In the lesser warmth of that sunroom within the greater warmth of that loving home, Saphienne experienced a revelation as she beheld the ancient poem held by Iolas’ father, all her surroundings falling away as she read and reread the concluding verses.

Every morn and every night

Some are born to sweet delight;

Some are born to sweet delight,

Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie

When we see not through the eye

Which was born in a night to perish in a night

While the elves slept in trees of light.

Gods appear and gods are light

To those poor elves who dwell in night

But do a human form display

To those who dwell in realms of day.

“You’re upset,” Athidyn said, feeling guilty as he shut the book. “I shouldn’t have started with this. The metaphors aren’t readily apparent to elves who haven’t studied the doctrine of Our Lady.”

With the weight of ages upon her eyelids, Saphienne slowly blinked. “I’m not upset.”

“Your eyes are watering.”

He was right, she realised; Saphienne wiped their corners. “I’m moved by the artistry.” She lied convincingly — for she spoke the truth. “That might be the most beautiful poem I’ve ever read.”

Her words made him frown, though not in disapproval. “Many people with religious faith are offended by the imagery. Even most priests who know about the poems are very disparaging of them…” He chuckled as he made sense of her to himself. “Actually, Nelathiel is one of the few I know who’s read them and likes them. I see why the two of you got on.”

Aware that she was in danger of revealing too much, Saphienne sat back and swallowed. “Would you mind explaining the differing interpretations of the poem according to Her doctrine?” She used what she knew of the ancient ways to avoid controversy. “I think it’s about kindness… but that seems too reductive.”

“You’re more astute than you think.” Athidyn studied the cover of the collection thoughtfully. “Most people get hung up on the penultimate line, and don’t understand what it’s trying to say to us. Consider that the poet began by emphasising the immanence of the divine — do you know what that means?”

She nodded. “Immanence is the state of existing inherently or exclusively within something, and Nelathiel explained that divine

immanence is the concept that the gods are one with the world, both bodiless and embodied, while also remaining boundless.”

“Well, that’s what the opening lines are all about. Which means,” he pressed on, “the closing verses have to be understood through that framing, and interpreted in line with the intervening verses about how mistreatment of nature angers the gods.”

To Saphienne, the significance of the poem was glaringly obvious — and utterly contrary to what she knew about the ancient ways. “If the gods are immanent in the world, then we should look for them everywhere… even in the fleeting lives of humans.”

Athidyn was pleased by what he thought she meant. “And so the poem is saying that how we behave toward the little things in our lives, things which don’t appear to matter very much, reflects on the bigger things that obviously do. So too, some read a warning from Our Lady of the Balanced Scales: if we take it all for granted, the punishment decreed for us by the gods can come from anywhere.”

Her stomach clenched, and Saphienne had to swallow her rage as she forced herself to play along. “…Then, we’re to value everything as preciously as a human would, seeing the splendours given to us by the gods with the ‘fleeting eye’ they possess? To see the ‘eternity’ in an hour?”

“Or face Her wrath.” He shook his head as he set down the book. “At least, that’s how it’s been read by those of Her faithful who think She balances the scales.”

That he was completely blind to the meaning made her both furious and incomparably sad, and somewhere in between she found herself pitying Athidyn, who she could see was trying to live his life by the light of fairness, unaware of the colossal injustice that enshadowed everything he knew. “How do you read it?”

“Well,” he mused, folding his arms as he squinted at the glass above him, “the simple answer would be to say that the poetry isn’t really Her words — that it’s an artistic interpretation of Her doctrine, inspired but not authored by the passions of Our Lady.” He met Saphienne’s gaze as he shook his head. “…But I don’t really believe that. I think that’s too convenient. There’s something of the divine in these poems. While I agree with the interpretation of not taking things for granted, I think the best way to read that poem in particular is as a mystery.”

Saphienne stopped her smile from growing too feral. “A religious mystery.”

“Yes.” He was unaware of her contempt. “I think the point is that it’s meant to make people very uncomfortable, so that it forces them to ask themselves why they’re uncomfortable, and thereby leads them to interrogate what they actually value. The poem sits on one side of Her scales — and how we respond to it, what it stirs in us, speaks to how we might balance them.”

“And what do you value, Athidyn?”

Her question caught him off guard; he smiled as he answered. “Conversations like this one… I remember Nelathiel sitting where you’re sitting right now, having many of the same thoughts that you’re having. I was sure, then, that she’d become a priest…” He laughed. “…I just never thought she’d choose Our Lord of the Endless Hunt!”

