Sleep afforded Saphienne no rest that night. She dreamt she was celebrating her eighteenth birthday in her family home, confined there while her friends were taken from the revel by the wardens, until only her mother and Laelansa were left.

  The symbolism wasn’t subtle. But then, dreams’ meanings are seldom elusive, to those who know their darkest fears and tenderest longings.

  She woke to fingers gliding through the roots of her hair, Laelansa stroking her scalp where she lay on a soft pillow. Yet the pillow was warm, sweetly scented, rising and falling with breaths that were not her own; Saphienne recognised she was lying upon her lover’s bare chest.

  “Good morning, Saphienne.”

  She stirred; she would have preferred her waking pass unnoticed. She opened her eyes to the dim bedroom, the curtains closed, her girlfriend grinning down with happiness that overflowed the novice’s wide, adoring pupils and trickled into Saphienne — unable to pool there. “…Good morning.”

  Laelansa kissed Saphienne’s ear with blushing affection; she slid out from underneath – substituting a silk cushion – then lifted a waiting cup from the floor beside the bed. “I made tea,” she announced, chatting to cover her nervousness, “but you were fast asleep when I came back up, so it’s cooled. I saw you mended your gown – and the door – before you came to bed!”

  Observing her girlfriend’s nudity, aware of her own, Saphienne was nonplussed.

  Misreading her, Laelansa reached for the sheet–

  “No.” Saphienne sat up, discovering mild pains in entirely new places. “No, it’s fine.”

  Hopeful wariness. “…You’re not frightened?”

  Saphienne shook her head. “Apparently not.”

  “And…” Laelansa was vulnerable. “…How do you feel? About last night?”

  Shutting her eyes, Saphienne reflected on all that had preceded her parting from Hyacinth — stopping herself from going further. “Our time together was one of the happiest of my life. I love you, Laelansa.”

  That was enough for Laelansa to throw her arms around Saphienne, spilling lukewarm tea as she tearfully hugged her girlfriend and smothered her with kisses, laughing and apologising when she realised the mess she’d caused.

  Aware that she needed a bath anyway, Saphienne told her she didn’t care. And she wasn’t lying, nor was she reluctant during the loving kiss that followed… only, she was distant, going through the motions at a remove, numb to the presence of the naked woman whom she detachedly thought beautiful.

  Now that she wasn’t afraid? Saphienne didn’t feel anything at all.

  * * *

  They bathed together, both barely fitting into the tub. The touches they exchanged while washing each other stirred no desire in Saphienne. She tried to enjoy the ritualism with which Laelansa cleansed her long hair, wishing that she could experience the worshipful eroticism; she did her best to reciprocate how she was cherished by scrubbing the novice’s shoulders.

  Fortunately, romantic sensuality satisfied her girlfriend. Laelansa did offer more as she was towelling Saphienne dry, but thought nothing of it when declined — admitting that she, too, had aches.

  However, though contented, she wasn’t coy. “…I don’t regret how we got them…”

  Over breakfast, Laelansa opined that it was a shame Hyacinth had left before she could thank the spirit; her flush told Saphienne that some of what she felt for her girlfriend had transferred to the bloomkith.

  And why shouldn’t it?

  From Laelansa’s perspective, Hyacinth had intervened to save the night. The bloomkith had swooped down the moment Saphienne fled — healing Laelansa’s injury, soothing her concerns, and walking with her to where her beloved was wracked with anguish, anguish which she’d then relieved. Through the sharing of wisdom and passion, she’d ensured the pair could have a wonderful first night together, performing a miracle on Saphienne that persisted even now.

  More than this: Hyacinth had confessed to caring for Laelansa, united with her in mutual love for Saphienne. Such spiritual closeness wasn’t strange to the initiate of an elven goddess, wasn’t shameful, but rather a glorious confirmation of her faith. Hyacinth had been the answer to all her prayers.

  Consequently, Laelansa asked Saphienne whether they might visit a shrine together before they rejoined the festival. Growing guilt made Saphienne accept; she excused herself while the novice set about writing a prayer.

