Lord of silver ashes row.., p.22
Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood Book 2), page 22
“How are you feeling, beantighe?” He asked, tone remaining casual. “Lucky I spotted you the other night, hm? Perhaps I should explore these woods more often.”
A weak excuse, but Saffron wasn’t going to argue. Even Taran laughed lightly, as if wishing to change the subject as soon as possible, having no interest in pushing the truth as he didn’t want to accidentally make himself suspicious, either. Something about that was deliciously satisfying.
Saffron nodded, bowing slightly in gratitude. Cylvan nodded in return, while Asche just looked at him like they had a frog trapped in their mouth. Apparently even they knew better than to blurt anything in present company, whether it be Cylvan, Taran, or the others who had no business overhearing whatever they meant to say.
“Is—is your leg all better, now?” The daurae managed to string alternative words together. Saffron smiled awkwardly and nodded, not expecting how Taran placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Magnin did all he could, but we will be getting something more appropriate soon,” he said coolly. “Until then, you’ll have to keep an eye on the beantighe until he’s used to walking on his own, especially since it’ll be crowded with the street festival.”
“The beantighe is joining us in Connacht?” Cylvan asked sharply, and Saffron gave him a look.
“I imagine Kaelar wants to show off his newest possession… but considering what you told me you saw last night, Cylvan, perhaps it isn’t safe to leave him here all by himself, anyway,” Taran answered gracefully.
Still, Cylvan’s defensive posture didn’t change. Saffron wondered when and how Cylvan brought the wolf up to Taran at all, and what exactly the conversation entailed. Including the lies Taran told while Saffron wasn’t there to hear them.
* * *
Clouds swallowed the brief morning sun by the time they prepared to leave, low thunder ringing overhead and swirling the garden greenery with incoming wind. It was only then Saffron realized he’d lost his cloak in the ruins and had nothing else to protect him from the rain, grimacing and stepping away from the circle of conversation.
Limping to the coat closet, he was just beginning to accept having to sit in the rain and freeze to death, surprised when a weight suddenly draped over him. Grabbing it before it slipped to the floor, his fingers recognized the luxurious wool exterior and fur lining, but most of all—the perfume on the inside.
“Are you feeling alright?” Cylvan reiterated, but that time it was offered under his breath with a hundred additional layers of unspoken sentiments. When they met eyes for just a moment, Saffron smiled and nodded, pulling the offered cloak farther over his shoulders. Cylvan nodded, too. He grabbed a different covering for himself, but first, his eyes lingered on Saffron’s mouth as if anticipating a word or two to escape from it—or perhaps he could see the thin chain emerging from between Saffron’s lips. Either way, he said nothing else, returning to the door to leave with the others.
Outside, Saffron was lifted into Kaelar’s saddle, not bothering to fight for a specific placement that time. He just pulled up the hood and snuggled down into the fabric as deep as he could, unable resist smiling to himself in pure bliss.
Crossing Morrígan’s barrier veil, Saffron flexed his stiff leg as it already ached, not looking forward to the two-hour journey all the way to Connacht on Kaelar’s horse. He tried to busy himself with the foggy scenery on either side of them until the others eventually caught up to Kaelar’s lead and passed by. It was easier then to steal glances at Cylvan’s stately silhouette on the back of his horse, and he even occasionally met Saffron’s eyes. Cylvan always smiled when he did, before frowning at Kaelar in turn, and Saffron had to bite back every amused giggle.
Letting his mind wander, the conversations melted into background noise, even Kaelar’s occasional promptings existing as nothing more than blurred sounds. But when the group broke off from the main road against what Saffron knew of the journey, he perked up again in uncertainty. Upon laying eyes on a new structure within the trees, accompanied by a long walkway of stone jutting out from the entryway, he realized perhaps they wouldn’t be traveling by horse, after all.
Iarnród Station. A train station. Saffron had heard of them, giant snakelike carriages that belched steam and could draw a dozen passenger cars at a time. He’d never seen one for himself, never even heard them rumble by, though Luvon once described them as alerting their arrival with the sound of a beansidhe shriek.