Knowing that Athidyn was nearly four hundred years old made Saphienne reassess how she understood Nelathiel, which was a welcome distraction from her seething. “…I don’t actually know Nelathiel’s age.”

“She’s a young adult — a little over a century old.” He faintly blushed. “Last time we spoke, I accidentally talked to her like she’s still a child… she had the good grace just to laugh it off.”

That Nelathiel and Athidyn – and all the other adults she knew, even the elder who had visited her mother – looked the same age physically made it very hard for Saphienne to contemplate them as being born so far part… let alone to imagine how they saw each other. “How did you meet her?”

“She apprenticed to Mathileyn for a while, to learn sewing and embroidery.”

Which she later used to make the puppets that had entertained and unsettled Saphienne. “…I find it difficult to picture her as a child.”

“While I still find it too easy,” he grinned. “But then, Tanelia took fifty years to stop calling me a boy, so I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.”

“The baker?” Saphienne remembered Laewyn’s master, who had been friendly enough to point her toward the home she now sat in.

“She’s a master baker–” Athidyn abruptly coughed, trying and failing to hide his snort. He flushed more deeply than before as he looked away. “…‘Tanelia has attained mastery over her chosen art of baking,’ would be the better way to say that now. I suppose my being juvenile is appropriate: I’m less than half her age.”

Which meant she was around eight hundred years old. Had she been practising the same art for all of that time? She had said that there was always a need for baking… “Who’s the oldest person in our village?”

“No clue.” He shrugged. “The Eastern Vale is still a very young community, but we do have a handful of elders floating around. As best I understand, none of them care much for status, and they aren’t inclined to use their authority very often.” He smirked. “I think they have a rota for attending meetings. Whichever two show up on a given night, they always look terribly bored.”

The elder who had emerged from her family home – Tolduin – had told her and Faylar not to refer to him by any of his titles; he’d been more interested in talking with them than being impressive. “I’ve met Tolduin.”

“He’s a very good man.” Athidyn lifted his tea and sipped. “Everyone respects him, so he’s included in our consensus, but he doesn’t actually live here — he just visits whenever he has an excuse to come out. He told me he feels very self-conscious whenever he’s here, especially when he’s talking to children.”

In retrospect, the elder’s reaction to seeing Saphienne and Faylar waiting for him outside came sharply into focus, and the coals of her anger were doused by the peals of laughter that spilled from her lips. “Gods! He was panicking–”

“Tolduin? Panicked?” The mere suggestion made Athidyn incredulous. “He’s the most unflappable person I know.”

“Of course he is…” Saphienne leant forward and buried her face in her hands. “…And he smiles whenever he’s caught off guard, doesn’t he?”

“I can’t say I’ve noticed…” Athidyn was contemplative. “Though, he does smile a lot whenever he has to talk to children, so you might well be right. If you found him a little overbearing, that’s just how he is whenever he’s worried — he’s always trying to fix things.”

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

His pointed conversation with Faylar made sense now, too. She lifted her head. “You sound like you know him well.”

“We talked a lot, when I was thinking about becoming a priest.” His eyes drifted to the poems on his desk as he recounted their past. “Tolduin advised me that priesthood could always wait, and the more we met, the more I came to understand that living the doctrine of Our Lady was more important to Her than understanding it. His theology is that we best please the gods when we emulate Their immanence, which we do by being in the world, and acting in accordance with Their wisdom.”

Aware that Iolas was in earshot, Saphienne reluctantly set aside her interest in deciphering the mysterious elder, and took the opportunity to return to the real reason for her discussion with Athidyn. “But what is that wisdom?”

The would-have-been priest at last drained his cup and stood. “I couldn’t tell you. Didn’t you say it yourself — that you weren’t sure certainty is wise? Anyone who can give you a definitive answer to that question is patently unwise. It’s too much for any one person.”

From the kitchen, Saphienne heard the unmistakable creak of Iolas suddenly sitting upright in his chair.

Were she truly religious, she would have thanked the gods.

* * *

…Except, for all that Athidyn’s answer was exactly what Iolas needed to hear, it didn’t satisfy her. She brooded on it as Athidyn went into the kitchen to make himself more tea, and when he came back she rose and pointed beyond the sunroom, asking if they might put into practice their talk of immanence — and step outside, better to contemplate the divinities in the garden.

