L. J. Amber
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TEWWBAD Chapter 34
🕑 Added 2025-04-14 22:45:01 +0000 UTCCHAPTER 34 – Where Spirits Fear to Tread
You see her more clearly, now.
Not all of her: much of Saphienne had not yet come to be as she stood by that window in Celaena’s sitting room, arguing with Iolas, and Faylar, and Laewyn. She had not yet learned to truly temper her impulses, nor gained the wisdom to know what was achievable and what was folly. Her intellect was profound, yes, but although she had read a very great deal on many subjects, she knew almost nothing about the Great Art — and even less about people’s nature, especially her own.
Yet gaze upon her silhouette in that glass, and you might catch the profile of who she would become. Behold her there: a shadow upon the woodland, stark of line and full of deepening wrath, growing in certainty and eloquence as she fought for what she believed to be necessary, impassive to voices of reason, even to the voices of friends.
And, justified?
So prophesied the wizard: time will tell.
* * *
“Then stay,” Saphienne retorted, blunt as ever. “Celaena and I are going. If you want to stop us, you can tell Almon — and also explain what we’re doing, and why, and the extent of your involvement.”
Iolas deflated. “Saphienne, what happened to caution? We have no idea what we’re going to find.”
“Or if we’ll find anything,” Faylar murmured.
“Or that.” Iolas rubbed his jaw. “You might be walking into danger–”
Celaena stepped back out of the bedroom, redressed in her robes and emboldened by Saphienne’s support. “It’s not that far. It can’t be too dangerous… not so close to the village.”
“That’s an assumption!” Iolas squeezed his ears – which was incredibly uncouth, but he’d forgotten all politeness in his agitation – and rolled his eyes. “Gods give me strength: you both know this is foolish! Someone might get hurt.”
“Celaena’s been hurt,” Saphienne said. “And again: we’re going. You don’t have to. Nor do you, Faylar,” she said, “though it would be helpful to have you with us — in case we run into woodland spirits.”
Faylar brushed his hair back, anxious. “I’m not sure…”
“I’ll go.” Laewyn stood away from the wall she had leant against, keeping her arms folded. “I’m not sure about this, but if Celaena’s going, I’m going.”
“…Fuck me,” Faylar sighed. He quickly recovered, affected light-heartedness. “Well, I guess the majority has decided: Celaena, your best friend is coming with you.”
Celaena was pained as she complained to her girlfriend. “Laewyn, you shouldn’t have told him that. He’s going to be unbearable now.”
Faylar gave her a bow. “Your best friend says you’re welcome.”
“This isn’t a joke, Faylar!” Iolas threw up his hands. “And this isn’t fun anymore, Saphienne. Celaena’s obviously not in her right mind–”
“Hey!” Laewyn glared.
“–But you know better than this. We should be finding some other way–”
Annoyed, Celaena picked up the pillow Saphienne had previously been sitting on and threw it at him. “Then you find another way. This is what I want, and we’re going.” She stalked toward the door. “Stay here if you like. Help yourself to tea.”
Saphienne and Laewyn went after her, leaving Faylar to shrug his shoulders at an open-mouthed Iolas. As they went down the hallway, Saphienne could hear the younger boy trying to reassure the older. “Don’t worry — I’ll talk them out of doing anything really–”
But then they were in Celaena’s study, out of earshot.
As Saphienne waited with Laewyn by the door, she watched Celaena go to her desk, unlock the drawer, and quickly retrieve a dark metal rod, shoving it into her pocket. Though Saphienne had only caught a glimpse, she expected it was another enchanted tool.
A distraction would give Faylar more time to persuade Iolas. “What’s that?”
Celaena paused. “…Father left it. For self-defence.”
“A weapon?” Laewyn took a step back. “You shouldn’t have–”
“Father thoroughly instructed me in its use.” She withdrew the enchanted rod from her pocket, revealing that it was fashioned from black iron and capped with polished ruby on its lowermost end, the lower half wrought to be gripped, three small symbols glowing red just above where Celaena’s thumb rested. “I can heighten or diminish it — I’ll keep it on the lowest level.”
Saphienne moved closer. “What does it do?”
