CHAPTER 67 – The Valleys of Youth

At last came the morning when Saphienne and Faylar were to leave the Eastern Vale with Filaurel. Despite the early hour, the sun having barely risen, Celaena and Laewyn and Iolas and even Thessa came out to see them off, and the whole group walked together as far as the lake to the north of the village. Filaurel had requested more practical clothes for the journey itself, and so all three travellers were dressed in warm and waterproof coats, trousers, and boots. Each of them also carried backpacks that the librarian had filled, and each had within their pockets the Ring of Misperception that had been loaned to them; Saphienne’s enchanted choker was secured in her pack, and Filaurel leaned on her staff of living oak as a walking stick, a yellow hyacinth now set beside the mugwort. “You both look like adults,” Laewyn had immediately remarked, a little taken aback. “Our are white,” Faylar had replied, defensive in his uneasiness. Filaurel and Thessa had both been amused. “You really can’t wear much white when travelling,” Iolas had explained. “It’ll just get stained. Thessa and I dressed in forest colours when we journeyed to the Vale of the White River — and haven’t you been to the Thorny Vale, Faylar? Surely you dressed pragmatically?” “My aunt arranged a portal,” he had admitted, blushing. Laewyn and Thessa had teased Faylar mercilessly for the next while, until Celaena opined that she didn’t see a problem with using magic for easy travel, at which point Iolas had joined them in gently making fun of her. They were all in high spirits by the time they reached the shore of the lake. “Well,” Filaurel said as she halted upon the beach, “unless you four want to climb all the way to the overlook, now would be the time for your farewells.” Hugs had duly been exchanged — Laewyn getting a little emotional. “You’ll all take care of yourselves?” “We’ll only be gone three days,” Saphienne reassured her. “Four if there’s unexpected storms or snows.” Celaena held Laewyn from behind. “And the divinations say the weather will be mild… but you’ll take care all the same? Humans can be unpredictable.” Filaurel giggled. “Not the man we’re going to meet. We’ve been trading for a good few years, and he’s fun to talk to, but tame.” Her description satisfied Celaena. “Father once said that most mortals can be tamed with patience and kindness.” The librarian’s eyes narrowed. “…I meant it in the same way as I’d say about anyone: Cosme talks all sorts of outlandish nonsense, and he’s been around the world, but he’s hardly what you’d call wild. Successful merchants are very averse to risk.” “My told me that,” Faylar agreed. “She said she likes human traders because they’re predictable, and care about maintaining their reputations. She said human chieftains and their retinues are the ones to watch out for.” “Well,” Filaurel moved them on, “we certainly won’t be meeting any .” Thessa read the librarian’s mood, and she nudged Iolas, who studied her in confusion for a moment before suddenly remembering the satchel he was carrying. “Oh! Saphienne, we were hoping you’d take these offerings to the shrine for us–” “What shrine?” Filaurel turned to Saphienne with suspicion. “You didn’t say anything about visiting a shrine.” Saphienne wanted to kick Iolas. “…I was going to ask while we were on our way. There’s a shrine to Our Lady of the Balanced Scales not far from where you said we’re going, so I was wondering if we could–” “Near the protectorate.” Her mentor was scrutinising her closely. “I know it. And you’re right, it’s only a thirty minute walk away… but it’s right on the edge of the forest.” She could tell what Filaurel was thinking. “I don’t want to visit the protectorate — I want to make an offering at the shrine.” Saphienne glanced to the satchel Iolas was sheepishly holding for her. “More than one offering, now.” Yet Faylar wasn’t keen. “You want us to go an hour out of our way, when we could be talking with a human?” “I wasn’t going to ask anyone else to come with me.” Saphienne folded her arms, her eyes on Filaurel. “You said we’d be safe if we stayed within the woodlands; I’ll have Hyacinth with me; and you’re already trusting me not to embarrass us in front of humans.” The librarian didn’t like it… but she glanced to Thessa and Iolas, both of whom nodded in encouragement. Filaurel’s sigh was equal parts affection and exasperation. “If I get a lecture from the Wardens of the Wilds because of you, I’ll take your library key from you, and I’ll never invite you to make this trip again.” Saphienne grinned as she accepted the satchel from Iolas. “Don’t worry: I’ll behave.” * * * Around the shore, and then across and along the banks of the river that fed the lake, Saphienne and Faylar followed Filaurel, going through the thinning trees and up the steepening path that