing.”
“He would be…” Saphienne couldn’t help but be amused.
“Apparently, only the eldest among elders know — and the spirits won’t say whom.” The priest was unimpressed, but her tone grew gentle. “Saphienne… who attacked you? Were you hurt by a spirit?”
“…I don’t remember.”
“Are you in danger?”
Forced to look, Saphienne beheld Nelathiel’s alarm; beheld in sadness the trap that had closed around herself; beheld that it was her own pride that snared her so thoroughly, and that all she needed do to free herself was name her assailants.
Yet she also beheld other, bluer eyes. “I don’t believe so. What happened today was a reaction to… events.”
Whether or not the priest knew Saphienne lied was unclear. “…If you’re in trouble, no matter how bad it might feel to you? Saphienne, you need to tell someone. I know you don’t know me–”
“Nelathiel,” Saphienne said flatly, “if I could tell you everything, you’re one of the few adults I respect enough that I actually would.”
Her candour won a sore grin. “Things are that bad? Ouch.” The priest was sympathetic. “I’ll pray for you.”
Prayers meant very little. “Thank you.”
Nelathiel wasn’t done, however, and she lowered her voice. “You’re probably safest here for now, but… Saphienne, you should have someone who takes care of you.”
Taken care of: not loved. “You’re very kind, but–”
“Mathileyn,” the priest persisted, “and Athidyn, too. They’d welcome you in, if I asked, and you wanted to go.”
Saphienne blinked. “…Iolas’ parents?”
“They want another child, and you need a home. They could adopt you.”
…Making Iolas and Thessa her brother and sister?
“It’s not really my business… but, just between us?” Her expression hardened. “With what I’ve learned from Gaelyn, I don’t trust Tolduin’s judgement any more, and I never thought too highly of Almon to begin with. Whatever they agree together won’t be what’s right for you.”
Saphienne only stared.
Seeing she was overwhelmed, Nelathiel relented. “…Think it over. I won’t say anything. Go be with your friend; I’ll show myself out”
Alone upon the dark tiles, Saphienne glimpsed summertime through the momentarily open doors.
End of Chapter 81
All being well, come back tomorrow for Chapter 82.
Comments
L. J. Amber
It took a while to get right. Representing song in prose, and having each spirit have distinctive melodies, was a bit of a challenge. As was the Elizabethan English, frankly.
Claire Hiria Ahuriri-Dunning
Mad impressed by the spirits' speeches, it all reads so beautifully smooth
L. J. Amber
Note the lines that confused you and I'll translate.
bobbagy
Oof, that chapter was rough, English isn't my first language so I think I was able to catch about half of what was going on with the spirits.
