CHAPTER 68 – Maturity

“I present to you Felipe of Tenerosa, my only heir, and son!” Saphienne blinked. Standing in the curtained doorway to the cart was the most extraordinary boy she had ever seen. Whereas his father carried himself with confidence and verve that made him seem larger than his frailties, Felipe was unsure, pausing with one hand on the curtain and another placed awkwardly against his hip. Despite this, he was better dressed than Cosme, wearing a loose and pleated burgundy shirt that bunched around his elbows and came down almost to his knees, black leggings covering him above his narrow shoes, his waist drawn in by a tightly woven white sash. His face was aglow with his youth, his thin lips parted in a somewhat nervous smile to reveal unstained teeth, his brown eyes above his broad nose widening at the sight of the elves. Unlike his father, he was clean shaven, and his dark hair was shorn short, thick where it curled against his skull. Unlike his father, his legs were intact, and when he hopped down from the wagon it was to drop into a deep and elegant bow. And unlike his father, and distinctive beside the pale birch of the elves? Felipe’s skin was umber, dim as charcoal in his shadow, rich as the wood of the walnut tree where the sunlight shone on him. Saphienne had never seen anyone like him before, and a look shared with Faylar confirmed that he was just as amazed — and just as eager to speak with the boy, their delighted smiles growing. Filaurel, however, was worried. Her low voice held an urgency that told Saphienne she was very concerned. “Cosme… tell me you didn’t smuggle him into the woodlands…” “No, no!” Cosme hobbled closer, waving her down with both hands. “We came earlier, this time — we applied for permission! Your watchers kept us waiting–” The librarian breathed out in a rush, abandoning any pretence of elven aloofness as she sagged in relief. “You should have sent warning.” He effortlessly slipped into a lower, soothing tone as he arrived at the fire. “But we did, didn’t we? Lady elf, your watchers promised a letter–” “And I received it.” She glared at him. “But it made no mention of you bringing your along, Cosme. Was that an oversight on their part?” His manner was reserved, his words carefully chosen — and his glee evident. “I cannot imagine that an elf would make a mistake; perhaps they they thought he was beneath your notice?” Filaurel stared over him, to Felipe. “Tell me: did your father ask them to leave you out of the letter?” Caught by surprise, Felipe flinched before he straightened from where he had been holding his bowed pose. He smoothed down his tunic as he swallowed and fought to find a winning smile; his accent was less pronounced than his father’s. “I beg your pardon, lady elf, but filial piety forbids me from answering.” Cosme rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Filaurel leant on her staff as she shook her head and returned her attention to the merchant. “He’s got your wit, at least…” She pushed the stave into Saphienne’s hands as she walked toward the edge of the campsite, gesturing for Cosme to follow. “Vamos, hablemos.” Saphienne turned to Faylar with a frown, but he was equally as clueless as she. The pair watched Cosme join Filaurel, voices low, the language they spoke in unknown to either of the elven children. Felipe took the opportunity to reach back into the wagon and retrieve a thin book, which he held in both hands as he cautiously approached the fire, his gaze on the discussion between his father and their patron… …For the most part. The youth kept glancing toward Faylar and Saphienne, who were also trying to glance at him without being obvious. Saphienne accidentally locked eyes with Felipe: they both hurriedly looked away. Filaurel and Cosme were soon done talking, the expression on the elf’s face looking very much like whenever Saphienne persuaded her to do something against her better judgement — complete with underlying affection. The librarian strolled ahead of the merchant, and stopped nearby, planting her hands on her hips as she adopted a stern tone. “Felipe of Tenerosa,” she addressed him in the common trade tongue, “your father tells me you persuaded us to allow you into our woodlands, but he insists that should explain — please do so.” At that, Felipe went to hand the elf the work he was holding, only for his father to stumble forward and intercept him– Giving Saphienne opportunity to read the title. She squinted as she did. Cosme pushed his son’s hand down. “My apologies,” he answered on Felipe’s behalf, “he hasn’t had chance to practice elven customs. Allow us to set up the table and–” But Saphienne lowered the staff and extended its branching end. “You can please be putting the book on here.” Beside her, she could feel Faylar yearning to correct