  * * *

  As ever, the Great Art was Saphienne’s respite. She distracted herself by meditating and then mulling over which spells to prepare, choosing afresh rather than falling back on her previous selection.

  Her skill had advanced such that, each day, she could memorise multiple sigils of the Second Degree; more from the First Degree; and an even greater number of minor spells that were not counted within either. She retained slightly less than a comparable wizard, such as Almon, typically held in mind… yet Saphienne didn’t expend her sigils when casting. Her sorcerous reserves were sufficient to loose far more spells than could her old friend — far more than any equal in wizardry.

  Not that this was obvious to the uninitiated. Spells below the degrees were the most commonly performed, and they took little effort, merely time. Saphienne was replete enough with magic to release them without fatiguing, and they were so simple that even wizards – armed with advanced mnemonic techniques – could do the same. Were she not hailed as a master of two disciplines, and at such a young age, few in the village would recognise Saphienne was exceptional.

  But her fellow magicians were not disquieted by her youth, the extent of her prowess, or her unorthodox approach. Neither wizards nor sorcerers could emulate her greatest feat: defying explanation, through tremendous exertion, Saphienne could quickly replace whatever she memorised.

  Abandoning a sigil didn’t return the energies invested in it; what a wizard prepared depleted him until he’d rested. A sorcerer needed weeks to renounce what she’d internalised and incorporate new symbolism. Meanwhile, Saphienne could comfortably reshape several before she began to strain — even more, were she resigned to bedrest.

  All of which is to say, her preparations were much less irrevocable than for ordinary magicians. She nevertheless always took to the task solemnly… and on that morning, in the quiet of her ritual space, she fretted over unlikely contingencies, displacing anxiety.

  Taerelle had taught Saphienne to reserve her most powerful spells for defence, for she couldn’t help anyone were she incapacitated. Saphienne favoured a heightened variant of her tutor’s deflecting ward, coupled with a fascination through which she might fade into the background. Inspired by Iolas, she habitually readied a Transmutation spell to heal serious wounds.

  Ward Against Momentum; Ignored Presence; Healing Touch.

  Constituting her selections from the First Degree, she anticipated needing to conceal her dejection from observers: the glamour that had once flustered Faylar was adequate. Were she seriously imperilled, then a more coercive fascination, which had required permission from the Luminary Vale to learn, would stop the common aggressor. Saphienne would rather deter wrongdoing with a controlled display of pyromaniacal intimidation — fire was understood by the mindless, and gave even the unusually wilful pause.

  As for other dangers?

  …She was being too paranoid.

  Since Saphienne delighted in using the Great Art to entertain children and bewilder the pompous, a hallucination ought be included. For her last significant decision, Lesser Gift of Sunlight was forever appreciated by–

  Saphienne exhaled where she sat on the stone floor.

  No; not today. A transmutation instead, making her festival gown resistant to stains and tearing, sparing further repairs.

  Agreeable Allure; Compel Obedience; Evocation of Flame; Illusory Display; Unblemished Regalia.

  Her least spells were swiftly affirmed. To use her supportive enchantment, Saphienne’s Dexterity; should she need to lift anything heavy, Far Hand; for illumination, Mote of Brightness; for thirst, Least Evocation of Water; for the sake of the drama she’d inherited from Almon, Touch of Combustion; for personal hygiene, Cleansing; and to extend her perception of magic, Second Sense.

  In the end, committing the sigils to mind only took her fifteen minutes. That in itself was as extraordinary as the rest of her arcana.

  And, to Saphienne? Increasingly meaningless.

  * * *

  Half an hour west of the village, the shrine to Our Lord of the Tranquil Garden was well loved yet seldom attended upon by anyone other than priests. No rituals were conducted there, not by elves, for the shrine was set on the edge of a glade sacred to the spirits of the woodlands, into which few dared tread without invitation.