led out from the Eastern Vale. The river rumbled beside them for much of the climb, then at last receded into a lulling hiss as they reached the level land at the northernmost lip of the valley — and turned to see the view. “Beautiful,” Faylar murmured. Filaurel sat on a long-fallen tree trunk. “Very. I sometimes come up here just to take it all in and think.” Saphienne saw why. Pristine forest stretched from where they stood to the far horizon, visibly broken only by the lake that reflected it against the pinks and pallid blues of the early morning sky. Even to elven eyesight, there were no signs of the village, only the faintest wisps of smoke visible where they dissipated in the distance. No human onlooker would have thought the vale occupied. She came to sit beside Filaurel, finding that the bark was worn smooth. “It’s almost like we don’t exist. We barely leave any mark.” Her mentor inclined her head. “Even in the oldest settlements, we maintain harmony with the woodlands… but those places are more visible than our home. The Eastern Vale is a very young community.” Faylar peered over the edge of the rock on which he was stood, the river having long ago exposed the grey stone — before the ensuing years had dragged it eastward. “It didn’t seem like we were this far up when we were on the slope…” His wonderment made Filaurel laugh. “Isn’t that always how it is? You never realise how high you are until you look down. And you never realise how far you’ve come until you stop to look back.” She shook her head as she stood again. “There’s a life lesson somewhere in that — but I’m not here to play elder. Shall we get moving?” As Filaurel and Faylar went on, Saphienne lingered a little longer. Part of her felt inexplicably sad, and she didn’t know why until she had approached the drop, whereupon she took out her coin to squeeze it in her palm. Kylantha had once stood where she stood now. And when – through her tears – the young mortal elf had beheld the view of the only home she’d ever known? For all that her emotions had been very different, they must have been powerful, their sympathy still potent enough to make Saphienne’s chest ache. Filaurel called. Taking a deep breath, Saphienne exhaled her sorrow across the Eastern Vale, then turned to leave. * * * They made good time. Filaurel had warned the children that they would walk for nine hours or so, taking an hour to rest halfway through, and in doing so they’d cover about thirty-nine of the fifty-two miles to the meeting place. Near the end of the eighth hour, as it began to lightly rain, Saphienne was tired enough to complain. “Couldn’t we stop now, and walk an extra hour tomorrow?” Filaurel slowed, and passed her the staff to lean on. “No. We need the hour to prepare for the meeting.” Faylar was more grown than Saphienne, but months spent reading and writing within the library had left him poorly conditioned. He was panting as he asked, “And what– what exactly do we have to– do we have to do?” Seeing that he was flushed, Filaurel tutted. “The pair of you are sitting around far too long for your own good…” She relented as she stopped. “Saphienne? Please put on the necklace, and ask your spirit friend if she’ll find a place – about four miles ahead – where we can camp for the night. We’ll wait here while she looks.” Grateful, Faylar leaned against the nearest tree. Saphienne set down her backpack and held the staff in the crook of her arm as she fetched out the golden choker, studying the artistry of its depicted leaves before she slipped the metal against her throat and felt its magic taking effect. She straightened up and cleared her throat– Which reverberated with a rich mellowness, reminding her of the spell that Almon had cast upon himself when he had invoked Hyacinth. “…Does my voice sound–” Faylar’s mouth was open in disbelief; Filaurel was amused. “I see that it does,” Saphienne concluded. “Well, let’s give this a try: Hyacinth, Hyacinth, Hyacinth?” Against her shoulder shook the staff, the yellow blossoms upon it stirring as their petals turned white. Then a breeze wound down the wood and along her arm, blowing cool and admiringly around her new neckwear before retreating to circle her in playful anticipation. “You can understand me?” A sudden gust carried her ponytail up, letting it fall. Saphienne blinked. “…Did you just nod with–” Again Hyacinth lifted her hair and let it fall, then swept away to the treetops and back, her merriment palpable on the damp air. Filaurel was laughing at Saphienne’s incredulity. “Don’t do that,” she muttered, pouting through her blush. “Filaurel asks that you go four miles ahead of us and find somewhere we can rest for the night. Would you mind assisting?” This time, the spirit buffeted Saphienne’s ponytail from side to side — before fleeing from her dismay in a gale that shook the