Vessel of Woven Night (Rowan Blood #4)

1. The Coffee

1

THE COFFEE

L avender leaves at the base of the porcelain cup. A spoonful of maple syrup. Fresh honeysuckle picked from behind Muirín Dormitory, where flower sprites nipped at Saffron’s fingers like he foraged in the Agate Wood and not a manicured high fey garden. Where signs of wild things encroaching past the school’s barrier were proven by the missing flowers, berries, leaves.

He gently rolled fresh blueberries beneath his palm until soft and fragrant, staining his skin crimson. Pouring steamed milk into the cup last, it swirled at the bottom like a golden purple storm. Like the color of Cylvan’s amethyst eyes during a dark, overcast day.

What’s it like to have all your memory threads pulled out?

Saffron glanced over his shoulder, knowing there would be no one seated at the counter at his back. Still hoping he’d spot Asche’s long ,cornsilk-blonde hair braided over one shoulder like Cylvan always wore his at night; to see their dark horns and golden eyes, that mischievous look like they knew they were being rude but didn’t know any other way to assert authority as Alfidel’s Daurae. Just like the first time, in Danann House.

Exhaling through his nose, Saffron brought the tea to his mouth and took a boiling, burning sip.

There was no one else in Muirín’s kitchen so early in the morning. The sun was still an hour off from rising in the distance. Beantighes wouldn’t be arriving until lunchtime, since all those remaining at Mairwen were assigned to the main kitchens for the foreseeable future. A result of so many fleeing with the silver-tongued man who offered them magic and freedom.

Saffron only imagined the daurae’s voice behind him, because it had been the last thing echoing in his mind as he woke from a restless sleep; Asche’s calls from the depths of that black nightmare, begging for Saffron to find them. Help me, find me; I’m right here, I’m not far. Please come, please come for me. There was a reason he barely slept any more.

Saffron had come to prefer the silence that fell over Avren in the week since the Midsummer Games—it gave him time to think. With classes on pause and every noisy high fey in the city hiding in their homes except to run the most important of errands—his mind never stopped.

The kitchen in Muirín dorm was different than that in Danann House. They were also exactly the same. They stocked the same foods and herbs and spices and loose leaf teas and other daily essentials, in the pantry and on shelves tucked cleanly away behind doors. There were other staples like eggs and meats and fruits in the ice box, though left to fester as any magic meant to maintain a chilly temperature in perpetuity had been snatched in the ashen state. Sugar, flour, molasses, corn meal lined the cabinets in dark places, where only those who knew better would think to look. Unfortunately, bwcas and other wild things knew where to look, scavenging the dry goods as they were not being left loaves of bread by beantighes in exchange for their nightly work. Saffron might have baked them something had he had the chance—would it not have been so strange for someone to stumble upon him, presumed high fey lord, baking bread for wild inhabitants of the dormitory.

“Teach the fox lord to bake bread. Make him useful for something.”

“The fox lord has a name,” Saffron mumbled. By then, he’d grown used to hearing Taran mac Delbaith’s voice ghosting through the back of his mind, usually muttering something condescending, or scolding him for how he chose to do things. It used to unsettle him, knowing someone he used to despise so much was always there to watch and listen to everything Saffron did—but even in only a week since the Midsummer Games, even Saffron could find a pinch of comfort in having someone there. Always there, a companion, another presence to fill the lonely gaps festering in his soul. “But even then—foxes are notoriously bad at sifting flour.”

Saffron could feel Taran’s hesitance at that, confused and frustrated, wondering what in gods’ name that meant, before scoffing like he didn’t want Saffron to think he didn’t understand. Saffron just smiled to himself.

“Do you want me to pour a bowl of tea for you? I’d have to serve it on the floor, since I don’t want to teach you bad manners for begging at the table.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He was getting better at sensing exactly when the wolf stirred to the surface of their shared consciousness, like a common area of a shared mind. More often than not, his presence drifted away again, into nothingness, into the ether, where even Saffron could forget he was there—though he always came whenever Saffron searched for him. He didn’t hesitate to float back in again whenever he had something to say. A perpetual companion, whether Saffron liked or not.

He would have hated the constant sense of surveillance more had the beast not been at least minimally helpful while poring over books and notes all night, night after night, trying to figure out a solution before any oracles could. Trying to figure out what to do with Ryder Kyteler, before any oracles could. Taran never had any of the right answers, either—but they shared a muted, frenzied desire to rescue the daurae, and that was common ground enough to exchange more than disguised insults back and forth.