“It’s a Rod of Repulsion.” Seeing that Saphienne had never heard of it, she looked around, then picked up a piece of the broken table leg. The ruby began to glow crimson as she squeezed her thumb on the middle marking, and she tapped the far, flat end of the rod against herself. “Does nothing to its wielder. But anything else…”
Holding up the fragment of wood, she raised it overhead, pressed the flat end of the rod against it, and released i–
A deep thrum and scarlet flash sent the fragment crashing into the ceiling, varnished splinters raining down across the study as the ruby darkened.
Laewyn’s voice was awed. “Fuck!”
“…That was a bad demonstration.” Celaena lowered the rod, dropping it back into her pocket as the glow faded. “Heavier things aren’t as strongly affected. On this setting, it’d only knock you down and bruise you.”
“But it goes higher?” Saphienne couldn’t temper the excitement in her voice.
“It can. Father said more than the second level is unnecessary against elves. Broken bones are a sufficient deterrence, he told me.” She tried to reassure Laewyn with a smile. “I’m not planning on using it. I don’t really think we’ll need it. But, father taught me it’s important to prepare for the unfamiliar.”
Laewyn just nodded, looking very out of her depth as they left the study.
When they reached the top of the staircase, Saphienne heard Faylar call, then saw him leading a resigned Iolas toward them. The girls waited for the pair to catch up.
As they did, Saphienne leant closer to Celaena. “Would you let me–”
“Absolutely not.” Celaena covered her pocket. “Not after the tray.”
At least then, Saphienne knew better than to argue.
* * *
The clouds moved quickly as the five walked through the woodland, veiling and unveiling a conflicted sun. Although the earlier rains had receded, grey on the horizon threatened their return, and the rich smell of wet earth perfumed the air with the promise that the forest would not dry that day. Even the wind was uncertain, blowing through the boughs and grass in nervous breaths that turned restlessly from north to south, east to west, catching the young elves with unexpected gusts that rippled along their robes and coats.
Celaena led them across and then out of the village, her step slowed by more than tiredness. Yet as they left the settlement she grew surer in her stride, slipping through the wild trees as though she walked her home grove. Her pace increased after the first mile into the woods.
Faylar, in contrast, showed his nervousness. “I think my mother’s patrolling somewhere out here.”
Beside him, Saphienne remembered a little. “She’s a Warden of the Wilds, isn’t she? Won’t she be busy with goblins?”
He grinned fondly at her. “No goblins here… though, she did say we’re overdue. No,” he explained, “she’s patrolling the nearby woodland this month, checking on its health now that the snows have thawed. You know: looking for trees in need of tending, checking for erosion along streams, keeping an eye out for signs of subsidence… and the migration of animals, too, but I don’t really know much about that.”
Laewyn looked back at him over her shoulder. “I thought they mostly, um, keep people safe? Enforce the consensus of the woodlands? That, um, sort of thing?”
He chuckled at her unspoken question. “Hassle underage drinkers? There’s not much trouble around here. And for what it’s worth, my mother says they don’t usually break up lesser revelries unless they’re getting out of hand — or they include children my age, or younger.”
Iolas wasn’t impressed. “Anyone under the age of eighteen ought to be taken home to their guardian.”
“Maybe,” Faylar conceded, “but there’s some judgement involved. The wardens are very pragmatic. My mother said it’s always the same faces who keep stealing bottles, and after a while it’s easy to tell who’s trouble, and who’s just practicing for physical adulthood.”
“Practicing?” Iolas raised his eyebrows. “They can wait until they’re eighteen. There’s plenty of other things to pass the time with, until then.”
Laewyn shrugged as she faced forward. “Maybe if they’re boring… unlike your sister…”
Saphienne shook her head at them, focused on the important issue as she addressed Faylar. “Would your mother think we’re up to no good?”
“I mean, we are, aren’t we? But I don’t think so. If it was just Laewyn and myself, perhaps, but wizards’ apprentices are level-headed…” Faylar smiled apologetically at Iolas. “…Usually. She and her fellow wardens would probably ignore us. They have plenty of work to get on with.” He studied the trees around them, anticipating being proven wrong. “Still, I’d rather we get a move on — I don’t like lying to her. How much further, Celaena?”
She answered him quietly. “Another two miles.”
“That close?” Iolas was uneasy. “When you said it wasn’t far, I didn’t think you meant it was on our doorstep… which makes me think, maybe it is just a nightmare. I can’t imagine Faylar’s mother missing anything that old.”
“And I’ve walked out here before,” Laewyn agreed.
Faylar saw an opportunity to tease her. “You’d know all the hidden spots, then?”