her grammar, restraining himself in mindfulness of their audience. Filaurel, too, would have countermanded her request, but maintaining the dignity of elves before humans forced her mentor to nod to Felipe. As his father released him, he approached Saphienne deferentially, extending the book to place it– The sudden creaking of the limb made him recoil and fumble, the neat pages fluttering as they fell short of the leaves and twigs that stretched to catch them. Mercifully, his book landed on the ground spine-downward. Saphienne didn’t recognise the sheen on his skin as a blush, not at first, but his bone-deep cringe needed no translation. Before either Felipe or his father could apologise she swept the animate stave down and let whichever spirit was trying to be helpful grab the book, then raised it overhead so that the work dropped into her waiting hand. She read the messages written inside the cover with a smirk, then flicked irreverently through the chapters. “…I sent this with our application,” Felipe explained, doing his best to move on, “in the hope that it’d sway your elder to grant me entry.” She offered dry commentary in Elfish. “You’ll like this, Filaurel. This part’s about elven customs: I hadn’t realised we have such complex taboos around gift-giving. Especially when dealing with mortals…” Filaurel narrowed her eyes. “Saphienne…” “It says here,” Saphienne summarised from deeper in, “that elves worship spirits of nature, and that our altars to them take the form of trees carved with depictions of sexual intimacy, which we water with the blood of mortals foolish enough to accept invitation to our revels–” Faylar had gone very still. “–But that our anger can be appeased through the recitation of song, which we are powerless to resist dancing along to. Though, it warns that elves who have grown their horns are resistant to this, and speculates that we are most aggressive during our autumnal mating season–” “–When the females of our kind wrestle with each other for the favour of our smaller, more– more men.” All three elves were now quiet, their expressions wooden. Cosme was watching Filaurel very intently; his son was unreadable to Saphienne. Using every fibre of her self-control, Saphienne revisited what was written at the start of the book. “‘Most patient elder among elves,’” Saphienne quoted, “‘I sincerely hope this account of what is known about your people entertains you, and that such inaccuracies as it contains are amusing to you. I hope you will grant me the opportunity to remedy my ignorance through experience while I am still young. In humblest supplication, Felipe of Tenerosa, son to Cosme of Tenerosa, both of Harena.’” Filaurel was staring up at the sky. “…There’s a reply,” Saphienne managed, her chest tight. She paused for a long moment as she fought for composure. “‘Youngest master among mortals Felipe–’” Faylar stiffly pivoted to face the forest. “‘–I read this inaccurate and slanderous account to my peers. Your hubris in sending this work to me befits a true exemplar of the rash and impetuous behaviours of humankind.’” She swallowed. “‘We were all very amused–’” Filaurel’s eyes were glimmering. “‘–and I trust that you will not amend a single word of this account, which I expect you to share freely with others of your kind throughout the many years you will spend trading. Some stories are too good to be denied. I wish you many years of health, and hope that you will continue to improve upon your father.’” Filaurel snorted, but clung on. In the hush that followed, Felipe spoke up in soft and faultless Elfish. “…Might I assume the sections you quoted are misinformed, then?” And that broke the three elves, who all doubled over in laughter. * * * “Twenty-five years,” Cosme moaned in the trade tongue as he sat on the wagon’s step and slumped before the folding table his son was setting up. “A generation; and never once have you set aside your customs. But as soon as my of an heir comes into your lands,” he glowered theatrically at Felipe, “you abandon all decorum!” The aging trader looked askance at Filaurel across the table. “Tell me, cruellest among elves: was it my appearance? Were you persuaded at last by the passing glory of youth? Are elven women as fickle with their affections as all others?” She was staring up at the sky again, and blushed just as heavily as Felipe where she perched on the stool, reconsidering the poor choices that had led her there. “So it goes,” announced the merchant mournfully, “for it was: the heavy hearts of ugly men are consoled by wine alone.” “He means none of it,” Felipe gently said in Elfish. “I know,” Filaurel groaned, replying in the common trade tongue. “He wants me to say he’s not ugly, so he can say–” Cosme seized his moment. “Why, you think I am I, a poor and wretched man? How