  Saphienne thought about that as she studied the icon, her gaze lingering on the small pruning knife held in the left hand; the right poured water from a perpetually overflowing cup into a basin before the statue. Whoever fashioned the likeness of the god had elected not to have the gold-inlaid eyes stare at the observer, fixing them on where the deity watered.

  Laelansa quietly asked, “What do you see?”

  Saphienne needed a moment to adjust to a devout perspective.

  “He asks what occupies us when we are alone,” she replied, feeling through the staging. “He asks in what do we find our composure, and of the nature of our peace. For what do we give everything we have? For what do we overflow ourselves? And what must we do, to maintain our tranquillity?”

  The novice kissed her cheek. “Belovèd of the gods you are — and beloved by me.”

  Saphienne couldn’t join her in bowing to the icon, having no peace within herself, only emptiness. This god was perhaps the furthest from herself, and if she’d believed she would have considered herself an intruder upon His holy ground. Laelansa didn’t expect false piety from her, anyway, content to offer prayers while she wandered to the intertwining offering trees that waited behind the grassy altar.

  Tracing the dancing, singing figures on the trunks, Saphienne recognised they were not merely elves, but elves gone wildling, carved in garments of flower and branch that cared not for modesty in their ecstatic walks with spirits. Momentarily, her heart ached, and she pined for what she’d shared with Hyacinth the night before…

  Saphienne had meant what she said, when she’d told Laelansa their time together had been profound. Until then, she’d conceived of the physical pleasure, but she hadn’t comprehended how sex could be more than that; she hadn’t grasped what else was being described in the romances adored by Thessa and Laewyn. How different it felt, to experience that bonding!

  And her taste of belonging made her reflect on the times she’d been confined to the margins, unable to join in the joyous life.

  Then again, had she been confined? Was she the one who held herself back?

  She hadn’t in the beginning. When she’d first been unwanted by the other children, Saphienne had been crestfallen. They’d denied excluding her, of course. When queried by adults, they had pointed to her obliged participation, but the absence of welcome was rejection of another kind.

  Only Kylantha had been happy with her, until Laelansa. All her other friends hadn’t thrived in her presence in the same way as the girl once had, and the woman now did. That didn’t change her loving them… yet it affected how she received love.

  If only she didn’t perceive as much as she did. If only she was as oblivious as she’d formerly appeared, but to the truths that lay behind the carvings. More than the hazard of spiritual reflection, if only she didn’t see–

  “The prayers are touching, aren’t they?”

  Saphienne inclined her head to where hundreds of offerings hung from the branches. “These are all for the spirits?”

  “Technically,” Laelansa said as she selected a slender limb, “we make our offering to the gods, in thanks for Hyacinth… but, practically, these prayers are an expression of love for the spirits of the woodlands.”

  Watching her tie the parchment in place with a blue ribbon, Saphienne tried not to think about the lovely things Laelansa had written — nor how they would be received by Hyacinth, were she to read them.

  Stepping back, Laelansa bowed with Saphienne, then clasped her hand. “Would you like to join me on a stroll through the glade?”

  Saphienne blinked. “Am I allowed to?”

  “You are!” Her smile was devoted. “All children of the gods can enter, but we’re judged on our behaviour. So long as we’re peaceful, and don’t disturb the flowers or trees, the spirits won’t mind.”

  Having never seen within, and wanting to defer going back to the festival, Saphienne acquiesced. Together they went past the offerings, soon crossing under windchimes that tinkled in the coming and going of disembodied bloomkith and woodkin, then squeezed through denser foliage–

  And emerged into a sunlit clearing, cradle to flowers and saplings where they spread around mossy, weathered stone columns that resonated with ancient mystery.

  Saphienne felt the concentrated magic pouring from the raised stones, intuiting the patterns that rippled between them across the glade. “These enchantments… they’re connected to the ley lines?”

  “So Ruddles told me.” Laelansa spoke in a whisper, picking her way through the glade with utmost care. “Spirits contribute their magic through the ley lines, and the floraliths spread their contributions. Their arrangement is precise, but I haven’t been taught how the consecration helps new spirits to arise.”