nearby boughs. “You’ll be a wizard yet,” Filaurel complimented her, mirthful as she took back the staff and waved it. “Which reminds me — do you know how this works?” She shook her head. “It has something to do with spirits. I wouldn’t like to propose my conjecture without seeing it used.” “I’ll guess,” Faylar interjected, coming closer to admire the limb. “The wood is alive, and the plants growing upon it seem nourished… does it carry the spirits, so they can travel with us in comfort?” “Close,” Filaurel said. “They can rest in the flowers if they wish, but the real purpose of a Staff of Bloomkiths is to help them shape a physical form if they need one, should we encounter an emergency and need their protection.” Understandably, given what he had witnessed, Faylar was unnerved by the prospect. Saphienne recognised his worry and tried to redirect his attention, focusing on their learning. “I’ve seen spirits shape bodies for themselves from plants with magical assistance, and I’ve otherwise seen them manifest with bodies formed by spells. My guess is shaping a body without help is difficult?” A rasping voice, unknown to her, answered quietly. “Though to ye elves our labour seemest slight, through must we a semblance groweth right.” Saphienne and Faylar stared at the staff in fright. Even Filaurel had flinched. She recovered, and addressed the spirit upon it warily. “…Thank you for answering Saphienne’s question.” Saphienne and Faylar watched the spring of mugwort twine as though stretching, but then it was unmoving, and no further response followed. The librarian shook her head as she apologised to the children. “Please don’t mind her. She’s an old family friend, and for all that her manners belie her age, she’ll help whenever we need her.” She pushed the heel of the staff into the grass at her feet, where it creaked as it took root to drink. “Anyway: yes. Woodkin can always just inhabit and animate a tree, but bloomkith can’t really do much with flowers, not without growing them, and that’s demanding without magical assistance.” Faylar glanced meaningfully at Saphienne. “…Let’s hope our trip is quiet.” She tried for a second time to distract him. “What about the human we’re meeting? You said we need time to prepare?” “We do,” Filaurel confirmed. “I told you before: there’s an ancient pageantry we’re obliged to uphold when dealing with humans.” “The costumes,” Faylar groaned. “Not just the costumes,” Filaurel corrected him. “There’s a performance that goes along with it. You have a good singing voice, which will be helpful.” Now felt apprehensive. “We have to sing to him?” “From a distance.” The librarian seemed equally unenthused. “And when we meet him in person, we have to take him by surprise. We also–” “How are we to catch him by surprise if he hears us singing?” Saphienne was thoroughly bewildered. “And what in the world is the of all of this?” Faylar nudged her. “You’re being prickly.” “No,” Filaurel promised, “you’re reacting appropriately: this is entirely ridiculous, at least on the surface.” Vindicated, Saphienne stuck her tongue out at Faylar before she spoke again. “So what the point?” There her mentor shrugged, the many years between them falling from her shoulders. “We’re supposed to keep them second-guessing themselves. No one from outside the woodlands – not even the people in the protectorates – can know much about us. They don’t get to know where we live, or how many of us there are, or what we’re capable of doing should they decide to aggress against us.” Her gaze conveyed her deep scepticism. “We’re to be aloof, eternal, and thoroughly mysterious.” The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. “…I can see it,” Faylar said. “My mother told me that the Wardens of the Wilds use stealth and manoeuvrability to their advantage. The less someone knows, the more vulnerable they are.” Yet Saphienne shifted her weight as she frowned. “We’re intimidating them. I thought no one dared to intrude into the woodlands? Isn’t the Luminary Vale a fearsome enough threat?” Filaurel smiled a wan smile as she reached for the staff, pulling it loose and shaking the dirt from its retreating roots. “That depends on the audience… Cosme? He wouldn’t of doing anything that might upset us — he makes very good money from being able to trade with me each year. And even if that weren’t the case? Yes, he knows the reputation of elven magic.” “But?” “There are many different kinds of people outside the woodlands,” Filaurel told them, “and not all of them are capable of thinking logically. The leaders of the human lands know that messing with the woodlands in any way will earn a swift reprisal, and every honest magician around them will counsel against it. Yet everyday people? All they have are timeless stories and superstitions to warn them away.” Faylar snorted. “Gods, that puts