Lord of silver ashes row.., p.3
Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood Book 2), page 3
If Taran wouldn’t do it, Saffron would simply resurrect himself for Cylvan to witness.
3
THE REBIRTH
Proserpina’s silver cuffs kept Saffron from leaving the walls of Danann House, but they did not contain him within the walls of the attic. Perhaps Taran didn’t realize that; perhaps Taran truly never thought that far ahead when it came to creatures he considered to be lesser than him. But Saffron was not someone to underestimate. He was not someone to revoke a deal on. He was not someone to never spare a second thought to.
Saffron donned the black blouse, veil, slacks, and boots of a prim and proper beantighe servant. He stood for an hour, gazing out the window in waiting, so as not to wrinkle anything. He watched through the round glass as string lights illuminated the gardens below, then slowly filled with chattering voices, moving bodies, the sound and smell of alcohol and music and a fete not unlike the last one he crashed in search of Prince Cylvan.
I was waiting for something to come and break up this boring fete.
Saffron fiddled with the prince’s family ring on his finger, pulled from the spine of his book of myths. He would use it as proof that he was himself; a real, living thing, wearing Cylvan’s crest. Gifted by Cylvan, himself; something not even Taran knew about. Not something Taran could ever recreate or falsify or manipulate his way out of.
As far as Cylvan knew, Saffron was arrested and taken to Avren for execution, just like Taran told him two weeks prior. But, as far as Cylvan would also find out that very night—Saffron had returned, and had been wearing his ring the entire time he was away.
Perhaps the ring had even been the thing to save his life. Perhaps it was the only thing Saffron protected while under arrest, even when his memories were stripped, as a reminder of someone who must have cared for him before being taken away.
Perhaps the ring was the reason he, as a newly memory-stripped beantighe, knew to seek Prince Cylvan out once returning to Morrígan because, surely, after regaining consciousness with no memory left, Saffron was so curious why he’d been given something so beautiful and rare and intimate…
His fantasies ran wild—but no matter how it played out, Taran wouldn’t get what he wanted. Saffron would not leave Danann House without one other person knowing he was still alive. One other person—who once gave Saffron his ring, and swore to patronize him. Swore to protect him. Who screamed with such agony once told of Saffron’s supposed fate.
Gazing down at the ring, Saffron squeezed it, then closed his eyes and steeled his nerves.
Taran would learn that night—to never underestimate Saffron, ever again.
* * *
It was like wandering back in time. Back to the first time he entered Danann House to prepare every room for the Imbolc fete that would come, having just escaped a trick played by a wild thing in the yarrow field. That time, he’d worn white. He’d had that first book of myths tucked into the back of his waistband. He’d just walked as Bríghde the night prior, and collected the wishes of every person in Beantighe Village. He was only hours from meeting Prince Cylvan, realizing who he really was. Making their geis in the Aon-adharcach suite.
Hours from—finding Arrow. From learning about the wolf.
Back then, he’d been so naïve to what he was walking into. He had no idea what would come of his geis, his insistence, his little games with the Night Prince of Alfidel, their secret time spent together in the Grand Library—but all the same, if Saffron could go back, he wouldn’t do anything differently. He even clung desperately to what remained of that naïveté for himself, refusing to allow people like Taran mac Delbaith to strip it away from him.
Saffron left the attic in search of a raven who thought he’d lost his treasure. Who, Saffron hoped, upon seeing him again—would do anything to keep him. Would refuse to allow Taran to send him away. Even if Saffron couldn’t tell Cylvan everything, even if he would still willingly keep his geis with Taran under the protection of performing a useful task, he hoped Cylvan had once cared for him enough to protect him one more time. Saffron only needed one more favor from his prince, and then he would gladly carry every burden from Cylvan’s back until their own geis was realized.
Stepping into the kitchen from the servants’ stairs, it was the first time Saffron found himself surrounded by so much movement, heat, noise, chatter, in weeks, and it all crashed into him at once like an ocean wave demolishing a withered dock. Nearly pummeling him into nothing but splinters, body and bones weary from disuse and inactivity while hiding in the ceiling. But his black veil was a gentle boon against the onslaught, and he was able to hold his breath long enough to gather his nerves again.