  Unbidden, the primeval memories shared by High Master Lenitha unfolded around Saphienne. She saw the girl Lenitha had been, tending flowers before her rescue, and again on the night of her induction into the cult of the Luminary Vale. Fragments echoed just on the edge of hearing — cries of agony as suffering nourished soil, and shrieks of welcome as liberty fed the emancipated heart.

  * * *

  A little while later, they concluded their visit and retraced their–

  Saphienne stopped as they approached the offering trees, dropping into a crouch as she commanded a violet sigil, envisioning herself withdrawing, feeling transparent against the forested backdrop.

  Although Laelansa still held her hand, the novice had to fight to pierce the fascination before she could again perceive her. “Saphienne? What’s–”

  Waving her girlfriend behind herself, Saphienne kept her attention on the woman whom she’d spied up ahead — not daring to breathe, lest she be noticed. She was grateful that Laelansa did as instructed without further question.

  Too many heartbeats later, the woman in a gauzy dress bowed to the paper she’d secured with pale yellow ribbon, then turned and wept as she strode away, hugging herself in painful sobriety.

  “…She was so sad,” Laelansa murmured once she’d gone. “Who was she? I feel like I recognise her.”

  Saphienne didn’t answer, compelled to cross to the offering and reach up to unpick the knot–

  “What are you doing?” Aghast, Laelansa didn’t stop her. “Prayers are private — you’re not supposed to tamper with them!”

  Yet Saphienne wasn’t dissuaded. “…I have to know…”

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  What she read was louder than Laelansa’s scolding.

  I pray only this:

  My daughter is seventeen this year.

  Please watch over her where I cannot go.

  Please show her more love than I can give.

  Please don’t abandon her.

  Please let her be happy, and forget us.

  “Saphienne! Give me that!”

  Stricken, she let Laelansa snatch the plea from her weak fingers, lost as she looked upon the dozens of frayed, bleached ribbons that were the remains of its predecessors — gone now but for the ties that had bound them. They were still as visible to Saphienne as the latest Laelansa replaced on the tree, and though she couldn’t know the specific words Phelorna had used to write them, she was humbled by the depth of the grief that Kylantha’s mother drowned in the wine of summertime.

  * * *

  She didn’t explain herself to Laelansa, not then.

  She promised she would tell her after the festival.

  For the moment, Saphienne forced herself to lie more beautifully than ever before – saying all was well – and to smile winningly as she suggested they go back to the games.

  * * *

  Self-hatred restored Saphienne to vigour, and she channelled the aggression she felt toward herself into the friendly challenges in the festival grounds. In keeping with her victories across the years, rage made her frighteningly competent, and she won every game that wasn’t beholden to chance, dazzling Laelansa with her rekindled vitality.

  Everyone laughed off her singlemindedness. They were predisposed by celebration to look kindly on her — and besides, she didn’t insult or belittle anyone when she competed, merely crushed them ruthlessly. Their applause was easily won.

  Within, she was sickened.

  How dare she be so morose? So self-pitying? Her feelings of loss and exclusion were figments compared to how Kylantha and Phelorna suffered. How lucky she was to be welcome in the woodlands, and how undeserving of the place that had been prepared for her! She was a spoiled child; a stuck-up bitch; a privileged little darling who’d been handed everything she wanted, and still wouldn’t let herself be happy.

  Surely, there was no doubt now: her tears for Kylantha were self-serving. She wasn’t full of compassion like Iolas or Laelansa. Hadn’t she abused Phelorna? Hadn’t she wilfully blinded herself, ignoring that the poor mother wouldn’t be allowed to go with her daughter?

  Hadn’t she set it all in motion, by selfishly being born?

  Saphienne won further cheers as she bowled over pins — much like she always knocked down whoever inconvenienced her. All hail the prodigy! All hail the belovèd of the gods!