Since his dog wasn’t interested, Saffron scattered a small handful of remaining berries across the counter, clicking his tongue at Fiachra who perched sleepily in the open window meant for the passage of messenger robins. The owl yawned, cracking open her dark eyes that reflected the light with an unsettling red flash. Spreading her wings and descending to the counter, her trimmed talons clacked on the wood as she lazily pecked at the berries that rolled away from her. Resorting to smashing a talon down to catch a particularly stubborn one, like trapping a mouse—only for it to squish beneath her foot with a gruesome pop.

Sipping his tea again, Saffron closed his eyes. He let the taste spill over his tongue, burning still as it went, but that time not from the heat. From the rawness of his throat. He was far done crying, at least in a waking state. He still woke in tears more often than not, glad he at least didn’t cry out for anyone to hear. He’d cried enough. He wasn’t sure he would ever cry again, for as long as he lived, with the amount he’d sobbed in private and in Cylvan’s arms and in front of his friends in the past week alone.

One week out of the two he’d promised himself to get his friends back, already gone. Already gone, as every day further brought new dread that what Ryder Kyteler had done was going to be more difficult to replicate, to solve, to undo than anyone ever anticipated. Tearing open the broad field amidst the Midsummer Games, swallowing earth and grass in the center, and more—at least two dozen high fey attendees in the stands. Tearing that rift through reality as Saffron refused to obey him, as Ryder insisted on sending a message to the kings, to Cylvan, to all of Alfidel—and successfully doing just that, when he took Asche through the veil with him. As he took all of Avren’s opulence, through the resulting ashen state.

He hated that most—but in ways he couldn’t explain. He hated being outwitted. Saffron hated thinking there was anything that man could do that he couldn’t figure out.

Ryder Kyteler was no smarter than Saffron—only more experienced. That was all. He hadn’t accomplished the same things Saffron had, magic wise—he didn’t have access to the same resources Saffron did, knowledge wise—which meant Saffron just had to keep looking. He had to keep trying. Once he figured it out, surely, he’d be able to fix everything he’d caused.

The only solace he could take as the days passed without progress, was the knowledge that time moved slower in the human world. He didn’t know exactly how long, except by what Sunbeam had once told him long ago in the Kyteler Ruins outside of Morrígan—that one week for Alfidel was little more than two days in the human world.

Saffron knew how much harm could be done in only two days, though. The peace he felt with every self-reminder was always short-lived.

Royal oracles spoke to him more than once, to the point of demanding to know the truth. Accusing him of lying when he said Ryder used pixie rings to tear open the veil, but never explaining why they refused to believe him. When he said there may have been a giant veil circle in the grass, too, they really sneered at him, like that was what proved he only had an over-active imagination. ‘ But you just said he used pixie rings, ’ they’d said, as if catching him in his lie. He just stared at them in confusion. In growing frustration. He might have cried in front of them, too—if he hadn’t instead leapt to his feet and screamed insults in all his overwhelming frustration. King Tross was the one to quickly grab and steer him away before he could truly say or do something worth arrest.

Only later did they realize it was strange for Saffron to know anything about veil circles to start—and sore-throated, puffy-eyed, and pissed off, he had to tell them the actual lie he’d already practiced for that exact moment. My mother in Alvénya used to tell me stories of Oisín and Niamh. Oisín passed to the human world by a circle Niamh drew in the grass…

All the while, Taran’s voice never left the back of his mind. That warning he’d given in Cylvan’s bedroom the night after the games. A warning that Saffron should be wary of who he trusted, even the royal oracles. There wasn’t a soul he should trust unwaveringly, in fact—including the people he held closest. Perhaps because Saffron cussed the oracles out during the interview was the only reason the wolf didn’t later scold him for being so forthcoming with what he knew.

It was torturous, having to pretend like he didn’t know better. To pretend he didn’t know who Ryder Kyteler was; to pretend he didn’t know why that man did what he did. To pretend it hadn’t partially been for Saffron’s eyes to see, to pretend he hadn’t originally been the biggest piece of Ryder’s plot, had he not come to his senses in time.

To then also pretend he had no idea why beantighes were disappearing from their jobs before the veil event—and how they vanished even faster after. In just that week since the games, the staff at Mairwen had dwindled by nearly half. Enough that they couldn’t maintain dormitory kitchens. Enough that students were asked to tidy up their own rooms—which nearly sparked a riot on its own. Saffron, meanwhile, cleaned his dorm and the shared space every single day in his restlessness; he would have scrubbed Copper’s room clean, too, had the fox lord not refused. Insisting he could do it on his own, even though Saffron knew he wouldn’t.

