Lord of silver ashes row.., p.21
Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood Book 2), page 21
He always came when Saffron needed him.
Closing his eyes, Saffron pulled his hand back into his chest and let out a shuddering breath. He wondered if Asche and Taran had made it back to the house, yet. He wondered if Hollow had been allowed to go home. He wondered if Sunbeam and the beannighe were somewhere warm and dry. He wondered if Cylvan, or anyone else—would even notice he was gone, like Kaelar once said.
His three pixie companions found him in the darkness, right on the edge of the mist that otherwise banned them. Saffron appreciated their colorful lights. They scuttled around in the mud, waving their hands out to demand his attention, or perhaps in an effort to keep him awake, until Dewdrop zipped off into the sky. The remaining two put on a show with leaves for hats and twigs for swords, squeaking and squealing whenever Saffron’s eyes slowly closed, as if insulted he would even think of going to sleep during their performance. A part of him wished they would flitter off like the first one did, wished he could just close his eyes and sleep and wait for the sun to rise.
Thump, thump, thump. The sound of feet hitting the road came over the rain, and Saffron cracked open his blurry eyes to search for Taran’s horse. He was surprised Taran had come back at all, but sank back into the mud when he realized he may have only imagined it. Taran wasn’t coming back. Taran had no reason to come back. Saffron was nothing, Saffron was only a disposable beantighe—
Feet rushed to meet him, and Saffron forced himself to look. It was too dark, the rain was too heavy to see anything clearly, but he made out the silhouette of something racing toward him. Coming within reach, it dropped to its knees, wrapping arms around Saffron’s shoulders and immediately pulling him into the warmth of their cloak.
Oh.
“Cylvan,” Saffron mumbled without thinking, smiling weakly. Cylvan stiffened. A frantic hand combed wet hair from Saffron’s face, out of his eyes.
“Saffron,” Cylvan responded. “What happened, Saffron? Are you hurt?”
Saffron grimaced, motioning feebly to his twisted leg. Cylvan’s hand traveled down to touch it, jerking back again when Saffron cried out. Apologizing, he pulled Saffron closer to the warmth in his cloak, and Saffron let out a long breath of relief. From deeper within the covering, Dewdrop appeared with concerned squeaks and hands that pinched at Saffron’s eyelashes, and Saffron mouthed a silent thank you.
“I’m going to take you home,” Cylvan promised, before cursing under his breath. “For some reason I can’t use my magic here, so we’ll have to walk a little bit. But I’ll carry you. It’s going to hurt, but you just have to bear with me, alright?”
Saffron lingered within the comforting cloud too long, only returning to the surface when Cylvan patted his face. As if the moment he draped within Cylvan’s arms, his defenses fell entirely, and he knew it would be safe to sleep. Saffron managed to nod despite the heaviness dragging down his eyes, and Cylvan whispered something before sliding an arm under Saffron’s back, then his legs.
The instant Saffron’s leg hung off the broken bone, his hand clawed at Cylvan’s chest and a scream tore out of him. Cylvan apologized profusely, only pausing for a moment before moving again. It summoned another shriek of agony, but Saffron tried to bite it back, gripping anything he could knot his hands around.
Clinging to Cylvan’s whispered comforts and encouragements, Saffron disappeared into the prince’s body with his eyes squeezed closed and his breath held against the excruciating fire in his leg—and the only thing to pull him back again was the smell of wet fur. Rot. Blood.
Cylvan’s movements stopped. Saffron strained to open his eyes, squinting through the downpour to find a black wolf heaving with breath and blocking their path. Beneath him, Cylvan’s arms locked, and then trembled.
“That’s…” he breathed, heart pounding next to Saffron’s ear. “The… the wolf. It’s… it’s real…”
Taran must have come back for Saffron in that form for a reason. Perhaps to make good time, perhaps to carry him more easily—or perhaps to finally show Saffron the same fate as Arrow, Cloth, Berry, like he intended from the beginning. But his own arrogance ended in the very last thing he wanted, which was Cylvan finally laying eyes on him. Proof that he existed at all, not just a lie made up to drive him mad.
