Here, now, we climb toward the mysteries that have been conspicuous by their absence in this tale. You are not an elf, and so you have assumed much about the elves of the woodlands — as was intended by the one who penned this account.

Me? No. I am but the story’s teller. What little authorship I have over her saga is apparent through its telling.

Just as you have assumed much about elves of her kind, when you entered this chamber to hear Saphienne’s tale you doubtlessly carried with you many preconceptions about life. Some will serve you well, others less so. There is no shame in carrying what we were once given — even our vices began as gifts. Shame only lies in refusing to set our habits and attitudes down when invited to learn, and clinging to them when we know we have outgrown them. Saphienne herself would come to understand this, albeit imperfectly.

Now I invite you to set aside your judgements, and to uncover your ears before you listen to what Saphienne is to be told. See the world unfolding before her with soft eyes — not for what it all might mean, but for the sake of its unfolding. Whatever you lay aside will still be waiting for you, when you are done.

Let us hear, then, of faith.

* * *

The ley line Saphienne followed through the woodland ran south, and the longer she followed the line the clearer it became. Nothing impeded her path, which wound like a serpent over hills and around trees, easily walked, though there were no signs that it had been walked at all; the emerald grass remained unbowed before the sun even after her passage.

Almon, Rydel, and Taerelle had also recently made this journey in reverse, yet the way appeared pristine and undisturbed. Saphienne wondered whether that was a property of ley lines, perhaps caused by latent magic bleeding out, which would fit with what Rydel had explained about how the enchantment veiling the clearing was hidden. Whatever magical resonance actually was, it could disperse along ley lines… and this ley line was dispersing the telltale signs of a powerful Fascination spell.

She paused, and took the time to study the ground beneath her more wilfully. Slowly, Saphienne discerned there were hints that the path had been walked, lines through the grass where the blades had been brushed in the same direction. All at once, the trail left by the three came directly into focus — far from subtle.

Laughing, Saphienne resumed her trek, confident that she had an inkling of how resonance functioned. Spells leaked an echo of themselves into their environment, so it seemed; and the more powerful the magic, the louder the world resonated in response. Whatever rules governed resonance were still mysterious to her, though Rydel had said a sympathetic connection was somehow involved. Even so, Saphienne hadn’t yet observed enough to deduce what sympathy really was, nor how sympathy formed connections.

Apparently, she and her mother were close in sympathy. That thought amused Saphienne as she strolled along.

Her mood brightened with the day, her tension evaporating like the morning dew from the shimmering leaves. She was still under a great deal of stress… so much so that she finally had an inkling of how much stress she held within herself in her daily life. What she had told the Wardens of the Wilds was not wholly a lie: she didn’t like to waste her time. Was that the cause of her usual stress, or a consequence? Either way, her vulnerability with Faylar had caused it to diminish a little, before the drama of the morning had heaped more onto the pile.

Faylar… she didn’t quite know how she felt about him. He was her friend, and she had absolutely no romantic interest in him. And as friendships went, she didn’t feel with him how she had felt with Kylantha; but that was hard to read into, since she had been much younger in her first friendship. Saphienne had known that Faylar cared about her – obviously, given the effort he had gone to for her birthday – and that he didn’t see her with anything like the conflicted gaze he had for Celaena. But, until yesterday, she hadn’t realised the depths of his attachment to her.

Hyacinth had said, when speaking of Faylar, that the best way to control a person was to give them what they most desired. She had even illustrated the principle, and had done so by giving Faylar the same validation that Saphienne had provided when earning his friendship. Were people really so simple? Was the key to being welcomed, being trusted, as simple as offering people what their heart most desired?

The technique had worked on Taerelle. Saphienne had read her ambition, then played upon the fear and hope that grew from it to make her do as she willed. She wondered whether the difference lay in intention, or whether it was in execution, or perhaps in the resolution. The same methods that earned a person’s friendship also made them pliable.

Her pace slowed – so very slightly – as she remembered her manipulation of Iolas.

Connections, and sympathy; magical, and otherwise. These were the things she thought about as she travelled to the shrine. Under their tangling roots Saphienne could feel the difficult question of trust that also lay beneath her relationship with Hyacinth — between all elves and the spirits of the woodlands. To answer that question, she would have to go deeper… and while she was neither lost nor daunted by the descent ahead, she did feel as though she were entering uncharted territory.