In so many ways, it was thrilling to think humans finally rebelled how they wished, to escape the leash of beantighehood.

In others—it was gut-churningly harrowing, to know they were only able to do so on the word of Ryder Kyteler—who was not anything like he claimed. Only half-human. Half-fey. Capable of compelling humans who weren’t expecting it. Coming from a place far north, where oracles loyal to Queen Proserpina once learned to become witchhunters. The same place where Eias Lam learned how to manipulate memory threads, where Taran mac Delbaith was given the bones of the Wolf King. Where Ryder must have learned to twist memories, himself, as he’d done to Saffron—perhaps even more times than Saffron knew.

What’s it like to have all your memory threads pulled out?

When Asche first posed him that question in Danann House’s kitchen, Saffron had smiled to himself. He didn’t know. He didn’t think he’d ever know. If he thought too closely about how he would be able to answer it while standing in Mairwen’s kitchen in comparison—he might actually, finally snap through the thin barrier of sanity keeping his real emotions at bay.

“Beantighe, can I get a coff—oh.”

Saffron straightened up—the way a fey lord was supposed to stand—resisting the instinct to turn and bow and offer whatever the visitor wanted. He just glanced over his shoulder to whoever poked their head inside, recognizing messy red hair spilling over shoulders, a shock of white strands hanging between two golden-brown eyes.

“Good morning, Copper,” he said with a relieved chuckle. “I can make you a coffee if you want.”

“Oh, uh,” Copper stammered, straightening up and scratching the loose hair on the back of his head as he shuffled a few steps inside. “That’s alright, Saff. Feels rude, considering you’re… and all… Oh, shit, I called you beantighe , but I didn’t mean it like—I really just thought you were—I wasn’t tryin’ to insult you or anything, considering?—”

“I’m already pouring the water,” Saffron said, hooking the kettle he’d used for the tea over the spigot and turning the knob. Even boiling hot water had become a hands-on chore in Avren with the ashen state. No longer could they charm a little flame to keep water boiling at all times, without ever having to feed it more sticks beneath the stove. He briefly wondered if the fey who’d lost beantighes in the human exodus even knew how to start a fire to cook their oatmeal and boil their drinks.

“You sure?” Copper asked still, though he shuffled in a little more. Dressed in his hurling practice uniform, still dirty from the last time since he refused to let Saffron wash it. Pretending like Saffron didn’t know that hurling practice had been long cancelled for days—Saffron constantly wondering why his friend still insisted on going to the field every morning as if things were normal. Perhaps not having to wonder, at all. There had been too many of his own sleepless nights spent in his dorm, where he could hear Copper shuffling around in the common area. Trying to keep quiet, like Saffron wasn’t equally wide awake. Even the fox-lord struggled to sleep.

“I already ground the beans,” Saffron lied. “Come on, or else it will go to waste.”

He hadn’t ground anything—but just getting Copper into the room was be worth the fib. The fox-lord had not outright ignored him since he and the others learned of Saffron’s past beantighehood and future kinghood, but he’d skirted all of Saffron’s attempts at talking about it at the same time. And while a week wasn’t very long in the grand scheme of things, to Saffron it felt like an eternity. Especially when there was nothing else to keep his attention on campus. Not while Cylvan was constantly busy at the palace dealing with the political fallout of the games and navigating aid for the fey affected by the ashen state; not while classes were cancelled as the administration worked out a way to navigate the ashen state of all their professors; not while Saffron was encouraged to remain on campus unless he had a chaperone to the palace, meaning all there really was for him to do was sit and read and take notes and obsess over how he could fix everything he’d broken.

Despite his desperation for friendly companionship, Saffron had determined it best to give Copper whatever time he needed to process whatever feelings he had. But Sionnach was running thin from their own stress of it all, and Saffron’s constant need for company, even just while sitting silently in the library together. Cylvan was too busy with responsibilities as the prince, and even the perpetual companion in Saffron’s head wasn’t exactly his first preference. Even Maeve was pulling her hair out as a dorm prefect, having to run around all over Mairwen resolving issues with everyone else.