things into perspective. Mother says goblins only bother us because they keep forgetting the warnings — there’s no point in trying to reason with them.” Filaurel’s gaze sharpened. “They’re not very sophisticated as a culture,” she accepted, “but goblins listen. And is superstitious, even if only a little, so it’s worth keeping the stories circulating.” Saphienne remained unconvinced. “You’ve met Cosme several times. Doesn’t he know by now that you’re putting on act?” “To an small extent.” Filaurel fidgeted with the braid she’d put her hair into. “More than a small extent: he’s quite observant. He knows who I am, and he’s probably guessed that I’m performing whenever we meet together. But every time he tells the story, people will hear what happened before they hear what he thinks — and I’m reasonably sure he wouldn’t share his true thoughts.” “…This feels like another ancient tradition.” Faylar would have nudged her again, but froze as Filaurel burst out laughing and leaned in to hug Saphienne tightly. “Trees keep you for your honesty,” she giggled, winking at Faylar as she drew back. “You can think whatever you like about all of this; personally, I think it’s unnecessary, but the consensus of the woodlands is clear.” Running a hand through his short hair, Faylar hazarded a smile. “You’re much less uptight about rules in private than you are in public, Filaurel.” Her gaze cooled; the librarian folded her arms. “You think I’m uptight?” He swallowed and stepped back. “I didn’t mean–” Saphienne and Filaurel laughed at him until his ears were scarlet. “…Asses. You’re asses — and where Saphienne gets it from, Filaurel!” * * * Once the trio arrived at the copse that Hyacinth had scouted, both children were amazed to see Filaurel set down her narrow pack and draw from within enough rope and waterproof fabric to make a large tent among the branches — before then unpacking blankets and compacted cushions and a sealed, enchanted pitcher from which clean water could flow. “More magic?” Faylar asked, examining the opening. “It doesn’t look much bigger on the inside than — wait, are these ” “Of course they are.” Filaurel was busy climbing the nearest tree, setting to work with the rope that would form the cradle for the tent. “We’re selling some of them to him. They’re worth more than their weight in gold outside the woodlands.” Saphienne reached in and drew one out — bemused to see it was a crude work of what she would charitably call romance. “…I’ve read this. It’s not very good. Is that why it’s only worth gold?” Faylar raised an eyebrow. “You’ve read it?” She elbowed him. “Never mind that.” “Humans are just as influenced by sexual desire anyone else,” Filaurel called down, cursing as she fumbled a knot and had to start it over. “They’re just far more conflicted about it… their attitudes toward love and bonding are shaped by the ease with which they fall pregnant. And,” she grunted, pulling tight the rope, “by the way their societies treat their women and girls.” Faylar looked up from a florid passage of the book, his eyes dimming. “My aunt warned me. She said the males overpower the females, and treat them as little better than property.” “That’s reductive,” Filaurel shot back as she paused. “Toss me up the sheet? No, the other one. Thank you.” She carried on working as she explained. “Their societies are dominated by men — arranged with the assumption that men matter most, and that women should defer to men. It’s a consequence of their shorter lives and their more frequent pregnancies.” Saphienne stood below, staring up with lips downturned. “How?” “Pregnant women are vulnerable.” Filaurel met her eyes, her own pitying. “It doesn’t help that generations of malnourishment and meekness have made your average human woman less physically strong than your average human man. Regardless, the way humans arrange their property, each generation passes down what it owns to its descendants.” “I don’t see how inheritance has–” “Individually,” Faylar said. “My aunt said they pass things down through families… which I guess means they care about who’s had a child with who…” Filaurel leapt down, lifting the cover for the tent onto her shoulder. “They call it ‘marriage.’ Human couples ‘marry’ each other, and only then are their children considered to be legitimate for the purposes of inheritance… and socially.” She returned to her task overhead. “Children born to couples who are not ‘married’ are considered , and not in line to inherit property. They’re also seen as outcasts by society, to a degree that varies depending on the status of their families and how they’re treated by their parents.” Saphienne felt sick as she worked out the implication. “They control who their women have sex with?” “That describes the preoccupation of most human societies.” Filaurel was angry. “But it goes further than telling them who they can or can’t sleep with — or who they can or can’t ‘marry.’ Most human women are taught things about themselves that aren’t true, but that benefit human men. That’s one of the reasons they put up with all the demands and expectations: they help do it to themselves, and reinforce it on each other.” Coldness had seeped into Saphienne’s voice. “And the rest… they’re disciplined with violence?” “Of various kinds.” Filaurel looked over the edge of the floor sheet, resting on her elbows. “Most of it isn’t overt. And not everyone lives this absolutely — it’s unnatural to humans, and men and women struggle against what it does to them daily, in a thousand different ways, often unaware. But it comes out in how they talk to each other, what they comment on, the things they think are virtues and the things they revile.” Faylar closed the book. “Filaurel, the common trade tongue is a language, and I’ve just realised–” “Yes.” She retreated to complete her work. “That’s why. Dwarves are somewhat similar. And there are varieties of human language that are far more gendered than the common trade tongue. They even assign genders to inanimate objects.” Saphienne swallowed. “Will Cosme treat us–” “Gods, no!” Filaurel laughed, dryly. “He’s not like that. He’s actually very open-minded, as far as humans go. And most human men with any sense wouldn’t try treating us that way.” The casual way she said it clashed with how serious she seemed, and Faylar couldn’t help but climb a little way into the trees to ask her “Why?” Filaurel reappeared from within the tent. Her smile was bright, and shone with tranquil fury. “Because we’d hurt them; and we make sure they know it.” He was unfazed, unable to imagine that her anger could be directed toward him. “Would you really hurt them?” “If I had to.” Her smile softened. “If someone were to try to hurt Saphienne, or you, then I’d fight to protect you. It’s a very hard world out there, Faylar. You’re much too good a person for it.” For a change, Faylar didn’t respond to being praised; his tone was crestfallen. “I don’t see why anyone would want to go out there, not if they didn’t have to.” “Even within bad cultures, individual people can be good.” She nimbly returned to the ground and lifted the staff from where she had planted it. “Most humans aren’t monsters. They’re struggling with scarcity, and under the weight of what’s been passed down. Those in the protectorates don’t live that way.” “I don’t want to matter more just for being a man,” Faylar insisted. “What would be the point? And how would they treat you and Saphienne?” “In the rest of the world? They tend to see us as entirely different to them, which is how they except us from their rules. Some elves have made homes out there.” She pointed the enchanted stave toward the tent. Unconsciously, Saphienne felt for the coin purse. “And do they find happiness?” Filaurel closed her eyes. “For a time.” The mugwort atop the staff trembled, and then the trees bent their branches to hide the tent that was slung between them, their movement startling Faylar as he clung on fearfully. When the spirit was done, no one on the ground could see the sanctuary that Filaurel had made for them. Gingerly, Faylar climbed back down. “You’re good at putting up a tent.” “I used to roam around a lot.” Filaurel started lifting their belongings. “It was either learn how to do it, or go wildling through the woods. The Wardens of the Wilds taught me some, and the rest I picked up from a hunter I knew.” She tossed the enchanted pitcher to him, then held out the cushions for Saphienne. “These days, I like my comforts. Shall we get settled in for the night? I should teach you both the song before we sleep.” * * * Eventually, Filaurel conceded that Saphienne could just hum along. “But you told me to sing it with feeling–” “Yes,” Filaurel answered, “and you did: but I don’t want to scare poor old Cosme to death when he hears us.” Faylar patted his friend’s shoulder. “You sung it much better that time, but Filaurel’s right. You sing like there’s blood in your eyes. This is more of a– what, an eerie lament?” Whether or not the songs were magical, Saphienne didn’t know why she even bothered to try. “…Fine. I’ll harmonise with Filaurel. Happy?” * * * Celaena had been right: the weather on the next day was glorious, and after breakfast Filaurel took advantage of the bright dawn to have Saphienne and Faylar take the tent down with her, walking them in reverse through the steps by which she had raised it. Most complicated were the positioning of the ropes and the forms of the knots, but the task of clambering around among the branches came very naturally to elven children. About half a mile from the meeting place, Filaurel called a halt and raised a veiled shelter using the cover for the tent. Each of them would take their