Saphienne wished her path through life was as easy to follow as the ley line.

* * *

Though Saphienne had only visited the woodland shrines on a few, half-remembered occasions, she was familiar with what awaited her when she approached the shrine to Our Lord of the Endless Hunt.

Nearby trees had been sculpted so that their limbs entwined, some growing closely enough that their very trunks wove around each other in gently rising spirals. All had their bark scoured smooth — and all were alive with delicately inscribed figures of song and dance. Yet despite this treatment, or perhaps because of it, their branches were flourishing ahead of the season, wreathed in glorious foliage as would befit the height of summer.

Offerings surrounded and hung from the trees, tastefully arranged to complement the overall scene. As befitted the nature of the god being worshipped, the gifts to Our Lord of the Endless Hunt were made from the remains of woodland creatures, carved from bone or horn and painted on parchment, tied in place with thread made from dried gut or wool. Though macabre in their materials, all were just as beautifully wrought as every other form of elven art, even more so for the sincere devotion that had inspired their making, showing scenes and subjects of hunting and pursuit. One piece caught Saphienne’s eye: a pair of abstract lovers, reaching for each other, fashioned from matching antlers and hung from parallel branches.

In the middle of the copse, surrounded on all sides by the offering-laden trees, a hillock rose from the forest floor to serve as a natural altar. Saphienne could see the bright yellow canopy raised upon it to shelter the idol from wind and rain. Yet the face of the small hill closest to her had subsided in the distant past, revealing sheer stone that elven hands had engraved with birds and animals — and a narrow cleft into the rock, offerings arranged on either side. The shrine was set above a cave.

She pondered the sight for a moment, then went around the rise, climbing the rough steps that were cut into the side and levelled with worn slabs. The faintest likeness of living creatures lingered beneath her feet, worn down by the succession of elves who had preceded her to the shrine. Given that elves tread so softly, Saphienne supposed that over a thousand years had elapsed since the site was consecrated.

Atop the hillock, the triangular canopy was angled so that rainfall striking it would concentrate and pour over the drop, falling across the entrance to the cave before running outward to nourish the woodland. The earth before the shelter was flattened, levelled by a millennium of supplicants, the wild grass kept short by regular scything. Yet these observations would come to her later, for raised beneath the canopy was the icon of the god — a statue taller and more vital than the elves who had fashioned it.

Saphienne bowed when she approached the idol – moved by memory rather than reverence – and then flushed as she straightened. She felt unsure of herself, caught between finding the impulse embarrassing and feeling strangely affirmed to have remembered. The crouching god who stared down at her had the semblance of an elf with exaggerated, sharp features, his expression fiercely attentive where she met his gaze. His statue was painted realistically, his hair a wild wreath of autumnal red, his lips parted to show pearly teeth that glittered with hungry anticipation… but the rings of his eyes were set with solid gold. As befitted a hunter, his idol had been dressed in opulent layers of real furs and leather, decorated with flight feathers, a tanned headband attaching massive horns to his brow. One hand loosely held an implement that reminded Saphienne of a spear, yet the head was bladed, curved and sharpened on its inner edge.

“You’re not who I was expecting.”

Saphienne gasped, momentarily believing that the god had spoken. Then reason prevailed, and she spun around to see the priest of the shrine had ascended the steps behind her and was stood holding an ornate box.

The woman smiled, her face thickly painted with sun gold and woodland green in a pattern that – to Saphienne’s searching eyes – was reminiscent of the camouflage worn by the Wardens of the Wilds, yet more angular and artistic, ceremonial. “Two motes of midnight will precede an ambiguous twilight, come at last to seek instruction in the ancient ways.” She laughed lightly, her voice unusually husky. “…I thought it would be Iolas. Welcome to the shrine of Our Lord of the Endless Hunt, Saphienne.”

Saphienne blinked. “You know me?”

Dressed in woollen robes and wearing horns, the priest resembled her patron god: tall and muscular, moving with ease and intent as she approached. “Daughter of Lynnariel, apprentice to the wizard Almon, best understood as the protégé of Filaurel.” Her tone softened as she drew near. “We’ve actually met before, several times, but I’d be surprised if you can remember me. You were shorter when I last saw you, and I look very different when I’m not dressed to attend to the shrine.”