“We most certainly can!” He was cheerful as he slid open one of the doors, and sauntered ahead of her across the grass as the wind stirred his mantle and made the paper wheels and chimes hanging from the tree above them spin and ring.

The garden grew wild on the hilltop, untended at first glance, but as she went after Iolas’ father Saphienne soon saw that the flourishing bushes were veiling a deeper order, dividing well-loved spaces while tying them all together. There was a swing upon a frame, vines tangled across all but the seat, suggesting it hadn’t entertained children in some years, though was still frequently sat upon. There was also a deep pond, in which orange and white fish swam sedately until they noticed the approaching elves and hurried to the surface for food, their disappointment dimly visible amid the rippling green.

And there was a small nook filled with potted flowers, thronging around a rare sight: a rough bench that wobbled as Athidyn took his seat. “One of these years, this is finally going to give way…”

The wood was grey with age, coloured by lichen, and Saphienne sat gingerly beside Athidyn until she was sure it would hold. “Why not repair it?”

“When it breaks, I will.” He was unperturbed. “I made it when I was a child, and I want to know just how poor my work was.”

That it had lasted for hundreds of years exposed to the elements suggested he had done quite well. “You don’t see many outdoor benches around the village.”

“Why make them? When there aren’t too many people, the grass is comfortable enough.” He rubbed the armrest next to him with obvious affection. “I helped make benches for the festival. This one ended up unbalanced — the first I made. Since it wasn’t fit for the solstice, I decided I’d keep it.”

“Where do they store it all? The furniture for the festival, I mean.”

“I’d be guessing.” Nevertheless, he guessed. “Under the crafting hall? The long term storerooms are very large.”

Saphienne had never been inside the crafting hall. Gaeleath had suggested she visit the adjacent gallery, but she hadn’t yet found time to do so. “I suppose they’ll be bringing it all out soon enough…”

“Don’t remind me.” He stretched out his legs, settling back. “I’ve been asked to go over the predictions for requisitions one last time before the next meeting… and I’m putting it off. Speaking of putting off work,” he glanced to her, “how has your essay been going? Thessa mentioned you were having trouble.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not having trouble…”

“How much have you written?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes then alighted on a tangle of plants growing in one of the pots — a red hyacinth among them, appropriately enough. She smiled to herself. “I’ve been distracted…”

“By questions about Our Lady?”

“Not so much of a distraction as you might think.” Shifting forward, she reached out to brush her fingertips admiringly against the red blossoms, prying loose the other stems that had ensnared them. “I can’t really talk about what question we’ve to answer, but there was a reason I called on you today.”

“Two reasons, since you hoped Iolas would listen in.”

Saphienne nearly fell off the bench as she spun to him. Her wide pupils scanned his face in growing amazement. “…You stole a look at his essay.”

Athidyn drank from his overlarge teacup, his expression pleasant and radiating innocence. “…I may have skimmed the first few pages, just to understand what had him tied in knots. Almon hasn’t started you off with an easy subject, has he?”

“Not as easy as your answer for Iolas, no.” She curled one leg up under herself as she faced him, hands gathered in her lap. “What’s your real answer? What is wisdom, to you?”

“In the use of magic? I don’t know.” His face contorted in the same conflicted grimace that she’d seen from Iolas many times. “But, when it comes to life? You’ll think I’m a caricature of myself, but I believe wisdom knowing which are the right questions to ask, and which are best not to ask.”

His answer was bittersweet, in light of what he couldn’t see in the poem. “Nelathiel said something similar. She said wisdom lies in not knowing what we’re capable of, and knowing when it’s better not to find out.”

“Variations on a theme.” He was charmed by what he heard. “But we’re both just circling around the same point — that the purpose of wisdom is avoiding bad outcomes while we try to pursue good ones. Since the questions we choose to ask imply their answers, asking the wrong questions – of each other or about ourselves – just leads to needless misery and heartache.”

She crossed her arms. “You’d say it’s better to be ignorant? To be blind to the truth?”

He was confused. “No? I’m saying we have to weigh what we need to know against the cost of finding answers — for others as well as ourselves. Remember what I told you about moral hazard?”

Now she understood him. “Answering unwise questions risks consequences that we ourselves won’t be the ones to suffer.”

Athidyn hesitated… and then sat forward. “There’s a vulgar idiom that’s not suitable for children who aren’t physically and mentally mature — but you’re not an ordinary child. It goes as follows: ‘Fuck around, and find out.’”