It helped that hardly anyone turned to look at him when he emerged in the kitchen, and those who did, didn’t have enough interest to keep staring. Perhaps wearing all black helped him blend into the walls, the low light of the candle sconces, better than if he wore ghostly white like normal. They knew he was a beantighe, but didn’t know what kind. They knew he was a beantighe—but didn’t know what to do with him. So they simply didn’t.
He had to reassure himself of those reasons, so as to not tumble into the growing pit of fear that he’d simply ceased to exist, after all.
Saffron made sure to move carefully through the crowd—like rotten boards of a dock on the tide—while keeping acutely aware of anyone who might recognize him, even from a distance. Kaelar, Taran, Magnin, Eias—any of them would see and know exactly who he was, what to do with him. Despite the throng of people making Saffron’s skin itch and bubble, it at least offered a natural shield from anyone who might have spotted him, otherwise.
The kitchen crested in and out with people helping themselves to snacks and drinks, more cakes and fruits and buffets of indulgence stretching into the parlor, as well as out the back doors onto the terrace. Further down into the gardens, plots and fruit vines had been haphazardly torn away to make room for a bonfire in the center of the grass, and Saffron silently cursed every single one of them for ruining the only pretty sight he had out the back window. There would be a crater of charred wood and burnt greenery once they were finished—though it would be ironic if they accidentally burned down Danann House in the process. Then what would Taran do?
Standing at the edge of the terrace doors, Saffron scanned the crowd, though most of them blurred together in the dark or from unrecognizability. He did, however, spot Kaelar at the far edge near the apple trees, teasing Eias about something that was impossible to hear. Something about it made Saffron curious, gazing down at his cuffs, knowing Kaelar owned the silver hands-and-dagger ring that controlled them and set their boundary. It had never worked while he was away from the house, before, but—Saffron extended a hand through the door, heart fluttering when it passed without restriction. He wouldn’t question it.
“Excuse me,” a voice came from behind, and Saffron instinctively disregarded it, never having been spoken to so politely before—but then something touched his shoulder, and he glanced around quickly. Behind him stood a stunning face of familiarity that was, at the same time, completely strange to him. He must have pulled an expression visible through the dark chiffon, because the stranger frowned and pouted their lips.
“Excuse me,” they insisted, waiting only long enough for Saffron to step back in order to pass. They didn’t go very far, though, taking a sharp left to claim one of the terrace benches overlooking the gardens. It allowed Saffron a chance to observe them a moment longer, finally realizing who they resembled upon fully seeing the shape of their black horns.
That must have been Daurae Asche. With long blonde hair, crystalline-citrine eyes, and black horns carved into vines that matched their older brother’s. Younger than Saffron expected, Daurae Asche was probably in their early teens going by human standards. They had the same slender figure as their older brother, though the sharp edges of their features were softened somewhat by a roundness in their cheeks and shoulders. Saffron wondered why they weren’t engaging in the same debauchery as everyone else, knowing high fey practically started drinking the day they could speak a full sentence, but then noticed how they appeared more interested in the Tuatha dé Danann Family crest they beaded in an embroidery hoop than anything having to do with the party. Saffron chuckled despite himself, then got an idea, glancing down at his ring.
Not wanting to appear like he approached for that reason alone, Saffron grabbed a wine bottle from the kitchen, popping the cork with all the ease Luvon ever instilled in him. Bypassing every fey guest who immediately extended their glass for a refill, Saffron made his way out the back door. He paused only to bow and offer a silent greeting to the daurae, offering to refill their wine glass—only then realizing they didn’t have one. A tingle of panic made his thoughts scramble, but Asche was as observant as Saffron could have only dreamed, noticing the ring on Saffron’s finger. Raising their eyebrows slightly, they glanced up at him.
“Did you come from Avren with us?” They asked in confusion. “I don’t remember bringing any handservants... oh, did my father send you? Can I see your face?”