“I’m not saying I know every hidden spot,” Laewyn replied, her tone implying otherwise. “But I think I’d have noticed a spooky dead tree.”
Saphienne was thoughtful. “Does it look dead? Maybe it blends in.”
Celaena shook her head, and spoke without looking back. “It doesn’t blend in. But you wouldn’t find it. You’ll see…”
* * *
At first, they didn’t see.
Just over three miles from the village, where the vale climbed and then abruptly dipped, Celaena halted; she drew herself up to her full height as the colour drained from her face. “There it is.”
Lined up along the ridge, the rest of them peered down through the trees, their elven eyes seeing nothing unusual amid the foliage.
“…I don’t see anything,” Saphienne said. “What does it look like?”
Wordlessly, Celaena started down the slope, holding out her arms for balance as she descended. Glancing at each other, Faylar and Laewyn followed.
But Iolas hung back. “…Saphienne, I know this place.”
She turned to face him, saw him paused in reverie. “You do?”
“My father and I,” he answered her, speaking softly, “we used to go for walks all the time. He liked to explore–”
His father had been badly hurt. “Is this where he–”
Iolas shook his head. “No. The accident wasn’t here. That was near a woodland shrine — he’d been climbing.” He focused on her, gave her a wan smile. “Showing off for me. But it was windy, and he slipped, and took a bad fall.”
Understanding now why he feared heights, Saphienne swallowed. “I’m sorry for joking about that, earlier. I was just trying to–”
“You were doing what Faylar does.” He shrugged, and started down the slope. “He uses humour to distract himself, when he’s upset. My sister is a little like that.”
Joining him, she trod lightly where he had stepped. “I just wanted to keep your mind off Celaena. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I wasn’t hurt.” His lips twisted. “And, despite this being a terrible idea, I’m not worried now. At least, not worried about our safety.”
“You’ve seen the tree?”
As they reached the bottom, he inclined his head. “I’d forgotten all about it. You know how you see things, when you’re young? But you don’t understand them, and then you don’t really think about them? Seeing this place, it’s reminded me.”
She peered through the trees, to where Celaena was leading Laewyn and Faylar around a thicket. “Well, I don’t see anything.”
“Come on– let’s save Celaena some time.”
When they caught up with the others, Faylar was sceptical. “I really don’t see anything out of the ordinary — can you at least give us a hint?”
But Iolas interrupted. “Celaena, you can stop walking: there’s no path. If you want to go up, we’ll need to push through.”
Slow to hear him, she stopped a moment later, revealing her frown as she faced him. “How did you–”
“I’ve been here before.” He moved over to the thicket and reached out to take hold of a gnarled branch. “My father noticed it; he’s always had sharp eyes. Faylar, Laewyn, Saphienne: look where my hand is, then follow the plants, in both directions.”
Bewildered, but with dawning awareness, Saphienne studied the overgrown, twining thorns and leaves, seeing them curve around as they stretched off to the right, and then again where they went on and on to the left–
Laewyn gasped. “There’s a hill!”
Faylar took a moment longer, then stepped back as his eyes widened. “Fuck! That– how did we not notice that?”
“A fascination…” Saphienne breathed in wonder. “…We overlooked the growth around the hill. The magic made it seem like it was just a thicket.”
Iolas let go of the branches. By degrees, Saphienne could feel her awareness of the concealed hill diminishing, as though her vision were tunnelling in on only the brambles nearest to her.
“That’s eerie,” Laewyn whispered. “I know it’s there, but it’s like I don’t want to see it–”
“Or remember it.” Iolas’ lips were twisted. “That explains why I nearly didn’t. But the whole hill is surrounded — probably to keep people from wandering in.”
Celaena reached for Laewyn’s hand. “So, it’s real.”
“Yes.” His gaze softened. “My father was too curious to leave well alone. We pushed our way in… and he recognised what we’d stumbled across. He told me there wasn’t anything dangerous there, but it was a place sacred to the spirits of the woodlands, and we shouldn’t dwell there for long. He said it would be disrespectful.”
A thought occurred to Saphienne. “How old were you?”
Iolas was surprised by the question. “Seven, maybe eight? Why?”
Careful not to show what she was thinking, Saphienne shrugged her shoulders. “I just had a feeling. It’s strange that he was leading you around on hikes, when you were that young.”