Feeling awkward, Saphienne tried for a formal bow. “Then, you’ll have to excuse me, but I don’t remember your–”

“You were never introduced to me.” The woman shook her head, her expression sympathetic. “Gods witness me… I’ve become just as annoying as my elders. Sorry: I didn’t mean to put you at a disadvantage.” Swaying around Saphienne, the priest knelt down to lay the box before the idol, then sank lower, pressing her horns to the ground before she stood and bowed to her guest. “I’m Nelathiel. My daily divinations warned me you were coming.”

Recovering, Saphienne nodded. “‘Two motes of midnight,’ being Taerelle and Rydel? So you guessed Iolas would be the one to follow…”

“And guessed wrong.” She grinned. “But I’m happy to be wrong. The fun of minor prophecy is figuring out the joke a little too late to be prepared for the punchline. Of the three new apprentices, you’re the one I least expected to stop by.”

“Iolas would make more sense,” Saphienne admitted. “He used to be more religious than either me or Celaena. I’m guessing that’s how you know him?”

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“Yes.” Absently, Nelathiel pulled on her fingers as she talked, cracking her knuckles. “His family are reasonably devout. He used to come to the shrine a few times each year, and always sat close to Our Lord during the liturgies. I wondered whether he might end being a priest, but then his father had that nasty fall…” She shook her head. “…Clearly, the gods think he’s better becoming a wizard. Perhaps he’ll return to his faith in later life. Would you like to sit down?”

A little intimidated, Saphienne nodded, and joined Nelathiel on the grass. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap, while the priest sat more casually, one leg straight out, the other drawn up toward her chest. Saphienne realised she was barefoot.

“This is a guess,” Nelathiel began, “but I’m presuming you had your first lesson in Invocation, and it’s left you with several questions that you’re looking to answer.”

“A good guess.” She hadn’t considered how much to admit; deciding on a curated version of the truth, she leant forward to reply. “We had that lesson a few days ago. Since then, I’ve had opportunity to talk at length with a spirit of the woodlands, and I asked questions she said she couldn’t answer. I was told–”

“To speak to your mother,” Nelathiel supposed, “or to your master, or to a priest. You were asking about the ancient ways.”

“I was.”

“One question: why come here? Why seek counsel from Our Lord of the Endless Hunt, and not another in the pantheon?” Her mottled blue eyes were inquisitive, though they glimmered with friendliness. “I’m very happy that you did, but you never struck me as one for the wilds.”

Saphienne could have contrived a deeper answer, but she saw no reason to deceive her. “I happened to hear about this shrine recently, and today I was in the area, with time away from lessons.”

“Will of the gods, then.” She was matter-of-fact in her convictions. “Well, I’ll happily answer any questions I can… but I’m not the priest you should be speaking to, if you want all the answers.”

Saphienne tried not to sigh, and failed. “…Why not?”

“Every child has a priest who assumes responsibility for their spiritual welfare,” Nelathiel explained, “usually chosen by the child’s guardian. It’s mostly a ceremonial role, but it does come with the shared responsibility of deciding when and how certain parts of the ancient ways are to be revealed.” She shrugged. “We mostly handle organising the three main rites of passage, but we can step in if a guardian or master isn’t upholding their responsibilities. The children in my care barely know me, so I don’t imagine you’ve met your priest?”

She shook her head.

“That’s a shame — he’s lovely,” Nelathiel answered, warmth in her voice. “Your priest is the same as your mother’s, a man by the name of–”

“Tolduin.” Saphienne clicked her tongue. “I have met him. I came home early a few months ago, and he was visiting the house. I thought he was…” She trailed off into silence, perplexed to discover that she didn’t know what she thought.

“He is a healer,” she conceded, “and your mother does have her struggles, but I understand Lynnariel is doing much better than she used to. He was probably just checking in on her while he was in the area — he travels around.”

Cold anger flared in Saphienne’s chest, and she had to fight to hold it in. “…You know a lot about people.”

“Well, yes?” Nelathiel chuckled. “A good priest is in the habit of getting into everyone’s business. We have to know what’s going on, if we’re to be any use to anyone.” Sensing a change in Saphienne, she inclined her head. “But, we’re not in the habit of sharing personal matters lightly. Tolduin has never told me specifics about your mother, and I would never speak about her in that way to anyone who wasn’t a close relative.”