Saffron pulled the veil off with ease, though kept his eyes low like a respectful beantighe should. Despite the ring, he put on all the airs of someone who had no idea what Asche was talking about, before pretending like he just then noticed the beadwork spread over Asche’s lap. Making a face of timid curiosity, he let his eyes linger on the design, before glancing at the ring on his finger. The mysterious ring that was his only connection to the past after his memories were taken—according to his role to play.
Taking the bait, Asche claimed Saffron’s hand to glance a little bit closer.
“Oh…” They said with continued confusion, tilting their head slightly and brushing a thumb over the face of the gold carving. “This is… Cylvan’s ring. Where did you get it?”
Saffron demurely pulled his hand into his chest, trying to look as innocent as possible. Asche, who clearly hadn’t been taken as a fool by anyone in their entire life, gazed up at him like he was the most interesting thing to happen all night.
“Let’s go ask him,” they said. “Maybe he forgot you were here?”
Saffron nodded, then was surprised when Asche took his hand like a child leading a stuffed animal.
Stumbling along behind them, it was more difficult to keep his eyes out for anyone who might be watching, especially when he already knew Kaelar and Eias were on the other side of the yard. Saffron pulled down his veil again, just in case—but all of those anxieties fell away the moment Cylvan came into view alongside the bonfire.
Clearly dressed for the fete, Cylvan wore high-waisted, damask-embroidered pants. A billowy black shirt draped open over his chest, revealing the smooth column of his throat and collarbones. His hair draped long and loose in perfect, inky waves, and silver liner accentuated the shape of his eyes. All of him, every last detail, every miniscule stitch of his outfit, his face, his entire being, gripped Saffron by the throat, making it hard to breathe.
But—it was more than his clothes. It was carved horns Saffron had once recreated in his sketchbook; sharp nails Saffron once played with; a mole under his eye that Saffron brushed a thumb over so many times. It was the mouth Saffron still fantasized about kissing, which once spoke his name so gently. Beantighe. Saffron. Púca.
But that same mouth, illuminated in the orange glow of the bonfire, was lip-locked with a pretty blonde fey, practically devouring one another where they sat in the grass by the fire. Saffron plummeted into instant, misplaced jealousy, fighting the urge to tear away from Asche’s hand to rip the high fey from his prince’s grasp and throw them in the fire. No, no, no—Saffron had to be naïve, timid, demure, uncaring, aloof, fuck—
Cylvan’s hand not tangled up in his partner’s hair held a sloshing bottle of wine, and in the light of the flames, Saffron could tell it was already halfway empty. It explained the prince’s sloppy movements, the way his eyes hung heavy every time he cracked them open to peer at his partner. Every time he did, his expression wrinkled slightly, as if wishing it was someone else. Anyone else.
Saffron just focused on breathing. On being… empty. Polite. A blank slate. No memories, no recollections of the handsome person in front of him, even as badly as he wished—he was the one suffocating beneath Cylvan’s mouth, instead of the stranger who vaguely resembled him.
If Saffron intended on maintaining his deal with Taran once Cylvan got involved and ensured Saffron stayed in Danann House, he would have to lead, from the beginning, with the idea he was the unthreaded, memory-stripped, ignorant little beantighe he and Taran once discussed, long ago. There would be no undoing it if he played himself too well, if Cylvan learned he was actually entirely in one piece. If Saffron kept up the ruse of his unthreading from the very start, Taran may be easier convinced to keep him alive in the house. Saffron hoped that to be the case, anyway.
He would die on the road to Connacht in the morning, otherwise.
Asche called for Cylvan’s attention amidst the passionate act with the other fey, and Cylvan drunkenly rolled his head back, searching the darkness before scowling upon eyes landing on his sibling. As he pulled away, his fey partner kissed down his neck, hands creeping lower and making Cylvan exhale sharply. Saffron flushed hotter than the bonfire.
“What do you want me to do with your beantighe?” Asche asked.
“My what?” Cylvan grunted, before snapping at the fey lord on his lap, shoving them away as the person just smiled and licked their lips.
“Your beanti—!”