“My father loves the outdoors; he likes to share.” He sighed. “Honestly? I take more after my mother. She’s happiest next to a warm fire, doing embroidery.”
Faylar had approached the green wall to examine the enchantment, but he laughed at the mental image. “What do they have in common?”
“They love each other.” Iolas said it simply. “They even live together.”
Laewyn cooed as Celaena moved away from her. “That’s so romantic! How long have they been together?”
“All their lives. They were childhood frie–”
A loud crack made nearly all of them jump, the thrumming sound of Celaena’s magical rod sending the birds aflutter as it shattered the twining vines before her.
Iolas was dumbfounded. “…Is that a fucking Rod of Repulsion?!”
Faylar held his chest as he caught his breath. “You know Celaena, I half-wondered if you were going to bring it.”
“You knew about it?!”
“You can relax, her father taught her how–”
“What the fuck,” Iolas shouted, outraged beyond belief, “is a child doing with an enchanted weapon? In what fucking world can a fifteen year-old be trusted with–”
“Father knows me.” Celaena slipped the rod back into her pocket. “I’d thank you not to question the judgement of an accomplished wizard of the Luminary Vale, apprentice.”
Momentarily stunned, Iolas’ eyes narrowed–
But Saphienne caught his arm. “Iolas, she doesn’t usually carry it around — it was safely locked in her desk. And now that she’s made a way in, we’re not going to need it,” she looked over to Celaena, “are we?”
The older girl wavered. “…I suppose not, if Iolas says it’s safe.” She took the rod back out, and held it up with her thumb on the leftmost symbol. “See? Turned down to its lowest level.” Then she opened her satchel, setting it atop her calligraphy kit, and closed it over.
Recovering a modicum of his politeness, Iolas managed a stiff bow. “Thank you, Celaena, for acknowledging the concerns of your fellow apprentice.”
Riled up, Celaena pursed her lips — but suddenly sighed, tiredness winning out over testiness. “I don’t want to fight. Not when…” She turned to look through the opening she’d made, staring up the hill. Her voice was small. “…Don’t blame me for being frightened. I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
Strung out, Iolas took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled. “Apology accepted. We can talk civilly, another time.” Walking over to her, he gestured up the slope. “Now that we’ve dispensed with the unnecessary and gratuitous acts of destruction: shall we?”
The group filed through the gap, and climbed toward Celaena’s memory.
* * *
Where they crested the hill, the eeriness deepened.
“Silence,” murmured Laewyn. “There aren’t any birds.”
Swallowing, Faylar ran his fingers through his hair. “Celaena probably just scared them off… and might have caught the attention of the wardens, if we’re unlucky. It’d be a good idea not to wait around.”
Iolas swore and muttered his agreement. “We should be quick,” he promised. “This won’t take long.”
The trees continued across the hilltop, which was larger than they anticipated, all manner of alders and birches, beeches and aspens, ashes and even yews growing together in a tightening throng as they progressed. Saphienne recognised that the old growth around them should have been impossible, trees that favoured well-drained soils looking as tall and resplendent as those that preferred drenched ground. She felt certain that Iolas’ father had been right — that they had entered somewhere of importance to the woodland spirits, and that the land was maintained by hands of more than flesh and blood.
Then, they saw the windchimes.
“I remember these.” Iolas pointed, swept his hand across the canopy as he indicated the sculptures. They hung from nearly every branch, grown – not carved – from smooth wood and bound up with strips of bark, all silent and still. “They’re set around the clearing.”
Laewyn was perturbed. “Elves didn’t make these.”
Saphienne looked higher, studied the sky — and paused. “…There’s no wind.”
The others stopped walking.
“…She’s right,” Faylar said. “And if I’m not mistaken, that gap in the clouds looks awfully like a circle…”
Balling her fists, Celaena led them on.
The trees about the edge of the clearing were tallest, firm and broad and gnarled, no bushes, nor flowers, nor anything more than mere scrub grass around their twining roots. Beyond them, even the grass yellowed and withered, dying away to leave only bare dirt that was desiccated and dusty, pale like ash, light enough to be swept away — were there any wind to carry it.
Faylar’s voice failed to rise above a whisper, faltered. “What in the…”
Centred in the unnatural clearing, Saphienne beheld the remains of the tree.