It told Saffron one more thing, too—that they’d left the reach of the iron fence and the barrier that sucked opulence from the air. He opened his mouth, attempting to say something—and the squeezing of his collar was proof. The beginning of a thought formed, before dwindling.
Saffron just tugged on Cylvan’s cloak. It took two more attempts before Cylvan finally broke his locked gaze with the beast to glance down at Saffron. Saffron raised his hand—and pointed to the sky.
Cylvan knew what that meant. His jaw clenched, and he glanced back at the wolf for another moment, before stepping back and taking off into the clouds. Holding Saffron against his chest, they left the beast on the road, and Saffron’s dwindling thought sparked to life again with the chill of the sky.
That book in the chapel said Proserpina’s Silver was sometimes used to remedy ashen states.
Perhaps everyone believed Taran and his family to be ashen—because they actually were. Perhaps they merely utilized their own silver to fake it.
Which meant there was a reason Taran couldn’t enter the ruins. Perhaps why he realized even the mist wasn’t safe. Because it denied the opulence in Proserpina’s Silver, too.
Saffron erupted into laughter. Cylvan whispered his name in concern, but Saffron couldn’t help it. He just laughed and laughed and laughed, until the collar tightened and he could no longer breathe, until the world went quiet and he sank into the pain setting his body alight.
26
THE THISTLE
The wolf was no longer just a beantighe myth. It was no longer only something students gossiped about while eating lunch, declaring they saw it stalking the woods outside the fete, creeping through the darkness at the whims of a rowan spirit.
Prince Cylvan had finally seen it for himself, in flesh and blood, and he clung to Saffron differently in every moment after.
Magnin used potions and poultices and other fey magic Saffron couldn’t comprehend in an attempt to heal the broken bones, and Saffron’s head was in Cylvan’s lap the entire time. In his bed in the attic, Cylvan sat cross-legged at the head of it, caressing Saffron’s face, brushing fingers through his hair, whispering dreamy little prompts between Saffron’s miserable gasps and sobs. With every touch, pain jolted up the entire length of his spine, into his neck, his teeth, until he clenched his jaw so hard he felt something pop. It was only Cylvan’s thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, then pressing between Saffron’s teeth that finally forced him to relax before anything actually cracked in half. Cylvan’s finger settled inside his mouth to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.
Eventually, the burning heat and agony under Saffron’s skin, in his bones, boiled his thoughts enough that he slumped into groping unconsciousness, and Cylvan could only whisper Saffron’s name in an attempt to summon him back. But Saffron didn’t have anything left, and allowed himself to be taken.
* * *
Despite the ease of sunsingers through the window, Saffron woke with a gasping jolt, eyes wide as he stared at the ceiling overhead. It took a moment for his memories to return—though some definitely had to be remnants of a dreams mixing with reality.
Groaning, he pressed a hand against his forehead as it pounded. His entire fucking being down to his stitched-up soul throbbed and ached—but nothing emanated with a white-hot pain like the bones in his left leg. Straining to look, he was reminded why upon lifting the blanket and spotting black bandages wrapped tightly from his hip all the way to his ankle, pulled tight enough that he could barely flex his foot, only a small gap over the knee to provide the slightest amount of bend.
“Oh, good.” A voice came, making Saffron jump. He spotted Eias sitting at the writing desk with a blown-out candle and piles of books, scribbling something on parchment for a homework assignment. In front of them, a small ceramic tea set steaming from the pot. They wore casual clothes, looking exhausted with legs crossed. “I was wondering if you’d ever wake up.”
Saffron instinctively opened his mouth to ask where everyone was, but the choker gave warning like it always did. He’d gotten so used to speaking freely in the mist that for his instinct to be an out-loud response was almost embarrassing. He clamped it shut again, forcing himself to sit up with a gasp and a grunt. Eias just watched, brushing their nose with the end of the quill until Saffron was done moving around.
“Your bones are technically in one piece again, but brittle like old bread,” they explained, finally closing their book. “Magnin wants you to use a crutch while you continue healing, and you have to keep most of your weight off it for the next few days.”