Eias suddenly, almost frantically, emerged from the darkness. They commanded Cylvan’s attention—and arms hooked around Saffron’s middle from behind, yanking him off his feet. All within that brief moment where Cylvan turned at the sound of his name, just long enough for Kaelar to burst from the shadows, himself, and bodily heave Saffron away faster than he could fight back.
Saffron dropped the wine and kicked his legs, thrashing back and forth and cursing as much as his choker would allow. Behind him, the fete faded slightly as he was carried to the far edge of the yard, holding his breath as Kaelar unexpectedly lifted him over the outer fence. He pulled Saffron back upon his feet hitting the ground on the other side, though, keeping him in place just long enough to whisper.
“You were supposed to wait until tomorrow,” Kaelar breathed into his ear, and Saffron shuddered. “A little too excited, huh? I’m upset. I was hoping to get a little more time with you, but—seems you’re eager to get going. I’ll go let Taran know to meet you, alright?”
Saffron jolted, making the fence clatter as he rammed into it. Attempting to claw himself free of Kaelar’s arm, Kaelar commanded restraint on Saffron’s cuffs, and they clacked together.
“You know the rules of moonhunting, don’t you, beantighe?” Kaelar grunted as Saffron reeled back with a gasp and fought harder.
Moonhunting—compelling beantighes into the woods only to chase them down for fun. Fey played it with night-shift workers more than anyone else, but even Saffron had been snatched from campus after the sun went down. He’d always managed to navigate back to Cottage Wicklow simply because he knew the woods well enough—but he wouldn’t be able to do that, again. And by Kaelar’s threat, all of Saffron’s fears were confirmed—he’d never meant to make it to Connacht in the morning. He was never meant to go to the Fall Court. He was meant to die on the road, to disappear into nothing but a true ghost.
But since he’d left confinement early—he would die that night in the woods, instead. Before Cylvan had ever seen him. Just like Taran originally wanted.
Cold terror grazed Saffron’s skin as Kaelar’s breath cascaded over it from behind. A finger pointed in the corner of his eye, indicating the bright, waxing crescent moon smiling lopsided in return. Grinning for any myriad of reasons—but for Saffron, it was an immediate teller of how close they’d come to Ostara.
How close they’d come before it all fell apart.
“Follow the moon.”
Compelling enchantment washed through him, balming the anxiety and panic in an artificial, nauseating blanket, like a quilt he knew to be infested with insects. It coated his muscles, laid claim to his thoughts, reduced his agency to nothing but cotton fluff enamored with the glowing goddess overhead. He offered Kaelar a small, calm smile, as if thanking the fey lord for the opportunity—before his body moved on its own, and he walked without restraint into the dark trees.
4
THE SPIRIT
It was bittersweet for his first escape into the woods, unchaperoned and unchained, though burdened with chasing down the tilted moon that never came closer. That beguiling grin summoned Saffron farther, all while he blinked up at her with a drunken smile of his own, as if she were only playing coy. He would reach her, soon. Soon. Soon. He just had to keep walking. Eventually he would catch up, and then she would help him find his way back home, no matter how far into the wilderness he wandered.
Crickets chirped amidst wafting, encouraging voices in every direction, belonging to shimmery things in the distance, shadowy things up closer. More than once, a cold breath of something caressed the back of his neck—but the enchantment wouldn’t allow him to turn and look. Not that he wanted to, the moon was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. To avert his eyes for even a moment would surely break his heart. No wonder so many people went missing while moonhunting—they made the mistake of pulling their eyes away, only to instantly drop dead from loneliness. But he wouldn’t make that mistake. He’d known nothing but loneliness for two weeks—the moon was finally offering him comfort, companionship, maybe even a soft touch on his skin. He wouldn’t lose that chance.
But the longer he followed, the more his nerves realized they could think for themselves again. The more he felt the fresh air, the more he felt the increased thrumming of his heart. Step by step, Kaelar’s command wore off. Like washing clay skin in a downpour, it sloughed off him in a trail on his heels—until he was fully revealed, relieved of the weight, and he could gasp in a panic.