turn putting on their elaborate outfit within, Saphienne going first and feeling ludicrous by the time she secured the cloak about her shoulders and slipped back outside. Faylar’s mouth had dropped open; his eyes were wide. “You look… better than I thought you would.” Filaurel glared at him. “What a backhanded compliment… and insult.” He reddened and urgently clarified. “I only meant that your garment looked incongruous in the library in comparison to hers!” “Smooth.” She nevertheless smirked. “You’re next, then.” While he was changing, Filaurel had Saphienne take off the enchanted choker and put it in the inner pocket of her glistening green cloak. She also showed her a hidden pocket that could be used to surreptitiously take off and put on her ring, having already explained the same to Faylar. “Now turn around: I need to braid your hair for you.” Saphienne closed her eyes. The morning felt happy, happier even than the sadness of the memory stirred by the gentle act. Faylar took his time getting ready, and when he emerged he was wearing a robe-like inner layer of silver-embroidered green beneath his cloak, an elegant pair of dark trousers and shoes covering his legs. Saphienne now knew that their garments were playing into mortal preconceptions about gender, but she nevertheless found herself resenting the fact that she was wearing an ostentatious dress for a ramble through the woods. “How do look?” he said, giving her a twirl. “Surprisingly presentable,” Saphienne smiled back, “apart from the hair. Short hair really doesn’t suit this style.” Soon Filaurel had changed as well, and she concealed most of their belongings within the enclosure, bringing only the books in her pack and the staff of living wood. They made the remainder of the journey at a sedate pace, Filaurel giving them last-minute instructions on how they were to proceed. “I may bow to Cosme — but you will not. Nor will you try to touch him, nor will you accept anything directly from his hand. Say nothing until I invite you to speak, and when you introduce yourself, do not say you are from the Eastern Vale. Answer no questions unless I tell you to.” Saphienne rolled her eyes. “…This is too much…” “Do it anyway. And, Faylar? Stay where Saphienne and I leave you during the song. If you move away, we won’t be able to find you while you’re wearing your ring.” He nodded. Adjusting how Saphienne’s cloak hung, Filaurel looked them both over with apparent nervousness. “…Well, we’ve come too far to go back now. Rings on, hoods up, follow me — and no talking.” * * * Ten minutes later they approached the small clearing where the merchant was camped, the scent of smoke giving him away. Filaurel bid Faylar wait to the west, then took Saphienne by the hand and led her in a wide circle around where Cosme was waiting, finishing about six hundred feet from where they had left the boy. Then the librarian inhaled, and she began to sing. The lyrics were simple, and lyrical, but in ancient Elvish, their content as unknown to Filaurel as to Saphienne and the human who was surely now listening. Filaurel alternated singing them with Faylar at first, his verses being much shorter, and she paced around the perimeter with Saphienne whenever it was his turn, ensuring that her part of the song came from no single direction. For the final few verses, Saphienne joined in, keeping her notes low and clear, her pitch rising only as the recital reached its crescendo. By the time they were done the forest seemed hushed around them. True to his promise, Faylar had remained in place, and Filaurel acknowledged his performance with a bow as she led the children to the north-western edge of the glade, there to creep through the trees with them. Saphienne’s heart was hammering in anticipation. Near her, Faylar was trembling. What she least expected was that humans would have a distinctive smell, discernible even against the burning wood. Cosme’s scent wasn’t unpleasant, nor would she ever describe it as animal; his aroma had a sweet acridity to it, reminding her of pale wine along with tanned leather and cooked meats, masculine in a blunter way than any of the elven men or boys she knew. Elves, she realised, smelled very little in comparison to humans. There was a fully covered, wheeled wagon ahead of them. There were no horses in the clearing, nor anywhere nearby, suggesting that he had led them away from the meeting place to graze before settling down to wait. And wait he presently did, his back turned to them where he perched on a stool beside the fire and warmed his hands. Filaurel let her wards calm before she brought them out of the forest, all three elves now concealed by the magic of their rings alone. They walked around the campsite, taking in Cosme from different angles. His wrinkles were a shock, as was the mottled grey in his black