CHAPTER 12 – Taking Care of Her

The man who emerged from Saphienne’s family home was dressed against the cold, wearing a long, padded coat that was split at the front and back, the woollen scarf around his neck wound very tightly. He carried a saddle over his shoulder as he ducked through the doorway, and the braided tail of his long, white hair whipped back as he straightened up — to see Saphienne standing with Faylar, only a little distance away. A pause, as he considered how to proceed. Then he smiled a practised smile. “Why, hello to you,” he said, his voice more melodious than when she last heard him through the door. “You must be Lynnariel’s daughter. I haven’t seen you in a long time, Saphienne.” The way his smile stopped short of his eyes made Saphienne wary. “Please excuse me,” she greeted him, “but I don’t remember us meeting.” “You were barely walking when I last saw you.” He stepped from the house and pulled the door shut behind himself, adjusting his hold on the saddle. “And please excuse , child, but seeing how quickly you’ve grown gave me quite the bittersweet moment. You must be nearly fourteen, now?” “Come spring,” she admitted. Nodding, he walked across to them. “But the youth with you is a little older.” “I’m sixteen,” Faylar answered, and promptly bowed. “Faylar. Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” Now the smile arrived at the grown elf’s eyes, which were an unusual, light brown. “Such a well mannered boy. My name is Tolduin. You two are friends?” “Um–” Faylar began. “We’re friends,” Saphienne answered, feeling Faylar’s surprise. Tolduin studied their expressions. “Just friends?” Saphienne was confused, and Faylar hurried to speak. “Just friends!” he insisted. “We only met last night.” The tone of his voice made her look at him, and she wondered why he was blushing. “Why would that matter?” Her question caused Tolduin to grin, and he leant over to pat Faylar’s shoulder fondly. “You’re quite fine. I was jesting. You’re not about leading young Saphienne into mischief; and so long as you’re , I’m sure the two of you will get along quite well.” Faylar was blushing even harder. “Please excuse me, Tolduin, but you have misread.” “The tree bequeaths its roots to its saplings, child.” Tolduin grinned. Saphienne had no concept of what was going on, but she recognised the expression he used. “Are you an elder?” “That I am,” Tolduin answered as he let go of Faylar’s shoulder. “But only by a hair’s breadth. I entered my second millennium a few years after your mother birthed you.” Faylar’s eyes had gone wide. “Please forgive our manners, Elder Tolduin. I would never have addressed you so casually if I had known–” “Oh, be at peace, child.” Tolduin waved Faylar’s worries away. “I am also a Master, and would have announced myself in the appropriate way if I cared for such honorifics. Practices of pomp and pageantry have their hour, but that time is not now.” He looked to Saphienne. “What made you guess, child?” “That expression is very old. ‘The tree bequeaths its roots to its saplings, for the seed does not fall far from the tree.’ Since you used it, I wanted to know whether you were an elder.” “Or,” Tolduin chuckled, “whether I was merely pretentious?” Saphienne casually nodded, and Faylar covered his mouth, aghast — only for his expression to make the elder elf laugh loudly. “Child,” the elder addressed Faylar, “I withdraw my implications, even though they were largely in good humour. I see now that you are a very good boy. You may have my apology, for not taking you at your word.” The boy lowered his hand. “No apology required, Elder Tolduin.” “Tolduin,” he corrected him. “Just call me Tolduin for now.” He eyed the pair of them with obvious mirth. Then, he grinned to himself as he reached a decision. “Would either of you like to meet my horse?” Saphienne and Faylar looked at each other, and then both nodded. “Marvellous. Come, let me introduce you to her.” The horse had a dark grey coat, and the blanket draped over her back had been matched to her mane, which was blacker than midnight. She trotted over to Tolduin as the trio approached, straining at her tether to brush her long nose against his hand as he affectionately rubbed behind her ears. “Children, say hello to my horse. Horse, meet Saphienne and Faylar.” Faylar greeted her, while Saphienne watched quietly. She wondered how best to speak to her. “Does she have a name?” Tolduin smiled at Saphienne, quite genuinely this time, and there was wistfulness in his eyes. “Animals should not be named,” he said. “Watching them age is hard enough on the spirit, without imparting personhood upon them before they depart.” Beside her, Faylar reached out, looked to Tolduin for permission, then very gently stroked the horse’s neck. “She’s beautiful. If you’ll forgive my asking, Eld– um, Tolduin… what is your chosen art?” “I have had a few,” Tolduin replied, mildly, and he brought the saddle down, gesturing for Faylar to take it from him. “Be precise with your question.” Faylar struggled under the weight of the saddle. “I meant, which art are you currently practising?” Tolduin untied the blanket and lifted it away, fluidly shaking it out and folding it as he answered. “In the present moment, I am practicing the art of attending to horses. But I think what you mean to ask about, young Faylar, are the arts which I use to serve the woodlands.” “Yes.” “In matters temporal, I am