  Taerelle would have been disgusted with her. Were she there, she would have slapped Saphienne for her contemptible behaviour. And if she’d known the truth? If Saphienne hadn’t been too cowardly to confess that her wyrd had ruined Taerelle’s life? Why, then the wizard would have fled faster than Hyacinth.

  How dare Saphienne behave so vainly! Couldn’t she summon the strength to overcome herself? Wasn’t her disconnection from Laelansa just another impediment, yearning to be struck down?

  Saphienne had no right to despair.

  * * *

  My father was terrifically alive when he composed these words.

  As the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud,

  A dread beyond, of I know not what, darkens me.

  I shall go forth,

  I shall traverse the woods awhile — but I cannot tell whither or how long;

  Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease.

  O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this?

  Must we bleakly rejoice in this performance of us? …And yet it is too much, O self!

  O self! we are frighteningly dispers’d — that is too much.

  Not long thereafter, he took his own life.

  * * *

  “Is that Iolas?”

  Indeed it was. Iolas was unchanged since the last festival — even wearing the same outfit, having not experienced the growth spurt he’d wondered about. Perched atop stacked boxes, he carefully balanced a stone upon a pile that was precariously tall, utter concentration on his face before the hushed silence of the crowd.

  His move held. Raucous applause erupted as he straightened and folded his arms, his smile for his competitor a playful provocation.

  The young man across from him was also familiar, having been commiserated with by Iolas on the day when Saphienne had first seen this game. He raised his eyebrows as he took up a wide, flat rock of his own and – with well-practiced grace – immediately stretched out his hand to deposit it higher.

  As greater approval burst from the crowd, Saphienne’s stare lingered on the delicately wrought band of silver and gold on his wrist.

  Iolas hid his trepidation behind a compliment. “…Making it look easy…”

  His friend grinned.

  Laelansa squeezed Saphienne’s hand as Iolas selected another stone, utterly invested as he–

  Toppled the pile.

  Groans preceded adulation from the assembly, and both men waved before they leapt to the ground, embracing each other in the security of mutual respect — Iolas laughing as he was wrestled under his peer’s arm…

  Then he saw Laelansa and Saphienne, and his merriment intensified as he dragged the victor with him. “Saphienne! Laelansa! I’m surprised to see you both here. I’d thought you’d be south of the village, preparing for the tournament.”

  Laelansa had let go of Saphienne to hug Iolas, and she paused while doing so. “…What tournament?”

  Saphienne was still contemplating the other man; she didn’t immediately notice the quizzical gazes directed her way — Laelansa in confusion for the subject, Iolas in uncertainty about how much to say. “…I forgot about it. Master Vestaele organised a tournament of spellcraft for this afternoon. She wanted me to participate…”

  The man whom she regarded canted his head; his deep voice was soft. “But you’re not going?”

  She shook her head.

  Laelansa was taken aback. “Why not? You’re extremely good at–”

  “Because she’d win.” Iolas’ smile was fond. “Saphienne would easily win her division, but she doesn’t want attention. Knowing she could is enough.”

  Briefly, Saphienne’s roiling passions diminished, and she mirrored her friend’s expression. “Even now, you still know me so well…”

  He shrugged as he blushed, committing to his sincerity. “You were only ever headstrong because you felt you had to prove yourself.”

  Laelansa glanced between them, bemused. “…Doesn’t everyone?”

  Iolas scoffed. “As a matter of doctrine? So says your patron goddess. You’ve told us, more than once…”

  “No, I mean–”

  “Forget that — I’ve forgotten my manners.” He patted the young man beside him apologetically. “Laelansa, Saphienne, this is–”

  “Kelas,” Saphienne acknowledged. “We’ve met before. You used to date Faylar.”

  Kelas’ grin wasn’t awkward, showing only contented acceptance of his past. “We slept together for a while. I wouldn’t say we were a couple. I recall you scaring him with spiders… something about changing them for the better?”

  “To better belong in the woodlands.”

  Self-aware, his grey gaze flicked to the enchantment on his wrist. “I can relate.”