The station outside of Morrígan’s protective barrier must have been fairly new, as Saffron had never heard mention of it before arriving on the back of Kaelar’s horse. He nearly passed out from shock as it wailed on the tracks, then wondered if it was shrouded in a similar silencing-spell as Cylvan’s suite. Otherwise, it would certainly screech for everyone on campus to hear.
A crowd of onlookers gathered around the boarding platform, though very few actually stood in line to purchase tickets. Saffron recognized many of them to be students from Morrígan, dressed in their uniforms and gawking even so early in the morning, while a handful of others tilted straw hats while leaning against their carts as if just passing through and pausing to witness the most recent invention. Saffron wondered why they would ever choose to continue by horsecart or by foot with such a powerful alternative—until he approached the ticketing gate on Kaelar’s heels, and saw the cost of boarding for himself. 200 gold chaplets, the same amount sent to Luvon for a month of Saffron’s work. Just for a trip to Connacht?
With tickets purchased, the travel party grouped together on the platform until it was their time to board, and Saffron’s leg quickly ached beneath his weight. Shifting back and forth on his feet, when he noticed Cylvan watching, he tried to force himself to relax again—but then the prince sidled over as casually as he could, claiming a place next to Saffron close enough that Saffron could lean against him and take some of the weight off. He audibly sighed at the relief, making Cylvan chuckle.
Eventually motioned to enter the individual cars at the end of the line, Eias, Magnin, and Asche boarded into one, while Taran and Kaelar stepped through the neighboring door. Saffron was left waiting as Kaelar took his goddamned sweet time, rocking more and more on his heels as the pain in his leg was beginning to split his spine in two—only to be swept into the wrong door by a clawed hand, tucked into a seat next to Asche before he even knew what was happening. Cylvan then clicked the sliding door shut, ignoring when Kaelar was suddenly there knocking on the window and complaining. Eventually, he had no choice but to give in and find his seat elsewhere, though Saffron wished his ego would have left him stranded on the platform.
The passenger car was lush with velvet seating, adorned with romantic tapestries of fey frolicking in meadows on the walls, a complimentary tray of wine and cheese and other desserts rattling in the corner with every movement. Saffron self-consciously pulled his crutch in close, making himself small in the corner of his seat as Cylvan nudged Asche out of the way and claimed the cushion between them. Clearly not meant to comfortably fit three bodies, it meant the line of Cylvan’s hip down to his knee sat flushed with Saffron’s, and Saffron was once again grateful for his veil to hide the blood in his cheeks.
Once the train lurched forward, though, all embarrassment raced out of him. It was replaced by pure elation as the platform slinked away, allowing rolling hills, farmland, forestscapes thicker than even those in the Agate Wood to stretch out to the horizon. Saffron couldn’t help pressing his face into the glass as landscapes blurred by, wanting to see everything as it came and passed. That was, until Cylvan leaned in slightly and teased him.
“Careful, beantighe. You’ll give yourself whiplash.”
Saffron blushed, attempting to settle back into his seat again, though was quickly drawn right back out the window for a second time. All the while, Cylvan’s hand remained on Saffron’s leg, even squeezing slightly every time Saffron jumped when something particularly interesting flew past in the blink of an eye.
“Are you able to put any weight on it?” Magnin suddenly asked, but Saffron didn’t respond, not considering how he might have been the recipient—but then Cylvan squeezed his leg again, and Saffron snapped around with a scowl, only then finding everyone’s attention trained on him. Startling, he clambered for his crutch as it almost toppled.
Shaking his head, he smiled awkwardly, then shrugged, only more embarrassed when Cylvan whispered something and attempted to lift his veil out of the way. Saffron quickly diverted his hand again, not wanting anyone to see the veil weight in his mouth. The self-consciousness only grew as Magnin suddenly left his seat to crouch on a knee in front of him, pawing at the tight bandages and making Saffron flinch.
“There was a lot of bruising around the fracture, which may hurt more than the repaired bone does. I wasn’t able to do much for the crushed muscle, sorry. You’ll just have to heal that on your own.”