I am, to at last know the favour of–” “He lives for this.” Filaurel turned to where Saphienne and Faylar stood chuckling. “He wanted to be an actor when he was young, and he likes to inflict his dearth of talent on everyone else.” “Why,” Cosme addressed them as well, playing to his audience, “your wise teacher speaks only truth! I live for but a fleeting sight of her–” “Behave.” The merchant’s grin was undeterred. “As you command; but only for business. Felipe, bring out our wares.” Saphienne beamed beside Faylar, overjoyed that her improvised plan had worked. By the time the three elves had recovered their wits, there had been no route by which to retreat behind the aloofness that convention demanded. As beautiful and graceful as they might appear to Cosme and Felipe, their pretence of ethereal detachment had been shattered: by Filaurel gasping for breath, by Saphienne laughing from her belly, and by Faylar wiping tears from his scarlet cheeks. Her friend was still smiling as he hissed Elfish in her ear. “The lecture she’s going to give us when we’re done…” “Worth it,” she whispered. They watched as Felipe lifted down a large chest from inside the wagon, his grunt foretelling the weight within. Sure enough, it contained books that were stacked and wedged all the way to the lid — which told Saphienne that Felipe was much stronger than an average elf of equivalent size. He promptly fetched out another while his father lay several titles on the table. “For your consideration,” Cosme began, “I present to you the finest, most current works of learning and storytelling penned within the known kingdoms.” Filaurel slid one over to herself . “Which means they’re second-hand doggerel, over a decade out of date, and entirely derivative.” “And what have you brought for me?” Filaurel lifted her pack from the ground, digging out her selection one work at a time. “Why, I bring to you the light of elven culture, lit long before the dawn of your people, that it might banish the darkness from your sight and reveal to you the greater truths of beauty and wisdom.” “Meaning,” Cosme grinned, “these are heavily censored works of second-rate writing, full of pretty but meaningless Elfish, and containing no certainties about your people that aren’t already disputed or disproven.” Saphienne quietly queried Faylar. “Why are they insulting each other?” “They’re not,” Faylar explained. “This is a game. They’re each trying to downplay the value of what the other has to trade, so they can acquire the most for the least in exchange. They’ll both try to disguise what they’re most interested in, and they’ll each try to discern how much the other is willing to give to secure what they want.” Filaurel didn’t glance their way as she finished stacking her pile, and she scolded them in the common trade tongue. “I’ll not have you both hovering over our shoulders and whispering the whole time. We’ve a lot of reading to do.” Saphienne edged closer. “Can we be helping?” “No.” Filaurel looked up, switching to Elfish. “None of these books are yet approved for reading. They may contain content that is inappropriate for children — or falsehoods that could undermine the consensus, were they circulated.” Cosme gave a low whistle. “Interesting,” he said in Elfish. “I have long suspected your discerning eye appraises more than quality. You are the one who abridges the books you bring?” She allowed him a wry smile. “I am. But it’s not my decision. Don’t think I can persuaded to give away more: I have very little discretion.” “Ah! But surely that means you have discretion, most judicious of elves?” “When dealing with a merchant I like.” She went back to reading. “I’ll let you know his name, should I ever meet him. Perhaps he’ll give you a good price.” Felipe laughed where he waited by his father. Embarrassed, the merchant switched back into the common trade tongue. “Betrayed by my own family? Away with you! You’re disinherited.” The boy was unconcerned. “What else do you need me to do?” “Wait until we’re done with these.” He contemplated Saphienne and Faylar, pulling his short beard down toward his chin. When he appealed to Filaurel, he did so in her native language. “Might we be rid of our inconveniences? May the boy practice this exalted tongue with your young kindred?” Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Faylar leant forward, and Saphienne knew he was gazing at Filaurel just as pleadingly as she was. The librarian scowled in return… but her former apprentice could see she had decided the worst of the damage was done, and a glance to the book Saphienne still held – – suggested that she felt permitted to indulge them. “Stay in the glade, within sight. Remember who you are representing.” Cosme was quick to mirror her, gripping his son by the arm. “And you too, boy. If your behaviour has us tossed from these woods–” “I will fall upon my– my knife, to preserve the good name of our family,” Felipe promised, though the ease with which he said it made Saphienne doubt he was serious. Still, he was intimidated when he came around his father and bowed to the young elves, waiting for them to speak to him. Faylar folded down his hood and brushed his hair back behind his ears, feigning he wasn’t desperate to ask a thousand questions. “I we can walk together a little. Come on then, Felipe.” Saphienne fell in beside him, suppressing the urge to skip as they led Felipe away. * * * None of them dared to speak first. They were halfway around the clearing when Saphienne’s frustration finally overcame her self-consciousness, and she stopped to make an overture. “When Filaurel and your father were talking by themselves, did you understand what they said?” The boy hesitated, and sought permission from Faylar to answer. When none was forthcoming – Faylar having no idea what was expected of him – Felipe bowed once more. “My apologies, lady elf, but I defer to your brother.” Faylar and Saphienne regarded each other mutely. Felipe began to panic. “…If my poor speech offends you, lord elf, I offer my apology. I meant no insult. Please do not think unkindly of my father for my–” “We’re not offended,” Saphienne said. Faylar shook his head. “We just have no idea what to say.” He calmed, scrutinising both of them. “Then, I am all the more sorry for abusing your beautiful language–” “Your Elfish is very good,” Saphienne gave him an encouraging smile. “Better than our grasp of the common trade tongue.” “…So, my pronunciation–” “It’s excellent,” Faylar reassured him. “We understand your words perfectly…” Felipe was at a loss. “Thank you? That is to say: you are very kind.” He clearly felt as out of his depth as they did. Saphienne chose to be direct. “Faylar isn’t my brother,” she said, “and he isn’t responsible for deciding who I get to–” “Speak with!” Faylar desperately interjected. “Saphienne is her own person. The two of us are friends.” Listening, Felipe crossed his arms, more in meditation than disagreement. “…My father warned me that elven women are the equal of any man, and should be treated that way. Do elven men treat their women the same?” Faylar, however, folded his arms in disapproval. “Well, they’re not women. I told you: Saphienne is her own person. She makes her own choices. And…” He gave her a disarmed shrug that begged her not to make fun of him later. “…She’s much more intelligent and capable than I am. She’s apprenticed to a wizard.” Felipe took this in his stride, nodding. “Yes, I have seen your magic. I meant no offence, lady elf.” Drawing her hood down, Saphienne planted the stave in the ground before clasping her hands together around the fanciful book. “You can stop using that title. We only use it for our goddesses — and only our gods are lords.” Faylar tilted his head to where Filaurel was sitting. “Should we be telling him that?” She tried to judge the human boy, drumming her fingers on the cover she was holding. “The writing in this book was in the same hand as your dedication; you translated the text into Elfish, didn’t you?” Felipe had been distracted, awed by the roots of the staff, but he squared his shoulders at her question, a touch of pride in his posture. “I did, fair elf.” Her lips parted. “You can dispense with honorifics, Felipe. My name is Saphienne, and his name is Faylar.” She made up her mind. “You’re a scholar, aren’t you?” “Not at all,” he winced. “I merely read. I do not know the word in your language,” he confessed, switching to the common trade tongue, “but I haven’t attended a university, nor will I ever study with a magician.” She continued their conversation in Elfish. “A scholar is just a reader who learns how to think,” she replied, “and you know how to think. Do you want to follow in your father’s footsteps?” Her asking made him uncross his arms and smile with enthusiasm. “Yes! But my father says it is not simple — I will need to find another patron, since your mother will not take me on after him.” Laughing, Faylar unfolded his arms as well. “Filaurel isn’t Saphienne’s mother — none of us are related.” Saphienne blinked, then shook away her disquiet. “…Well, that means you have an interest in staying on good terms with we elves. Do you understand the importance of a reputation?” Felipe was mildly offended. “Yes; I am no child.” “So then,” she pressed him, “you understand the importance of upholding the reputation of your friends, if you wish to their friend?” He was far from slow, and his gaze drifted to the book she was holding. “I had my suspicions… and then I read what your elder wrote…” She waited. The would-be merchant brought his heels together, giving her a formal bow. “On