  Saphienne was thoughtful as Laelansa introduced herself to Kelas with a thousand questions, inattentive as Iolas intervened to redirect her enthusiasm by asking after her progress as a novice. She turned the statement over in her mind, seeking purchase on it, lunging for any hold that might let her win her grapple with herself.

  “Kelas,” Saphienne interrupted, “might I talk to you privately?”

  He was surprised; yet his frown wasn’t in consternation, his wariness not directed toward her. “…I think we’re due, aren’t we? Excuse us for a little while, Iolas, Laelansa. Why don’t you both queue to play — give Iolas a second chance to win?”

  Laelansa squared her shoulders. “He’s got little hope of besting me!”

  Rolling his eyes, Iolas resigned himself to keeping her company. “I may as well ‘prove my merit.’ Come on, then, Laelansa: let’s get in line.”

  * * *

  Faylar had said Kelas was empathetic, quiet because he was good at reading people and didn’t like to impose. That he didn’t ask what she wanted before leading Saphienne into the woodlands away from the festival told her that Faylar hadn’t misjudged him, and he maintained a companionable silence once the bustle faded into the distance, patiently waiting for her to speak.

  She decided to be direct. “…You know what I want to ask about?”

  “You’re not the first.” He sauntered over to an oak, leaning against it. “I’m used to getting questions… but they’re usually just curiosity. I don’t get that feeling from you.”

  She joined him, arms crossed. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m not so different–”

  “You’re alright.” His smile for her was sad. “You don’t have to be coy. I can tell you don’t want to pry — you’re not looking at me like I’m a curiosity. You’re not like those people, and you don’t need to pretend.”

  Disarmed, she shifted, uneasy. “…How did you know?”

  “Lots of experience with nosy people.” He chuckled, closing his eyes as he leant back on the gnarled wood. “But you’re not asking how I’m reading you, are you? Say what you mean, Saphienne.”

  She steeled herself. “How did you know you were a man?”

  “I didn’t.” He was mild, and his gaze was kind as he turned to her. “I didn’t know, for years and years. They always said I was adventurous when I was young, but that was just because I didn’t fit in. I didn’t play along like I was supposed to, and after I started maturing, I wasn’t happy with…” He gestured to her gown. “…All of that. I felt uncomfortable in my own skin.”

  Being candid about her troubles would have been harder, before. “Did you have difficulties with sex?”

  He snorted. “Gods! Yes. I felt detached from my body. I hadn’t any interest in other people at all — I couldn’t see myself with them. I was very lonely, but I couldn’t enjoy my own company…” He squinted. “…Is that how it is for you?”

  She swallowed. “…Perhaps. I don’t belong. I know that sounds ridiculous, that people look at my success and think–”

  “It’s not.” He was firm. “Everyone used to praise my paintings, said I’d be a master with apprentices one day, but I couldn’t accept I was welcome until I accepted myself on my own terms. Thessa was the only one who got how I felt.”

  “Iolas mentioned you to us,” she admitted, gesturing to his bracelet. “I didn’t imagine you’d still be wearing that.”

  He raised his wrist for her. “I don’t really mind it; my appointment is almost due. There’s a waiting list — a lack of wizards skilled enough to make the change permanent.”

  “Transmuters of the Third Degree aren’t commonplace…”

  “You’d know better than me.”

  “But, if you weren’t certain at first–”

  “Saphienne,” he sighed, “I found out like you’re thinking of trying. I requested a loan of a choker — and a year later they tested me on one without the comforting effect. I put it on, I changed, and I finally felt like myself.”

  She faced away, lost in the trees. “A year?”

  “It would be.” He groaned. “But it doesn’t have to be that long, not for you. I appreciate all you’ve done for Faylar. I’ll let you try on my bracelet… so long as it doesn’t change who you see me as…”

  The very idea was absurd to Saphienne. “Iolas tried a collar on, and he’s still Iolas to me. You’re Kelas. Whoever you were before might as well be dead.”

  “…Don’t turn around.”