“Crushed muscle?” Cylvan asked flatly, and the temperature in the train car dipped. Cylvan examined his nails as if pretending to be disinterested, as if it was only gossip, but everyone else knew. He did it on purpose. “You know, I’m still so curious what the beantighe was doing out in the woods at all. Do any of you have any idea?”
“Oh…” Magnin cleared his throat as casually as possible. “D-Daurae Asche, you were with the beantighe for one of your class audits, weren’t you…?”
Asche stared at Magnin like a deer facing a bear, frozen while gripping a handful of candies halfway out of the bowl in the corner.
“Um…” They wheezed, before glancing at Saffron, as if Saffron could offer any sort of plausible excuse. Saffron just watched the panic flicker behind their eyes “Well… yeah. Professor Adelard… mentioned there were some… um, oh, some rare mushrooms in the Agate Wood that would be good for charms… so I asked the beantighe to go with me… but we got separated… and then he was attacked by that wolf… right, beantighe?”
“Hm,” Cylvan muttered with an unappeased smile. “Thank goodness that beast didn’t spot you, Asche, or else it might have had a good meal. How would I ever explain to father his golden child was chomped up by Morrígan’s wolf?”
Asche frowned. They went back to the candy bowl without an answer.
Saffron, meanwhile, extended a hand while pretending to regain his balance as the train took a curve. In reality, he squeezed Cylvan’s knee to get his attention. To hint there would be a chance to discuss it later—but Cylvan’s eyes remained directly on Magnin, as if he knew Magnin had a secret. Terrifyingly, Cylvan also smiled politely the entire time, and Saffron didn’t envy anyone on the receiving end of a look so threatening.
Magnin cleared his throat again, choked by invisible hands. He then dropped Saffron’s foot without warning, and Saffron grunted. Slowly bending his leg back, he draped it with the cloak, but left Cylvan’s hand in place on his opposite thigh.
“Another question, Magnin.” Cylvan crossed his legs and rested an elbow on his knee. The icy smile never faded. “Taran mentioned the beantighe would be getting something more appropriate for his leg, soon… as his healer, do you know what he meant by that? Perhaps an offering of silver?”
He said the last words intentionally, not knowing Saffron knew exactly what he was referring to. Proserpina’s Silver, only forged by the mac Dela family. Then—Cylvan did know who Taran descended from. Magnin must, too, as he went a little pale, buying some time by pouring a glass of wine and gulping it down.
“A-as it is, L-Lord Taran has been… teaching me some things about Proserpina’s Silver, actually. I believe it can be beneficial for the beantighe in this scenario, yes. But only for the means of healing, your highness. Of course.”
“Of course,” Cylvan’s voice came low and firm, but his dark lips curled into another bitter smile. Saffron suddenly didn’t want to know what would happen when Cylvan discovered the silver choker and cuffs he wore hidden beneath his collar and sleeves every day. Ah, no, that wasn’t true—Saffron would have loved to know. Perhaps it was even something to look forward to.
Magnin seemed to be having the same thoughts, eyes hovering over the base of Saffron’s neck before flickering back as Cylvan spoke again.
“You know—not even I know how the silver works. They keep it so tightly under wraps. I’m curious—did you forge that silver cuff that trapped me in Danann House a few weeks ago?”
Magnin went white as a sheet.
“Um—n-no, your highness! I didn’t even know… there was such a thing, or that you…”
“Taran must have a number of pieces on hand, then,” Cylvan interrupted. Saffron spotted a tendon flexing in his neck, as if doing everything in his power to remain coy and aloof and terrifying. Like a snake arching back to strike, but not before swaying with curiosity. “Will Taran provide the raw silver for you to forge? Is he fetching it for the beantighe on this trip? Ah—perhaps he will get the ingredients while with his family for the funeral. God rest Lady Murva’s bones. May her pyre collapse, or whatever. That’s what Winter Court funerals do, isn’t it?”
He glanced at Saffron that time, and Saffron jumped. He nodded without thinking—then frowned when he realized that meant the mac Delbaith branch of the mac Dela family came from the Winter Court like he did. He was unexpectedly annoyed at the thought.
“Is this really a good choice of conversation?” Eias interjected with a forced laugh. “Especially considering… present company.”