called upon to advise the towns and villages on appropriate stewardship. But rarely are my words required. Most days,” he clarified, handing the blanket to Saphienne and once again hefting the saddle, “I render aid to whoever requires it, in my capacity as servant to Our Lady of the Basking Serpent.” He braced the saddle against himself, reaching into one of the bags that hung from it, and drew out another, smaller, grey blanket. “Do either of you know of Her?” Saphienne nodded. “She’s a goddess, isn’t she?” “That She is.” As the horse stood patiently, he unfurled the smaller blanket across the midsection of her back, smoothing it with one hand before raising the saddle and settling it atop the blanket. “Doubtless, you have learned from your mother?” “From the library,” Saphienne corrected him. “My mother’s not very religious.” Faylar nudged her with his elbow, then spoke up. “I’ve heard of Our Lady. Have I heard right, that She is a goddess of healing?” Tolduin knelt to buckle the saddle into place. “You have. That is not all which Our Lady concerns herself with,” he explained, “but I am not here to proselytise on behalf of Her faith, only to act in accordance with Her doctrine.” Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Faylar bit his lip. “Proselytise?” Saphienne nudged him back. “To proselytise is to convert someone to religious belief,” she clarified, and studied Tolduin. “Though, that word is usually used disapprovingly. Wouldn’t it have been better to say it another way?” Tolduin paused to look over his shoulder, his amusement evident. “Perhaps. Unless I was making a jest of my proclivity for preaching inappropriately, much to the chagrin of the young, who usually greatly prefer to meet my horse.” Rubbing his side where Saphienne had nudged him, Faylar frowned. “I consider myself quite well spoken, Tolduin, but some of your words are…” “Archaic,” Saphienne agreed. Then, lowering her voice to pretend she was whispering, she added, “That means ‘old,’ Faylar.” Tolduin chuckled again, and set about slowly and gently tightening the straps. “Would you credit the notion, that I’m trying to be more easily understood? The rhythms and patterns of speech twine like brambles through the ages, and we who are elders must make haste to weed the garden of our diction, lest we become ensnared within a rusted aegis wrought from our nostalgia, and hence our meaning be obscured by the suffocation of overgrown foliage.” Saphienne snorted. “Now you’re doing it intentionally.” “So I am. How far could you follow?” She thought for a moment. “With each passing year, the way people speak grows like thorny weeds, and elders have to hurry to weed out the old phrases from the way they talk, to avoid being trapped within an… whatever an ‘aegis’ is, but it must be metal and heavy… made from their fondness for how they spoke when they were young, and so become incomprehensible to new generations.” “Near enough. Very good.” He stood, and tested the saddle, finding it secure. Feeling quite inadequate, Faylar changed the subject. “So, you travel through the towns and villages on behalf of your temple, offering healing to whoever needs it?” “Yes, but with one qualification. Each acolyte serves Our Lady by specialising in particular remedies. When local healers find their skills inadequate, they write to our temple to request our assistance.” Taking the folded blanket from Saphienne, he crammed it into the saddlebag. “Were someone in immediate peril, I would help, but my skills are best employed where they are most needed.” Thoughtfully, Faylar glanced at the door to Saphienne’s family home. “Would you mind me asking which illnesses you treat?” Tolduin flicked his eyes to Saphienne, then swung up onto his horse. He looked down on Faylar with another practised smile. “I mind you asking.” Saphienne said nothing; it took an effort of will not to glance at the door herself. “We were well met,” Tolduin announced, “but the hour gallops toward noon, and I have far to travel. Further snows have been divined.” He squeezed with his heels, urging his horse into a walk. They hurried to keep pace beside him. Faylar asked, “How far are you travelling?” “The next village is three days away. I go North, following the river until I leave your valley, and then to the West.” Saphienne frowned. “Won’t you be caught in the open, if the divinations are right, and there’s snow?” The elder was unconcerned. “The Wardens of the Wilds have encampments along the way — I am promised to dine at one this evening. Should the snows strike early, I will be quickly found. They are always vigilant, and never far away, for all that they are largely unseen.” The horse was outdistancing them. Faylar waved. “Travel safe, Elder Tolduin. Thank you for speaking with us.” “And fare you well, young Faylar, young Saphienne.” He smiled playfully to Saphienne. “And though I hope you will never require protection, may you have learned the purpose and metaphor of an ‘aegis’ when we next meet.” That was enough for her to work it out. “Armour. Or a shield? A means of defence.” “Aha! Marvellous. Very well done indeed, child.” He shifted, and the horse began to canter, leaving the children behind. Saphienne waved twice, once to the elder, and once to his nameless horse. * * * Faylar was quiet as they travelled the short distance back toward Saphienne’s family home, looking thoughtful. This suited her fine, as she