hair, but neither were as appalling as the length of scoured wood that had replaced his left leg below the knee, poorly covered by the loose trousers he wore below a red belt and dull shirt. Oblivious to his observers, he coughed, spitting into the flames, his silvery beard doing little to hide the scars and blemishes on his pale brown face. Saphienne had never seen visible pores in skin before. Yet, despite how strange Cosme was to her? She was struck by how much he resembled a weathered and weakened elf. All that was disquieting was so because it was nearly familiar, close to but not matching the unnoticed patterns of semblance that governed the elves she knew. He was short, and old, and riddled with mortal imperfections, but he was, undeniably and from the very first moment, obviously a person. And more perceptive than his appearance suggested. “Most gracious among elves,” he said in thickly accented – yet flawless – Elfish, “are you not near? I heard you singing with your kindred. Good patron Filaurel, have you not come to treat with me by my fire? Has this mortal offended you in some way?” He looked up from the flames, casting his light brown gaze around the clearing. “Am I being punished, that you withhold your beauty from me?” Filaurel grinned, and waved for Saphienne and Faylar to wait. Then she strode behind Cosme and – slipping her hand into her concealed pocket – took off the ring, appearing from nowhere as she walked around him and stood on the other side of the fire. Cosme was quick to stand, and he swept one arm out as he awkwardly and deeply bowed. “Greetings to you, most glorious keeper of the written word, patron of countless artists, peerless benefactor among your kind — welcome to the meagre encampment of I, Cosme of Tenerosa!” Filaurel gave him a very shallow bow, her lips turned up. She addressed him in the common trade tongue. “Well met, Cosme. You don’t look a day older than last time. Might you be growing younger on me?” He laughed, and gestured to his stool, receiving permission before he sat. “Lady elf,” he addressed her in the same tongue, “the day I grow younger is the day you sell me the secret to eternal youth. What’s your price?” She quietly laughed as she knelt down. “A human lifetime.” “Then you’ll be paid in full before too long.” His teeth were discoloured and several were missing, but his broad grin made them outshine the smile of the elf before him. “In the meantime, how about a new leg?” Filaurel’s lips twisted toward sadness. “Were it possible, I’d give you one for free. Old injuries aren’t easily healed — not even for elves. Is your stump still bothering you?” “Only every night, when I have to get up to piss.” He leant forward conspiratorially, hands braced on his thighs. “Don’t grow old, Filaurel. I can’t recommend it.” “But you make it look like such fun…” Her sadness lifted as they laughed together. “What age are you now? Forty-four? No more than forty-five.” “Forty-eight.” He ran his fingers through his thick, short hair. “Before too long, I’ll be as white as you are in winter. I might not have two more years in me.” She scoffed. “The way you hobble around? You’re too persistent to go so soon. I’d give you another fifteen — at .” This charmed him. “You think so? Then for all that you’re eternally a girl, I’ll be thankful, and defer to the wisdom of my His mention of her youthful seeming made Filaurel glance to where she had left Saphienne and Faylar, and she covered her beckoning them by drawing back her hood and climbing to her feet. “Speaking of youth? I have a surprise for you.” This intrigued the merchant, who sat back with sudden seriousness. “…And what would that be?” Having been waiting for their cue, Saphienne and Faylar took off their rings and approached from just outside his vision, further away than Filaurel had passed as they came around him from opposite sides to stand with her. “Allow me to introduce Saphienne and Faylar, two of my–” But Cosme gave a low, choking sound, a bubbling cough that grew in volume until Saphienne recognised he was laughing, his hands gripping his legs until he couldn’t hold in his guffaws and gave up entirely, throwing back his head and hollering so loudly that his spittle caught in his beard and his eyes streamed, thumping his belly as he swayed on the stool and threatened to topple backwards. Filaurel was just as nonplussed as Saphienne. “–Forgive me,” Cosme wheezed, struggling up onto his good foot, “but great minds think alike… and fools seldom differ…” Faylar whispered in Elfish. “Did he just insult you?” Yet Cosme had moved to the covered wagon, and he braced himself against its side as he found his composure. “Fair lady elf– fair elven , and fine elven I present to you Felipe of Tenerosa…” The curtain into the wagon was drawn aside from within. “…My only heir, and son!” End of Chapter 67