That wasn’t what… Saphienne took a deep breath. “Thank you. But I didn’t come here to talk about my mother.”

“No,” the priest agreed, shifting so that she mirrored Saphienne’s posture. “You came with important questions. As far as I’m able to answer, I’ll tell you what I can.” Fluidly, the priest assumed a gravitas she had so far disdained. “What concerns you, Saphienne? Speak, that Our Lord may hear you.”

* * *

Before she began her questions, Saphienne turned to contemplate the idol, and she held the unflinching gaze of the god as she chose where to begin, continuing to stare up at him as she voiced the first. “What are the ancient ways?”

“The ancient ways are the foundation of the woodlands,” the priest answered, “on which elves and spirits have flourished together for over eight thousand years. They are the covenant between elf and spirit before our shared gods, and prescribe our responsibilities to and for each other. They are the firmament of all that is good and just.”

That much, Saphienne had already determined. She faced Nelathiel. “Why are the ancient ways kept secret until we are eighteen?”

“They are not a secret.” She gestured to the icon looming over them. “Behold Our Lord of the Endless Hunt: His presence is clear to see. Yet His nature is a mystery, and He must be approached in the proper way if we are to understand Him.”

Saphienne frowned. “So it’s reserved for the worthy.”

“Not the worthy,” Nelathiel corrected her, “but the able. You must be capable of fully contemplating the ancient ways before they can be revealed to you. How much of their truth you may understand depends on your capacity, which grows with maturity.”

“What would be the harm in trying early?”

Rather than explain, the priest tilted back her horned head, and stared down Saphienne through lidded eyes. “You tell me. If you are competent to understand earlier than most, you should be able to answer that question for yourself.”

Saphienne didn’t know the answer consciously, but she felt the explanation taking flight inside her, disparate insights flocking together. She closed her eyes. “…At first we were made to fear the spirit, but the spirit was friendly toward us. The immediate fear of possession was used to impress upon us the greater fear of approaching magic incautiously. Yet the spirit told me that she experienced the same fear from the other direction, having once been bound by a wizard. Both rites were the first step on the journey to the real lesson: to fear approaching magic without wisdom.”

“But what is wisdom, Saphienne?”

She smirked. “The key to living a good life. But the rites imply that wisdom is acting in accordance with the ancient ways. I know that we are asked to uphold them, just as they have upheld us.”

“Then,” the priest pressed, “what is the danger?”

She opened her eyes. “That we will not uphold them… that we will not be capable of upholding them. That we will become lost in the immediate fear, and that it will mislead us, and we will not comprehend the greater fear.”

Nelathiel was grinning broadly as she listened.

“The ancient ways require trust,” Saphienne continued. “The real lesson is that magic is dangerous, and so are spirits, and we should be afraid of them, but wise practices allows us to overcome our fear to understand and live with both. Without wisdom, fear creates distrust, and distrust creates more fear. Fear and distrust will destroy everything spirits and elves have built together.”

“And so?”

“We must understand the consequences should the ancient ways not be upheld; we must take responsibility for upholding them; and we must trust that they are necessary — even if we cannot understand why.” She threaded her fingers together. “If we do not have the maturity to do these things, we are not yet ready to learn the ancient ways. The danger is that, if we are not prepared, the ancient ways will not take root in us… with consequences for everyone.”

Satisfied, the priest rose. “You understand what is required, and you perceive the danger. I can see why your master decided you were ready to begin your studies.”

“Then,” Saphienne shifted onto her knees, “can you tell me the rest?”

“No.” Nelathiel moved to the box she had set down, opening it. “I am not empowered to judge you ready. And even if I were…” She glanced back to Saphienne. “…I’m not convinced you’re capable of understanding their necessity, nor of the faith required to uphold them in the absence of that understanding.”

Frustration made her sit back down. “Why not?”

“Because you’re too keen to know them,” the priest answered. “You’ve been told that almost everyone needs to be eighteen to be ready, and your response is to question that judgement, and seek to know early. Had you demonstrated that comprehension without being in a rush…”

Saphienne wanted to challenge the assumption; she bit her tongue. “…I know what you’re going to tell me. Even if I am ready, the risk is that I’m not, and that risk far outweighs the benefit I would gain from learning ahead of everyone else.”