There were no branches upon it. The trunk ended in a broken spire, grey as slate, fossilised beneath a clear sky where shone a cold and pitiless sun. More like rock than wood to the eye, nevertheless its large roots burrowed into the dead earth, seeming like a tooth where the gum had drawn back to reveal bleached bone, sharp in outline yet blunt in contour.
As elves, the children knew little of death; but they knew enough to beware a tomb.
“This isn’t–” Iolas swallowed. “I don’t remember it like this. It didn’t feel…”
He couldn’t find the words.
Saphienne, unafraid but unnerved, took a small step into the clearing. When she wasn’t struck down, she turned back to the others. “We don’t notice what we can’t understand. You were too young to take it all in, Iolas.”
Celaena joined Saphienne — and Laewyn leapt after, catching her arm and clinging against her shoulder. “Celaena…” She was scared. “…It’s real, and you know it’s not you, let’s go back–”
“I need to see.” Attempting to continue, she was held back by Laewyn, forced to drag her along until she freed herself. “You can wait here.”
Iolas went after his fellow apprentices, and then Faylar swore and matched him, leaving Laewyn to dart out as well, her fast footfalls raising dust like smoke in her wake.
Meanwhile, Saphienne and Celaena reached the tree, walking around–
They both gasped.
On the opposite side, hewn into the stony wood, they found the figure of a woman contorted in agony, mouth wide in horror, staring blindly as her limbs were bent and warped in angles that looked painful even to elves. The carving was lifelike – too believable – and Saphienne recognised the artistry, grotesque as it was, lay far beyond the talents of Gaeleath.
Yet, the longer she stared, the more Saphienne came to see that the woman depicted was neither elf nor mortal, the texture of her skin patterned like scales. Petals, she realised: row upon row of petals, supple and interlocking, winding together to give the semblance of a figure that walked and spoke in an imitation of skin and sinew. The hair about the figure’s head was grown short, like a halo, perhaps star-like.
“A spirit.” Celaena shuddered as she breathed, relief in her voice. “It really isn’t my memory. This was a spirit.”
Quietly, the others stood around her, waiting.
She covered her eyes. “Whoever she was, she was so, so sorry.”
Iolas licked his lips, mouth dry in the arid air. “She killed a child.”
Saphienne blinked. “We don’t know that.”
“Celaena described–”
“And Faylar translated her words,” Saphienne cut him off. “There was a child, and the child was injured. We don’t know much more than that.”
Faylar recovered his courage. “Saphienne, if I recall, the spirit said ‘do not abandon me, for the sake of a child’s life.’ That’s pretty unambiguous.”
“It also said ‘I did what was right for its own sake.’ Harming a child is never right.”
“That’s only one interpretation of the sentence.” He shifted restlessly, his hands in his pockets. “And even if it’s correct… look, you’ve been teaching me about interpreting stories. Don’t the villains always believe they’re justified? That they’re right?”
Saphienne reached into her pocket, squeezing Kylantha’s gift. “Even so, inflicting suffering is wrong.”
Swaying forward as though entranced, Celaena reached out–
And Iolas caught her wrist. “That’s not a good idea.”
She shook her head, tearful. “What if she’s still alive in there?”
“What if she is?” Iolas held her gaze. “Would you even be able to tell? And what if she possessed you?” He pointed down to their feet. “The spirits of the woodlands have gone to a lot of trouble to prevent anything touching this tree. I think we should respect their wisdom.”
Catching in a sob, Celaena backed away, her ears shaking. “You’re– you’re right. And it doesn’t– it doesn’t matter. It’s not me. Those aren’t my memories.” She took a sharp breath. “I didn’t do whatever she did.”
Laewyn hugged her from behind.
Studying the tree, Saphienne shook her head. “What was the point of this?”
Faylar sighed. “A punishment, obviously.”
“No.” Hand in pocket, she squeezed the coin pouch hard. “I mean the memory. The vision. The lesson, if it is one at all. Why torment Celaena with this? Why make her come all the way out here?”
Beside her, Iolas’ face twitched. He struggled with the question, pained. “Perhaps,” he said, “she was showing Celaena that they are just — that they aren’t cruel without a purpose. That she was, in her own way, being gentle.”
What lay in the depths of Saphienne’s heart stirred in its fevered dreaming. “Fuck her. Fuck them. A thousand years of torture is too much for anyone, guilty or not. And Celaena did nothing wrong.” Hot, dark as a midnight forest, her eyes burned. “If justice leads to this, it’s not just.”