“Hm? Oh, you mean the daurae?” Cylvan swung his head exaggeratedly toward Asche, who was busy sorting their candy treasures by wrapper color and shine. “Asche knows as well as the rest of us what we’re talking about.”
“Know what?” Asche asked, but Cylvan waved them off. Asche scoffed.
“Um… Lord Taran will provide the raw silver, yes, your highness.” Magnin’s voice cracked, as if knowing Cylvan wouldn’t be so easily distracted from his earlier question, wanting to answer sooner rather than later. “This will be my first attempted forging of opulent silver, as well. I am confident in my abilities, however.”
“I assume it will be a form of healing silver?” Cylvan coaxed more information, that time placing his hand directly on Saffron’s injured thigh and making Saffron flinch. “Will you shape it to the beantighe’s leg, yourself?”
“Erm—y-yes, your highness, I assume I will. I already have sketches drafted for my idea, if you are curious enough to know…”
“No need,” Cylvan’s hand cupped over Saffron’s mid-thigh shifted, stroking it slightly. Saffron pretended not to notice, though it was like pretending not to notice a leanan sídhe crawling between his knees. “I only look forward to seeing the final product. It’s quite significant for you, you know; the mac Delbaiths are so very protective of their family secrets. I hope your parents are proud.”
“Well—it’s all in preparation for you and your future court, your highness,” Magnin flashed a handsome, though uncertain smile. “Just like Eias is practicing their thread—”
Eias slammed an elbow into Magnin’s stomach, and Magnin buckled over his legs with a wheeze. Eias cursed under their breath, before smiling awkwardly back at Cylvan again. Despite their attempt to stop him, though, Saffron heard that interrupted word and made the connection right away. It was obvious when also considering their weaverthistle brew that morning. Eias was a threadweaver in training—and Saffron had to wonder if they were also the one who pulled the memory threads hidden under Taran’s bed.
“Where should we shop first when we arrive in Connacht?” The fey gentle changed the subject with zero grace. Cylvan was coy enough to play along, though wore a mischievous smile the entire time. Quickly, Magnin jumped back in to discuss the entertainment for their trip, and then Asche joined in, talking about clothing boutiques, needing new school supplies, stopping by a cobbler, perhaps a bookstore… and the whole time, Saffron bit back a smile of his own.
All the talk of opulent silver reminded him of his realization while held in Cylvan’s arms outside the ruins, facing down the wolf in the rain. If Taran truly relied on Proserpina’s opulent silver to transform into the wolf—Saffron merely needed to take it away from him. Whether it be a ring, an earring, a bracelet.
He could simply… take it away. If he took or controlled whatever silver thing Taran used, Saffron could control Taran. Own him.
To own a Sídhe lord, to own their opulence, to own their entire magical capability… and then to use it to summon a gruesome wolf on command, just like Elluin wanted…
Saffron glanced at Cylvan, who glanced back. He smiled. Saffron smiled in return.
Perhaps some things could be so simple. Especially with Ostara on the horizon, Saffron hoped that to be the case.
28
THE SHOPS
It wasn’t technically Saffron’s first time in Connacht, though he’d previously only stopped in for a day at a time while Luvon was visiting.
Apparently named after a human town that once sat mirrored on the opposite side of the veil, most buildings were constructed from wood and glass, naturally feeling cozier than Morrígan’s dark stone exteriors and metal spires. Perhaps it was also partially due to the way Connacht smelled constantly of bread and pastries, seemed to always flourish with random festivals and celebrations, and boasted a population as diverse as the wild things that lived in the woods.
As a bustling trade-port on the Connacht River, the town saw more people coming and going in one day than Saffron might see in his entire life—and he could have spent that same amount of time just sitting and watching those who passed through. With their unique clothing, the fabrics they wrapped themselves in, the varying hairstyles and makeup, even down to the jewelry they wore and how they jingled when they walked. All of it intermixed with a myriad of languages and physical characteristics far different from the relatively homogenous beauty and grace of the students who walked Morrígan’s campus every day. Horns, wings, tails dotted more people than Saffron saw anywhere else, and even Cylvan’s and Asche’s obsidian horns didn’t stand out in the crowd.