What about Cylvan? Taran? Asche? Saffron had to fight the urge to mouth the names or demand a pen and paper to write it down. Instead, he just grimaced, risking a light touch against the bandage over his thigh. It hurt just as badly as he remembered in the beginning, but more contained. It didn’t resonate through his whole body, locked in his upper leg by the magic and the bandages. Saffron almost wanted to ask how Magnin finally figured out what to do, recalling the way he attempted at least a thousand different tonics and other methods, but bit back that urge, too.
“Oh, here,” Eias went on. They poured something into a ceramic cup from the teapot in front of them, and Saffron hesitantly extended his hands to accept it.
“This will help with the pain. Erm—the prince also said you’ve been having nightmares lately, so drink it all the way. It should help you feel better.”
Saffron narrowed his eyes. Hooking a finger through the loop, he stopped short before sipping at it. It smelled of roses and ivy, the surface shiny with flavor oils. But at the very bottom, he spotted the head of something that made his stomach flip in surprise.
Perhaps Eias never expected him to recognize it—but any beantighe would know weaverthistle. A spiney plant that bloomed crimson in the heat of summer, then again in the dead of winter. It was a common brew in Beantighe Village, because it helped to dull painful memories. Turning them into blurry, muddy shapes and colors, reducing them to visions seen through murky ponds. Saffron knew exactly how it would taste, exactly how it would feel in his mind, having had plenty of memories he wished to blur away during his time working at Morrígan.
It wasn’t even the sight of it that made him so uneasy—by that point, he’d built up such a tolerance that one single cup would do nothing except file down the sharpest edges of the events the night before. No, it was the fact Eias had any of the crimson thistle at all. Not only had it, but apparently knew how to use it. Saffron always thought it was an old beantighe folk remedy, not unlike Baba’s teacup circles in a way. A magical, medicinal plant that was almost impossible to find, and dangerous to keep around as discovery by Elluin or anyone else would result in consequences. For Eias to so blatantly offer it…
The prince said you’ve been having nightmares lately…
Saffron smirked. More likely, Taran asked Eias to brew it in an attempt to wipe Saffron’s memory of the night before, period.
Saffron sipped as if none of those thoughts existed. Eias didn’t say anything else, only nodded slightly when Saffron met their eyes and offered a timid, naïve-beantighe smile.
“The rest of us are going to Connacht for a few days, so you’ll be left to rest and recover. Magnin will want to see you before we go, though, so get dressed and meet us downstairs in an hour. I’ll go let him know you’re up. Ah, your crutch is there, against the wall. Practice with it a little, first.”
Connacht.
Eias left without another word, not knowing the frenzy they’d planted in Saffron’s mind. Hadn’t Cylvan said something about finding books in Connacht, when he came to Saffron’s room drunk? While scouring Baba Yaga’s grimoire, he certainly said something about finding useful texts there…
Gazing down at the tea in silence, Saffron frowned. He buried two fingers into the hot drink, fishing the thistle out and smashing it beneath his foot. Pixies immediately swooped down to investigate the vivid red thing like a ruby on the floor, before dancing around it like a fallen enemy and stealing the longest barbs to throw at one another.
Saffron had to join them in Connacht. He had to find the books he needed. Books about not just aridity, like Cylvan thought—but about arid trials. Proserpina’s Night Court and her treatment of arid witches. Books about being rowan blooded, arid magic and true names, opulent silver…
Memory threads.
Once the barbs were stripped, the pixies doled out the wet crimson petals bundled inside. Wrapping them into scarves, into head bows, into ribbons to decorate their wings. Saffron just thought about how their color perfectly resembled the red threads in the trees. The red threads he’d found under Taran’s bed, currently stored in the floorboards of the neighboring attic room with his other contraband.
He vaguely recalled spells in Baba Yaga’s grimoire about memory threads. About witnessing them, preserving them. When he first flipped through the pages, he didn’t understand what they meant, not knowing memory threads were actually tangible strings—but since speaking with the beannighe, he had a better idea.
Glad to find he’d been washed clean of the previous night’s sweat and blood while unconscious, Saffron wriggled his way into pants and his black blouse, mouthing curses the entire time his leg complained and ached. Grabbing the crutch last, he double-checked his sketchbook, grimoire, and arid notes were still stashed the neighboring room’s floorboards alongside what he then understood to be memory threads. Just in case anyone came snooping around while he was gone.