Celaena moaned, and covered her face. “Let’s– please, let’s go. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Yes,” Laewyn agreed, taking both her hands and drawing her away. “Let’s get out of here — maybe we’ll forget, like Iolas did.”
Faylar looked relieved as he fell in beside them. “Please let that be the case. Or I might have to take up drinking with Laewyn.”
Saphienne held Iolas’ gaze as the three departed.
Iolas looked aside, staring at the tree. His voice was quiet, only for Saphienne’s ears. “…You’re right. It’s cruel. And it doesn’t seem like justice. But we’re children.” He shook his head, wearied by what they now knew. He searched vainly for answers in the lifeless ground. In the end, all he found was a sigh. “Maybe that’s the lesson, Saphienne. To learn to accept our helplessness, when there’s nothing we can do.”
Head bowed, he walked away.
* * *
What would you have done?
Saphienne was but a child — less a child than when Kylantha was taken, but still a child, for all that had ensued. She was not responsible for the evils she bore witness to.
No one expected anything from her.
No one, but her.
* * *
She took out the coin. It glittered in the bright, merciless light, the tree it depicted warping her reflection where her endless touches had polished it to a mirror shine. Turning it, she saw too the crude human visage, saw herself against it, read more behind it, read into the elf and the human the remembrance of what had formed from their union, born only to cry, to scream, to beg for mercy… or at least to be loved.
Impulsively, she lunged forward — her free hand upon the tree…
Yet, nothing happened. The wood was dead, and no life stirred within.
She cried, then, silently, and followed after Iolas before he turned to look for her, wiping her eyes, uncaring that he saw. When she drew abreast of him, he tried to touch her shoulder, but she carried on, faster.
As she walked, what screamed in her became more than sadness.
On what spirit had her heart been fed?
Her black eyes hardened.
She would show them. All of them.
Past the treeline, Celaena was leaning against Laewyn, hugging herself as she was held, all the strength gone out of her. Faylar was on the other side of Laewyn, giving them space. The satchel on her hip was exposed.
Saphienne only needed a second to reach in, and grab the rod.
“Wh– Saphienne! Stop!”
She ran. The metal was warm in her hand, powerful where her fingers threaded the grip, and she felt blindly with her thumb for the symbol to the right, a deadly hum intensifying in her palm the longer she held it down. She ran, and Iolas saw her coming toward him, realised what she was doing as he raced toward her — then stumbled, eyes wide as he remembered the rod could–
She kicked the dirt ahead of her, sending a cloud of grit and grain into his unprotected face, his shout of pain left behind as she sprinted for the tree, aware that fleeter footsteps were gaining behind.
Faylar very nearly caught her.
Saphienne thrust the tip of the rod against the ancient tree, and her thumb grazed the middle symbol–
The explosion of force deafened them, thunder beneath a cloudless sky.
* * *
Her friends – if they were still her friends – were climbing to their feet, clutching their ears, silent behind an all-consuming whine. Saphienne took them in, saw their expressions, the fear and dread and horror and panic her act had wrought in them.
Iolas, eyes streaming, mouthed something.
She faced the tree.
Cracked, split along its length, it still stood, having held against the blow.
“No.”
She swung again, the impact visible as the very air rolled away from the weapon, a gale that scoured the ground and stripped away what had long died in an acrid cloud, exposing vaporising roots, fragments of wood breaking off around the trunk — and flying away from the point of impact, only the sound rebounding on her. Still the trunk withstood the scarlet flash, and again she swung, and again, and again, screaming, roaring with a rage that would not be denied–
That was not denied. The tomb fell, split in twain, two fragments toppling to shatter upon the blasted ground, leaving only the jagged stump behind.
Panting, Saphienne staggered back.
“–uck have you done?” Iolas’ voice was distant, insistent behind the lingering scream in her ears. He grew louder as the world returned. “Are you insane?”
She shook her head, dazed. “Someone had to help her. No one was helping her. Not even Fi–”
“She’s lost her mind!” Faylar was near. “Saphienne, put down the rod!”
“Someone had to–”
“Saphienne, you have to listen to me: put down the–”
But Saphienne didn’t hear him; the light had returned to her eyes.