Nelathiel paused, a teapot in her hands. “The problem, Saphienne, is you’re intelligent enough to understand that, but I’m not convinced you’re able to really believe it. Intelligence without belief – without faith, without trust – is very dangerous. Which is unfortunate,” she sighed, “because intelligence greatly impedes trust.”

“How… I don’t see how intelligence–”

“That’s just it.” Her smile was more sad than condescending. “You know what trust requires, Saphienne? Accepting our limits. We must first accept that we cannot know, before we can choose to trust. The more you are able to understand, the less you must contend with your limited place in the world.”

“But magic breaks limits. It–”

“–Cannot do more than you can contemplate.” She set the teapot on the ground, a cup soon following. “No one person can ever conceive as much as all of us, and so no one person can accomplish as much as all of us together. Our society is built on each of us learning and accepting limits…”

Saphienne folded her arms. “Our own limits, or those imposed on us?”

The priest shut the box. “In that one question, behold the whole of the ancient ways.”

She stared, feeling the wild surmise in her own eyes. “…You’re saying that wisdom is knowing what I’m capable of doing, and so knowing where to impose limits on myself.”

“No.” Nelathiel came back across the grass, and crouched down to study Saphienne. “I’m saying that wisdom lies in not knowing what you’re capable of, and knowing when it’s better not to find out. Do you see, now, why you’re too young?”

She unlinked her hands, clenching them as she dwelled on the mystery. “…Because I want to prove what I can do.”

“Very normal, for your age.” The priest sat, her pose meditative. “And, if it’s any consolation: many wizards remain driven to push beyond their supposed limits, in one way or another. The woodlands will always need people who can do that, so long as their pursuit is tempered by wisdom. You’ll be ready to learn, and to choose, once you’ve grown.”

Now Saphienne understood why Hyacinth had been able to argue that she was too young to be held accountable — and why the spirit’s sisters were furious with her for doing what they suspected had been done, even though they all wanted it to happen. Hyacinth had deliberately discarded the wisdom that underlay the ancient ways, while taking care not to be seen to violate them. And worse still, she had done it in a way where everyone could imagine what had happened, but not prove it, setting a terrible example for–

There, in the presence of the priest and her god, Saphienne came to a crucial realisation:

Hyacinth didn’t believe in the ancient ways.

She hadn’t believed in them, not since she learned what had happened to the sunflower spirit. There was a spirit who believed in the ancient ways, who believed naively – believed wrongly – that they existed only in service of the good. Hyacinth had learned from her example, and was smart enough to see through them and pretend, to play the role of believer while she followed her own judgement about what was right. Whether or not she was good or evil was irrelevant — she was subversive.

And the flower maiden was being watched. Judgement hung over her, suspended by a thread, ready to fall at any moment…

…Depending on who Saphienne grew to become.

“I think,” she said, her voice thick, “I’ve learned enough for today.”

“‘To cease understanding at what should be understood is a high attainment,’” quoted Nelathiel. “‘Those who cannot accomplish it will be broken upon the lathe of heaven.’ Tolduin once told me those words are written in a place of honour within the Luminary Vale…” She gazed up at the sky. “…I think, if you are ready to learn them, he will be a fair judge of your character.”

Bowing, Saphienne stood.

Yet the priest was bemused. “Now, why are you leaving? Surely you had other questions to ask.”

“They were all about the ancient ways,” she admitted.

“Then ask them, Saphienne.” Her lips curled, her hunger reminiscent of her god. “Just because I cannot explain the ancient ways to you in full, it doesn’t mean that you’re unprepared to learn anything about them. Don’t you want to learn how they came to be?”

No child can resist the allure of their own curiosity. Saphienne knew that, by then, but even though she understood, she was still unable to step away. “…I do. I want to learn everything that I’m allowed to.”

“Then I will teach you about our gods, our customs, and the origins of the ancient ways,” Nelathiel resolved. “I know your education in these matters has likely been scarce. That your mother is a recluse has left you reclusive by habit, but you are not your mother, and have the opportunity to experience more, if you desire it.”

With a feeling of growing foreboding, Saphienne sank back down. “Where do we begin?”

The priest smiled once more, her features made sharp by her face paint. “At the heart of everything. I cannot teach you alone. I must first call upon a spirit, that you may receive their blessing.”

End of Chapter 44