the names of my father and mother, and on my honour: I, Felipe of Tenerosa of Hareña, swear to keep my silence on the truth of the elves until the grave. May god in his heavens strike me dead if I betray my word.” Faylar had grown pale. “That’s a horrible way to give a promise.” Now upright, Felipe was puzzled. “You do not swear oaths?” Saphienne smiled sadly. “Not on death. We’re not meant to wish death on each other — or ourselves.” He surprised her then, nervously rubbing at the back of his neck as he stared at the grass. “If you would teach me the elven way to swear an oath, I would be willing–” “No.” Saphienne grinned in happiness; she had his measure. “No, that isn’t necessary. We believe you. Filaurel says your father is shrewd, and the elder who wrote back to you has confidence in both of you. Besides — you have too much to lose to foolishness.” Felipe gradually matched her smile. “…I have never met a woman like you.” Faylar tossed his cloak over his shoulders, stretching his arms back above them. “We’ve never met a human before. But, even though I believe you…” He dropped his hands, facing his fellow elf. “…Saphienne, we really aren’t meant to tell him anything about ourselves.” “No,” Saphienne agreed, “but if he infers things along the way, that’s his business.” Yet Felipe wasn’t satisfied with inference alone. “Would you–” He hesitated, and brought his hands together in supplication. “Would you at least admit some things I believe are false? There are ugly rumours–” “We don’t make blood sacrifices,” Saphienne giggled. Faylar bit his lip. “…And our men aren’t smaller, and our women don’t wrestle over us every autumn.” “And the horns?” Felipe asked. The two elves silently conspired with each other. “…That part’s true,” Faylar lied. “For both genders,” Saphienne affirmed. “If you see an elf with horns, you better run away as fast and far as you can — for it has nothing to do with sex.” Felipe coughed, flushing intensely. “…You are… I have heard that elves speak more freely on…” Sympathy emboldened Faylar. “Fuck it,” he declared, hurling caution aside. “You want to be a trader? How’s this for a bargain: we won’t answer every question, but we’ll share what we can if you’ll tell us all we want to know.” “And we’ll be direct,” Saphienne insisted, heartened by his willing complicity. “There’s very little chance any of us will ever meet again. So within the limits of what’s wise to share, we’ll talk freely — if you will.” Felipe’s pupils had widened, and he was quivering. “I– I agree…” “Good!” Faylar exclaimed. “I’ll go first — I’ve been to ask you this. Why is your skin that colour? Is it because of the sun? And why is your father’s so different?” Felipe’s mouth dropped open. Then, as he discerned the entirely earnest innocence that underlay Faylar’s questions, he started laughing. * * * “So you are not this white all of the year?” The three children were sat together beneath a sprawling alder, Felipe laying back against it with his feet spread out, Faylar reclining on a low limb, Saphienne with her legs crossed. “That’s hard to answer,” Saphienne reflected. “I don’t know what you consider pale. Is your father pale?” Felipe smirked at the man reading with Filaurel by the wagon. “Not very. There are paler than him. Most in the south of Hareña have his hue, and many in the north – where my mother was born – look as I do, but there are people from the south who spend so much time indoors their skin is brighter yet. And there are people from other–” he borrowed a word from the common trade tongue “– who are white like finest parchment, and who I am told burn like it if they spend too long in sunlight.” “Are they as pale as us?” “I have only met a few — but no.” He was amused. “They are more pink. Your skin is so fair, you are not human at all.” No insult was intended, nor did Saphienne hear one. “I think I understand. Our skin gradually change colour throughout the year, and in summer we’re more golden, maybe closer to human.” “But in winter,” Faylar added, “we’re even whiter, like snow. We’re only this pale during spring and autumn.” Felipe marvelled at the idea. “And my father said your hair changes? Does it fall out, like leaves from a tree?” “No,” Saphienne giggled. “It changes a strand at a time. We do lose hairs, but not very often, and they regrow.” “How many colours?” “Four: brown, blonde, red, and white. Those are the natural colours…” Felipe laced his fingers behind his head. “…So there are dyes? Some of our women dye their hair as they grow old, to cover up the grey. Some vain men, too. But that is not for common people.” “And we don’t grow old,” Faylar quipped. “So then,” Felipe abruptly reversed direction, enlivened as he sat forward, “what age are each of you? You are not so tall as the– as Filaurel, so I think you are