He waited for her amusement to subside before continuing. “While it’s a fun expression, and as reassuring as it may be to imagine Our Lady of the Balanced Scales putting the world to rights, that’s not how it often goes. A more accurate idiom would be ‘Those who fuck around may find out, but not everyone who finds out fucked around.’”

As absurd as the phrase seemed, Saphienne got the point. She observed the layered greys of the cloudy sky as she mulled it over. “All this suggests that wisdom isn’t concerned with right or wrong — only with consequences.”

“That’s more or less true. What is wise depends on what you value.” He tipped out his remaining tea into one of the plant pots. “Which is why the gods ask us what matters to us personally; why we have the consensus of the woodlands to find harmony between all that matters to us; and why we have the ancient ways.”

There, Saphienne recalled what the priest of the Endless Hunt had said, seeing with terrible clarity how honest she had been. “Nelathiel said society is built on each of us learning and accepting limits; when I asked her whether they were our own limits, or the limits imposed on us, she said that was the whole of the ancient ways.”

Now Athidyn lapsed into meaningful silence.

“We’re asked to uphold the ancient ways. We’re asked to make their limits our own. And the danger if we learn them early is that we won’t.” She felt through the implications, sharply aware of the absence of Kylantha… and of what she had learned from the poem she had been shown. “But we must; the ancient ways aren’t open to debate.”

Saphienne stared at Iolas’ father with hard eyes that saw right through the elf, that peered through the leaves behind, and the garden beyond, and the forest that surrounded the garden, reflecting the dark green woodlands that had abided in peace for six thousand years.

“Who matters?” She asked the world. “Who matters, and who doesn’t?”

When no answer came, she closed them. “Everything else just follows. Wisdom weighs all who matter and picks the path forward that minimises the risk of harm to them, while pursuing good for them. Moral hazard is that we stop trying to minimise the risks when we won’t suffer their consequences…”

Athidyn couldn’t comprehend her pain as he elaborated. “More than that. If you’re not forced to care, then once you choose not to care, there’s no reason to ever turn back.” He stood. “The true hazard is to our morals: that by degrees we’ll decide the only people who matter are people of consequence.”

Saphienne brought her gaze back to him. “The ancient ways tell us who matters: they’re a covenant between elves and spirits. Our kindness is for elves and spirits. And that poem…”

“…Challenges us to recognise that our kindness toward each other must not begin and end with what is demanded by the ancient ways, yes.” He had misjudged the conclusion she’d reached. “The gods are in the whole of the world. We must cultivate gratitude to the whole of our lives — the ancient ways don’t prescribe everything about them. We have to see with soft eyes, to see the small things that matter.”

Saphienne said nothing.

Athidyn misread her silence as acceptance. “Sounds to me,” he said, “like you’re ready to write your essay.”

“…I suppose I must be.”

“I wouldn’t worry about whether you really grasp it all. The whole point of being taught is to learn what you don’t yet know,” he reassured her, “and I’m sure Almon will help the three of you figure out the wise use of magic. My guess? I think he just wants to know the position you’re starting from.”

Saphienne was studying the hyacinth again, her face a mask. “Thank you, Athidyn.”

“I’ll leave you to think it over.” He retreated from where she sat on the bench. “Thank you for calling by to see us today, Saphienne: I’m sure Iolas is very grateful that you’re such a good friend.”

The father returned to the warmth of his home, leaving the fatherless in its shadow.

* * *

Do you expect to learn great secrets about the ancient ways, once Saphienne is of age?

There are none.

Saphienne would come to discover that everything in the ancient ways was implied by what she had finally understood, that day, in the garden of love. The remainder she did not yet wholly know proceeded entirely from who mattered to the ancient ways, and what things mattered to them.

Perhaps the details will still surprise you. Time will tell.

For now, see the garden empty, the fish tranquil, the swing gently rocking. See the paper wheels and chimes floating on the wind, tethered by coloured ribbons. See the girl of fourteen as she went back down the hill, her hood up, an arm concealed beneath her outer robes, their grey now more surely an ambiguous twilight.

And see a plant pot near the weathered bench, filled with tangled flowers that would now surely wither, their roots torn and broken around the space where once they had grasped the bulb of a blossom that still did yet flourish — flourished in the playful colour of passion, rage, and freshly spilled blood.

End of Chapter 61