Ahead of her, the curling dust above the shattered wood stirred, then shifted, shimmering in disorientation. As Saphienne watched, the dust began to spin, then whirl, circling and circling in a widening gyre, the moan of a wind picking up as the figure no one could see danced, and danced, and threw wide her grit-wreathed arms, raising them to the sky as her moan became a cry, then a howl, then the shriek of a whirlwind gathering force as she sang out in triumphant jubilee, and surged toward her saviour.
“Saph–”
* * *
Sunlight, warm and golden. A field of flowers, yellow and wide as their namesake. The scent of autumn harvest. Boundless light, radiant and nourishing.
And love. Tremendous, transcendent love. Humble love, that wept, stricken, overcome, and was like the rain she often sought against her skin — only tender, and finally, at long last, absolving.
There was no time, between them. Yet there was not time enough; the spirit dared not dwell for longer than a heartbeat.
So she left Saphienne with a cutting, a sunflower that grew into words, their sentiment formed in haste and without the benefit of new elven learning, yet meant with every tendril of her being, each syllable burrowed deep:
Beon bletsunge ofer þe, bearn. For þam miltse þe þu gifest, libbe þu inne þære sunnan ecum hleo.
* * *
“–ienne!”
She staggered as the spirit released her, disorientated in her exhilaration at their embrace. The rod fell harmlessly to the ground, to be kicked away by Faylar.
With great force, the wind soared from the clearing, screaming toward where the sun would always rise — through the ring of wooden, warning windchimes that were buffeted and tossed from their branches, thrown to the earth by the spirit’s flight.
And soon all was calm.
“You freed the spirit.” Iolas staggered over to her, numb. “You freed a murderer.”
Saphienne blinked, finding herself again. “She wasn’t a murderer. She would never hurt a child. That wasn’t– that wasn’t what happened–”
“Father…” Celaena had fallen to her knees. “…He’ll disown me. I’ll never–”
Iolas lunged at Saphienne– then cried out, recoiling, his outer robes rippling, continuing to move as he tore them loose from his shoulders and threw them to the ground, where flowers bloomed along their stitching.
Then the chimes along the western edge of the clearing also called out in alarm, and the children were knocked down by gales that ripped across the hilltop. They briefly coughed and choked in the thrown up-dust — until it washed from the air under a freak shower, shed by turbulent clouds that now dimmed the clearing.
Only Celaena stayed sitting in the new mud; the others returned to their feet, dazed. All was calm again…
But the forest did not remain still. Wood creaked, shifted, bent and moved, warped and waved as the great trees that encircled the clearing came alive, twisting into figures that wrenched free their legs as they angrily stalked toward the empty cell, and the elves who had unlocked it.
Surrounding them, the spirits of the woodlands had faces that began gnarled, and they contorted further as they spoke, the poetry of their tongue tolling low and leaden in their displeasure. Laewyn cried out, and huddled with Celaena, toward whom Faylar, Iolas, and Saphienne backed as the noose tightened.
“Faylar,” Saphienne demanded, voice steady, “what are they saying?”
He spun on the spot, trying to take it all in. “They’re– they’re arguing. Furious. I can’t make out what–”
A splintering crash accompanied the arrival of another figure, her tree more knotted, who shouldered her way through the ring and stooped to touch the desecrated remains of the carved face with her hand of winding branches. The other spirits quietened, awaiting her word.
When the greater spirit faced the children, her eyes burned with seething gold, and her voice was stinging hail, too enraged for poesy. “Which of you has done this? Who is to blame?”
There was no escaping what was to come. To be silent would be to force the others to betray her, and they were innocent. Saphienne wouldn’t have them carry that guilt.
Unafraid for herself, deathly afraid for them, she squeezed the coin. “I did.”
On the ground between them, the flowers struggled upward, knitting a body–
But the greater spirit stepped over Iolas’ discarded robes, and her arcing arm was silhouetted against the sky as she invoked the gods — that they witness her decree. “Apostate!”
* * *
See them there: the remorseless child, and the righteous matron of the woodlands.
Now, keep looking. Do not turn away. Long delayed, but impossible to deny, we have arrived at the third moment:
Saphienne stared up into the descending branches, and felt the sharp, rich agony of mortality — as they pierced her throat, punctured her lung, and tore through her limbs, spearing her to the ground she had profaned.
End of Chapter 34
Old English translation by Kit Treadwell, doctoral student at the department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic, Cambridge. With thanks to Richard Dance, Professor of Early English, Fellow of St. Catharine's College, Cambridge.