young for elves. May I guess?” Charmed by the idea, Saphienne leant back on her palms. “You may.” “I have read that elves reach adulthood in one hundred years,” Felipe began, “and you seem to be the youngest. Though we are the same height…” He concentrated on her face. “…I think, were you human, you would be a few years younger than me. My guess is you are over seventy years.” Faylar hid his smile. “And what about me?” He peered up at the elven boy. “You are older than her. In your eightieth year? Perhaps near your ninetieth?” “He wishes,” Saphienne snorted. “Faylar is sixteen; I’m fourteen.” This struck Felipe as incredible, and his eyes darted back and forth between them. “…No. Surely I am younger than you?” “There’s a thought,” Faylar hummed, dangling a leg. “If I were to guess your age, making allowance for your being shorter, and going by your build… I’d suppose you were seventeen?” The estimate was right; Felipe stroked his bare chin much like his father had stroked his beard. “My seventeenth birthday was a month ago… unless you count years differently? But that cannot be — you have spoken of the seasons.” “You’re older than us.” Saphienne was inexplicably concerned by the realisation. “That shouldn’t be so surprising…” “So what I read about elven growth is wrong? You will not take a hundred years to to become a woman?” “She will,” Faylar confirmed with a frown. “And I’ll be a man. We reach mental and physical maturity when we’re eighteen–” “But social maturity,” Saphienne repeated, “awaits us at our century.” Felipe was bewildered. “I do not understand. Were my father to die, I would become a man today — but that would be by necessity; I have no uncles. Because my father is a merchant, I will become a man when I am eighteen, for I must be a man to be trusted with our business. Were our work ordinary? I should be a man at twenty.” Perplexed, Faylar dropped down beside Felipe. “The age of your maturity varies?” “So long as there is good reason, and I am grown enough for the responsibility.” He studied the elf who crouched next to him. “You talk about mental and physical maturity… what more is there?” Faylar gazed over at Saphienne. She climbed to her feet and began pacing. “There things still to be explained, when we’re eighteen. There must be more that we don’t yet know…” “You’re right,” Faylar said, though his voice was less sure. “There must be…” Seeing that he had unsettled them, Felipe made an effort to be cheerful. “Your turn! What do you want to know? Ask whatever you will.” She stopped; there would be time to dwell on the mystery later. “What is Harena like?” “Hareña,” Felipe corrected her. “Very different to here. Lots of open land. There are forests, but they are small against yours. The weather is dryer in the north, but the south – closer to here – is green throughout the year with rain; snow comes only rarely.” He squinted at the clouds. “The north is high and flat, while the south is more mountainous. The roads are safer outside the mountains.” Her recent lesson prompted a question. “Because of dragons?” “You have heard?” He became sombre. “There been more dragons in the south in recent times. So far, they are leaving the roads alone… but there are stories of their fire descending on the–” he again borrowed a word “–, and on towns who host armed men, whether under the crown or because they are afraid.” He stood to stroll as well, kicking at the ground as he looped his thumbs in his belt. “I worry. Lawlessness is spreading. That is never good for trade.” Faylar rose, leaning on the tree with his shoulder. “Have you ever seen one?” “A long time ago.” His anxieties lifted as he spoke. “One descended on our fields. I would have been ten? I ran with the other children to see it from the town walls. Even from a distance, it was huge, and its hide shone. Brave men went out to meet it.” Saphienne stepped closer. “What happened?” “Nothing.” He laughed, still disbelieving years later. “It had come to see our roses! It wanted no more than to be left in peace. It remained for the day, and then flew off at sunset, never to come again.” Faylar sighed. “That’s anticlimactic.” “You mean… disappointing?” His lips twisted in a mild sneer. “We were not disappointed. Dragons do not often trouble people, but when they do, only great heroes can survive them. There was no Alonso in our village — no famed dragonslayer to protect us.” Faylar’s ears were hot. “That was thoughtless of me. I’m sorry.” Yet his apology quickly mended their new friendship, and Felipe inclined his head. “I never imagined I would hear those words from an elf. You are very different from what I expected.” Saphienne pulled his book from the pocket inside her cloak. “I can’t think why. And it’s your turn again.” “Then, please excuse me,” he bowed to her, “but there are