  As Saphienne resolutely kept her back to him, uncanny clicking and a sharp crunch rolled from Kelas, accompanied by the slap of palm against stabilising bark.

  “…I normally reassure people it doesn’t hurt,” he said, voice higher and softer, “but you’ll already know that.”

  Over her shoulder, a pronouncedly more feminine hand offered Saphienne the jewellery — angular silver interlocking with waves of gold.

  “Go ahead. Try it on. I hope it helps.”

  * * *

  Saphienne thanked Kelas when they returned to the festival games. In marked contrast to before, she was glad for the crowds, glad that she might lose herself in the spectacle as she watched Laelansa duelling Iolas across a tower of stones.

  Kelas understood enough of her sadness to give her space.

  After Laelansa won – inevitably, so she claimed – she picked Saphienne up and spun her around, then stole laughs when she did the same to Iolas for good measure. He pretended to glare as she set him back down, then mentioned that he and Kelas were going up to the lake to see Thessa.

  …Iolas clarified that he was inviting the couple to come with them.

  “I’ll meet you all there,” Saphienne replied.

  Laelansa hesitated. “Are you sure? Is something the matter?”

  “No.” She insisted so with convincing deceit. “Kelas and I talked about jewellery, and he reminded me there’s someone I need to visit today. I won’t take too long; say hello to Thessa for me.”

  * * *

  Would she be received? Saphienne was unsure whether the woman she was calling on would want her visitation, and so she knocked on the door to her workshop timidly.

  Less than a minute later, the door swung open. “Saphienne.”

  Saphienne was conflicted as she hovered in the doorway, staring at the lowered white veil that shrouded Eletha. “Hello Eletha. If now is a bad time–”

  Certain Saphienne would follow, the jeweller paced inside. “No time is a good time for this. I’ve been anticipating your return.”

  She shut the door behind herself as she went after the mournful woman. “…I didn’t know I was going to come back soon. You’ve guessed why I’m here?”

  There was no tea prepared, no hospitality readied. Eletha took her place beyond the anvil, where she clasped herself in reassurance, ready for what was to come. “I recognised your semblance to her when you were still a child — that is, when you first came to study with me. I felt then that you were her descendant; now that you know my age, it was only a question of when you would ask, not if.”

  Why was Saphienne suddenly afraid?

  “I said before that we all seek escape from ourselves…” Eletha diminished. “…But that is only a half-truth. First we seek to know ourselves, and we search for that knowledge in others, often those who preceded us.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Saphienne approached the anvil, laying her troubles upon it as she leant there. “I’m discontented. I’d hoped that it was something simple, like my gender, but I’d be just as unhappy were I a man.”

  “You think asking about Kythalaen will help?”

  No. “I have to know who she was. And you knew her, didn’t you?”

  Eletha’s slow breath made her veil flutter.

  * * *

  Everyone knew Kythalaen. Everyone was very sorry for her, Saphienne, for she was orphaned not long after she was born — but no one felt strongly enough to adopt her. The taming of an unconsolable child is a terrible commitment.

  Our Lady of the Free Embrace obliged that she be raised by a priest, who later quit the Eastern Vale. She had few friends, then. Had she not been as gifted as you, Kythalaen wouldn’t have been recommended to study with me.

  Yes: I taught her our craft. She was first an apprentice in jewellery, before she was an apprentice in wizardry. After she became an enchanter, she made the most beautiful works…

  …I came to know her better than most.

  I knew her very well.

  I knew her best of all.

  You’d ask her nature? Find yourself a mirror, for you are Kythalaen returned: long of leg, beautiful of visage, and forever disrespecting her elders. She was contemptuous of fools and cared nothing for status. She was quick, and quick to anger when spited, but gentle with those who accepted her.

  And lonely.

  She distanced herself. She was restless. She wasn’t satisfied with the woodlands, or herself, and her dissatisfaction poisoned her relationships. I was the last to lose her, when she confessed that she was drawn to pass beyond our borders. She was compelled by what she might find there, perchance to soothe her heart.