Slipping from his room, Saffron hurried down the corridor and through the wainscoting. Emerging again in the second floor hallway, he brushed himself off, made himself presentable, and adjusted his opal patron ring to ensure it was fully visible. Then—he knocked on Kaelar’s door, and made sure to look as disappointed and pathetic as humanly possible that he hadn’t been invited on the trip with everyone else. Kaelar took the bait in an instant.
27
THE TRAIN
In addition to his excitement to bring Saffron along and show him off, Kaelar was a little too eager to introduce a new piece of cruelty once Saffron joined him in the front vestibule. A long, delicate chain, one end dangling heavy with a silver sun motif like thorns around a coin, the other hanging with a crescent-moon piece of silver half the size of his palm.
“It’s called a veil weight,” Kaelar told him, clipping the heavy sun-shaped medallion under his veil, then threading the chain over the center of Saffron’s head to nudge the half-moon into his mouth. Saffron recognized the sun shape on the opposite end right away, recalling the tapestry that hung in Proserpina’s chapel in the ruins. “‘Supposed to keep you from speaking, which isn’t really a concern in our case, but—I just wanted to try it out. It’s an heirloom of your new patron-family.”
Of course it is, Saffron complained internally, a flush of whatever dignity he had remaining escaping as he clamped teeth down on the silver half-token. The remaining weight of the chained sun dangled over the crown of his head, peeking out from the back bottom edge of the chiffon for all to see. He understood the device’s additional cruelty as soon as the weight pulled on his jaw, making it ache within moments—but if he allowed the half-moon piece to slip, the heavy sun opposite would rip his veil off. He suddenly didn’t want to know what the secondary branching chain was for, assuming some sort of third contraption was meant to be included if the wearer allowed their veil to fall.
Danann House’s other residents arrived in the front corridor one by one as the sun rose, and they each demonstrated only the briefest surprise at Saffron joining them. Maybe once they spotted Kaelar fawning over his beantighe-pet, they unanimously realized it was inevitable.
Eias’ thick, dark waves were pulled back into a short, braided ponytail over their ears. Magnin knelt and adjusted the embroidered hem of Eias’ skirt as it wrinkled, his own long, silvery-white hair draping over one shoulder, pinned out of his eyes with clips that matched the simple mauve tunic hanging off his frame. Something about the way he complimented Eias’ skirt while adjusting it made Eias blush a little bit, though they expertly kept the expression otherwise off their face.
Kaelar wore a suede vertical-slit vest over a white linen shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows to show off gauntlets that matched the leather loop of his belt and made him look like more of a jackass than normal. Taran arrived in the front corridor, next, surprising Saffron when he approached and asked how he was feeling, if he was in a lot of pain, if he needed anything. All empty offers of compassion, so Saffron just silently shook his head, unsure whether to be apprehensive or embarrassed when Taran then proceeded to adjust the bottom edge of his veil, not unlike Magnin did with Eias’ skirt. But then Kaelar implied Saffron would be joining them in Connacht, and Taran stiffened, before eyeing Saffron intensely. Saffron just smiled.
Perhaps also understanding the inevitability, and perhaps not wanting to make a scene, Taran leaned in close to simply whisper: “Behave yourself.”
Saffron met his eyes with a flat expression. He didn’t know whether to play innocent or something else, but Taran wouldn’t have cared either way. Not when Cylvan and Asche came descending down the stairs, and Taran’s attention pulled away in an instant.
Saffron disappeared into the effortless grace of Cylvan’s silhouette, forgetting about every other person in an instant. He wore a single-shoulder cape decorated with golden embroidery, a fitted black doublet with a high collar underneath, and high-waisted pants shaping his waist and thighs. On his hip, a clearly-decorative, gold-pommeled sword dangled from a loop on his belt, poking out from the back of his cape as he rested a gloved hand on the grip. His long hair draped loose over his shoulders and down his back in the way Saffron liked best, though something about it was more regal than Saffron had seen him in some time. It made Saffron’s heart race faster than a hummingbird flapped its wings, only intensifying when Cylvan turned his way and smiled in greeting.