had far too many thoughts of her own to turn over, finding yet more questions under every one. Was her mother sick? No sicker than ever; Tolduin had previously met Saphienne, and had directly implied he knew her from the year of her birth. Why had she never seen him before? Perhaps because he had visited when she was away from the house. She rarely stayed in her family home these days, nor did she usually come back so early in the day. That would also explain why he paused when he saw her, unsure of how to greet her without prompting awkward questions. Yet, the elder spoken about his art. And he had extended their conversation, also, when he might have excused himself. This suggested to Saphienne that a significant amount of thought had gone into how he spoke to them, implying in turn that he either planned to one day meet her, or that he had thought things through quickly while stood in the doorway. Filaurel’s words from the night before – that knowing for sure what someone thought or felt wasn’t simple – came to mind. Perhaps he hadn’t planned at all. There was every possibility that the elder caught off guard, had muddled his way through an awkward conversation as best he could. A thousand years was a long time to practice his composure. If it wasn’t for the way he had first smiled– “Saphienne…” Faylar interrupted. “Do you really believe I can learn what I need, to be a wizard? Well enough to make Master Almon reconsider?” Glancing at him, she shrugged. “I believe you can learn. Whether we can convince Almon is another question.” He stopped walking. “We?” She paused as well. “Why wouldn’t I help? I don’t like Almon. Proving him wrong again appeals to me.” “You’re going to be his apprentice. Fighting with him–” “Is a certainty. He doesn’t want me as a student. But he’ll teach me anyway, because he believes I have potential for wizardry. He’s going to push me, to prove me wrong.” She smiled. “Why not push him back?” Faylar just shook his head. “You really odd, Saphienne. I wish I had your confidence… and your audacity.” Now she grinned. “Well, want to learn other languages.” He laughed. “Want to trade?” Saphienne took him seriously. “I can’t teach you confidence,” she said, “but maybe I can teach you some others things. Like meditation: I’m supposed to meditate every day now, to improve my focus.” “I didn’t actually mean–” “Why not?” She brought her hands together, clasping them as though around her forming plan. “Why teach me another language or two? And I could teach you what I know, prepare you for next time. Do you have a better idea?” He shifted his weight, eyeing her dubiously. “I’m not convinced.” “Well, convinced.” She resumed walking. “Or just keep doing what you already know. That’s working out well for you.” Saphienne felt his eyes on her back as she went. “Fuck ,” Faylar said, and hurried after her. * * * They met in the library the next evening, and together they planned out the months until her apprenticeship was to begin. Early each morning, Faylar joined Saphienne in the tent pavilion where she worked with Gaeleath, and there they would practice meditation together — Saphienne correctly presuming that the sculptor wouldn’t mind. Then Faylar would go to the library and work his way through a reading list that Saphienne had drawn up for him, writing down his thoughts on each book when he was done. After she was finished with her artistic instruction, usually around dinner time, she would meet him at the library and they would go out to eat together. At first, this was at Saphienne’s family home, with Faylar under strict instructions to ignore her mother… which he refused for the sake of politeness, leading Saphienne to instead collect food and then eat with him on the library steps. He knew better than to offer that they visit his home. On a windy day, Filaurel eventually took pity on the pair, and let them have dinner in the library — upstairs and by the far windows, near any of the books, not under circumstances, or she would have with Faylar’s family… and take back Saphienne’s key to the library. That last warning made Saphienne pale with fear, and, after the first month, Faylar had to beg Filaurel to stop Saphienne from watching him so closely while he ate. When dinner was finished, Saphienne would go over his notes, asking him questions about what he had read and written, much in the way Filaurel had once done for her. She found he was quite a good writer, but his observations were very shallow, and she brutally stripped away his pretty prose to expose that he wasn’t really thinking through what he read. Eventually, to escape her scorn, he started to hazard some thoughts of his own, which she did her best to tease out further. Faylar’s progress was slow, but it was progress all the same. For the rest of the night, until well after the library closed, Saphienne would learn whatever she could from Faylar about languages. Oddly, Filaurel always stayed until they were done, and Saphienne noticed she was making up reasons to excuse her presence. Eventually Saphienne gave up wondering about it. Perhaps the librarian just liked hearing her talking with another friend. She had once admitted as much, a long time ago. Winter melted away, one day at a time. Spring turned Saphienne’s hair brown, and her fourteenth birthday approached. Then, on the day before, Faylar was waiting outside when she left her family home. End of Chapter 12