  I counselled against it. In worry for her, I betrayed her confidence.

  She left anyway. No one could stop her — no one could contain her fires.

  Later, they told me she’d died. I identified her body by the jewellery she’d made, and saw her remains conveyed to the Vale of Tears. Whatever selfhood you’re seeking, you won’t find it in her sad story.

  You will have to escape yourself alone.

  * * *

  Was Saphienne condemned?

  Was she damned to be Kythalaen?

  Would there one day be another daughter of green eyes, doomed to be her?

  She refused that fate. Her last gasp of free will brought her back to her house, where she fetched her spellbook and went into the kitchen, filling a bowl from the pitcher as she studied a sigil she knew but had seldom employed. Gone then was healing transmutation, become a symbol of sight across distance.

  All her long-deferred terrors converged as she scried upon the water, willing that she find Kylantha joyful and well, better for having quit the elves who abandoned her — for if she was at peace, then, then, then…

  Saphienne was a child no more. She needed absolution. She asked where she could find Kylantha.

  What the divination revealed confused her. She had no context for the vision, which didn’t show the girl, and the longer she gazed into its depths the more unsettled she became, until at last she relinquished the spell and stood puzzling.

  “…No…”

  Again she cast her threads to search, this time for a different subject.

  Scried her then blue-eyed Lensa, no longer vicious, made reposeful by the bands of Fascination forced upon her wrist and neck. She weeded flowers surrounding a marble slab laid into the earth, and as she lifted her filled basket and moved on, Saphienne glimpsed other slabs, names engraved upon them, arranged in rows within the Vale of Tears–

  The magician shrieked, howling as she smashed the bowl upon the floor.

  * * *

  When Saphienne arrived at the lake Laelansa was communing with Ruddles, and she left the novice to sit beside the lapping waves, going to seat herself under the boughs overlooking the beach to the south of the island.

  Bereft, her eyes saw clearly. Thessa was chatting to Iolas beside the statue, the dancers once more clothed, children playing around the worldly icons, oblivious to the desires that lay in wait for them in adulthood. Faylar and Laewyn were on a blanket on the sand near the stepping stones, cuddling and laughing together, one couple out of hundreds who had come to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. All across the scene, families of the five villages in the eastern woodlands were flourishing, free with wine and song, unashamed in their gossiping, glorious and eternal in a summertime that would never end.

  No, not for them. It would never end, for them.

  Absent herself, Saphienne unpinned the brooch from her shoulder. She stuck her tingling left hand with the point, pressing until blood beaded to trickle down her palm.

  She didn’t feel it. She would never feel it.

  And she would rather die than feel it.

  …Further up the beach, unnoticed by her, a few heads turned…

  This was all there was. This, or the lonely distraction of the Great Art, was all that drove back the horror of mortality that elves abhorred. This, she couldn’t live for.

  …Fingers pointed; questions were asked…

  Minina fully subsisted on vegetables, and so didn’t need her now. Only Filaurel and Laelansa would really miss her. But if she tried to stay, all she would accomplish would be to drift away, and she couldn’t bear to lose them, too.

  …People stood, called for their loved ones…

  Yet there was no point in leaving. No, it would be better if she died in the woodlands. How her wyrd would contrive it, Saphienne didn’t know. However it happened, she would make it look unintentional, so that the people she loved wouldn’t know how she’d been keeping her suffering from them.

  …What had began as wonder twisted into shocked concern, rising panic…

  Saphienne accepted she couldn’t live in the woodlands. She accepted that her destruction was unavoidable, and more, that she would welcome it. Better to see herself dead, than go on in misery.

  And as she did?

  The fifth moment arrived, descending out of the golden skies in scale and fire, plummeting to the lake with a roar that broke the peace of summertime and shook the revellers.

  All scattered but one, who looked, and behold now within Saphienne what had never been there before:

  Peace.

  End of Chapter 110

  Chapter 111 will release on Wednesday the 4th of February.

  Want to read on? increasing to sixteen soon.

  Thanks for reading!