questions that are not appropriate to ask before you.” Faylar started, and his embarrassment worsened. “Wait, if you’re going ask about–” “We’ve been warned about this,” Saphienne replied, pointedly sitting back down as she crossed her arms. “Filaurel said that humans are conflicted about sex.” Now Felipe was forced to retreat from her, nearly backing into Faylar. “I– there are words that only men–” “Neither of you are men.” Saphienne was enjoying how flustered she made him. “And we more free about such things. But if I scare you…” That trapped him, his bravado so very similar to that of a young male elf. “Scared? I am not afraid of such things, fair elf,” he feebly protested, “but it would be impolite to speak of them in your presence.” “Then those questions will have to go unanswered.” She glared at Faylar. “Because Faylar isn’t going to insult me by excluding me.” The older elf coughed. “Saphienne, your age–” “I’ll just listen.” She gave them both a carefree smile. Faylar turned to the tree and buried his face in his elbow; Felipe couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. Opening the book, she sought one of the later chapters. “There’s some strange stuff in here, described in detail I’d call . Did you know, Faylar, that we elves are so free with our affections that–” “Alright!” Faylar spun around. “Gods, you’re awful. Felipe, please sit down, don’t look at her — and try not to look at me, either.” Driven by the inquisitiveness of youth, Felipe sat with his back to Saphienne; but he was not wholly oblivious to how Faylar had responded. “If this matter is more delicate than I have read, I do not wish you to be–” “No — I’m just not experienced in that part of life, but I’m too curious about your side of things to let this opportunity pass.” He pulled his hood forward over his brow as he sat. “I’ll tell you what I think you want to hear. And don’t mind Saphienne: she’s read all about it.” * * * Over the next half an hour, Saphienne learned that she knew more than Faylar did. And over the half after that, she found that Felipe knew even less. * * * “I struggle to believe,” Felipe murmured when they were done. “My father has told me about many strange customs, and I do not think what is different is wrong… but, some of our differences…” “I feel similarly.” Faylar had been upset by much of what Felipe had told him. Rising silently, Saphienne approached, setting the book down beside Felipe before she joined Faylar. “Felipe? I won’t judge you, but I would be interested to know what you find most difficult.” He had almost forgotten her, and his stare for her was sharply indignant — before it dulled in self-awareness. He held his palms up in his lap, studying the lines there as though deciphering himself. “…Your families.” Faylar hadn’t foreseen that being a challenge, and he clicked his tongue. “I’d expected it would be something about gender. Or men falling in love with men, from what you told me about how they’re treated.” “But those make sense to me.” Felipe looked up. “Such things are not allowed, but people have passions. I do not share them, but they are part of the world I know. There are men who pretend to be women, and women who pretend to be men…” He weakly smiled. “…But if they had your magic, would they be pretending? Is any of it really a lie? It is much to think about. The uncertainties of your lives…” Thinking about Iolas’ family, Saphienne understood. “You don’t have any reference for families without marriage.” “Not without shame.” His voice was filled with yearning. “You do not have shame. Is that why you are so free? Is that why you live forever?” Saphienne felt for the pouch she had secreted beside the choker, intensely aware of all he didn’t comprehend. “We have shame. And there are things we be ashamed about.” Troubled, the human boy rubbed his chest. “And you make me wonder if there are things are shamed for, that we should not be… which frightens me.” He closed his eyes. “And I am ashamed of my fear. Should I be?” “No,” said Faylar. “No. My mother told me that courage demands fear.” “…I feel very foolish.” He hung his head. “I feel like I joined you for a dance, and you have bled me for your trees.” Saphienne wanted to help him; she thought back to her conversation with Nelathiel. “We choose what we believe in, and our truth proceeds from that–” “No it does not.” He was weary. “What is true is out there in the world, and we called by god to recognise it… or so I have heard. Your lives feel more true than mine.” She squeezed the covered coin. “That’s ironic. I feel the same about yours.” That made Felipe laugh, and he showed his first wholly unguarded smile. His gaze held firmer respect for her. “Then we are all fools. Men and women both.” Faylar returned his warmth. “On that, we can agree.” End of Chapter 68