Copper made a sound like he meant to say something else, but Saffron interrupted again:

“We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” he said outright, and the awkwardness in the room intensified, before popping and deflating. Copper looked at him in disbelief, like he wasn’t used to anything being said so bluntly. “Come on. It’ll take two minutes. I’m very good at making coffee, you know, even without any kitchen charms to help. I once learned how beantighes make it for even the pickiest of high fey.“

Thankfully, Copper finally chuckled. He stepped fully into the kitchen, even leaning on the counter in the center. As if none of the resting stools would be able to brace beneath the size of him; though he more likely was bracing for a quick getaway. Just in case.

“You coerce the prince into doing what you want like this, too?” He asked.

“The only way to get Cylvan to do anything is coercion.” Saffron threw him a coy smile. “How else do you think I got into this position?”

That might have been a little too close to the unspeakable topic, and Saffron bit his lip in regret. But Copper smirked.

“He secretly loves being told what to do, doesn’t he?”

“Only by me.”

“Nasty.”

Saffron could feel Copper’s eyes on his back as he set the kettle to boil on the stove, before scooping a cup of whole coffee beans from a canvas bag beneath the counter and pouring them into a metal cylinder. Sliding the top into the center, he handed it to Copper behind him.

“Press down on the top and turn at the same time. Like you’re peppering something. Oh—have you ever had to pepper your own meal?”

“What’s this?” Copper asked in lieu of answering that question.

“A bean grinder.”

Copper wrinkled his nose, then groaned once he realized he’d been caught in Saffron’s lie. Still, he made a show of pushing up the sleeves of his hurling uniform, flexing his arm muscles until Saffron laughed, then going to work like instructed.

“How’s everything going for you?” He asked as Saffron pulled a carafe of heavy cream from the ice box, still just cold enough to be good. Next, Saffron snagged a sprig of vanilla bean from a ceramic jar on the counter. He scraped vanilla seeds from the shell with the back of a knife as Copper watched with rapt interest.

“As well as it could, I guess,” Saffron answered, trying to keep his tone as light as possible. “Hard to find things to keep me distracted without any classes going on, and since I’m not really allowed to leave campus, I’m limited in the kind of research I can feasibly do…” He didn’t mean to mention his research habits, either, but didn’t realize until it was too late. It was all he ever thought about, anymore.

“Yeah, me too,” Copper said. “Less about doing research, but… I never thought I’d miss having class to go to. There’s no fun in skipping a lecture to run around in the woods when there’s no lecture to skip, you know?”

“Have you been running around in the woods without me, fox?” Saffron asked with a little hiss, and Copper put his hands up.

“Not so loud… beantighe. ” He tested the word. It escaped him like air between two squeezing hands, only relaxing when Saffron laughed.

“Good thing our glamour charms still work despite everything else, hm? Otherwise we’d both have some things to explain to everyone.”

“Daurae Asche would be having the time of their life if they were here,” Copper said, once again speaking carefully, as if he wasn’t sure Saffron was ready to talk so casually about Asche. He had no idea exactly how desperate Saffron was to speak casually about the daurae, as never mentioning them at all felt too much like they really were lost for good.

“I’ve actually been writing down some of the more interesting things to tell them about once we see them again,” Saffron said with a grin. “Like how our glamour charms are working fine, but all the professors’ charmed notes are completely blank. Or how some of the access tokens work like normal but others are broken, depending on where someone is trying to go. I heard all the charmed lanterns around campus aren’t working anymore, either, which is why they’ve had beantighes out lighting them by hand every evening.”

“Oh, that’s why the path from the hurling field was dark when I left around midnight last night…” Copper said, extending a leg to show a gnarly scrape of dried blood on his knee.

Saffron had to resist scolding him for staying out that late in the first place, while also biting back a comment of: ‘they probably don’t have enough beantighes on staff to light all of them, anymore.’

“The barrier around campus and the woods isn’t working very well either,” Copper added. “Been seeing more wild things wandering around after the sun goes down. Even just last night, I thought I saw a unicorn munching on some wild roses on the other side of the stands?—”

“A unicorn!” Saffron practically shrieked. “Really?! Oh, damn you, fox!”

“Why d’you think I was rushing back to the dorm so late! I was trying to make it back in time to grab you!” Copper laughed, a boisterous sound Saffron didn’t realize how much he missed until it rang in his ears again. “Don’t hate me too much—might not have even been a real one. Probably just a mimic that was really eyeballing me. I guess it makes sense, considering how it kept whinnying in this really unsettling way, like it wanted me to go over and pet it… might’ve bit my whole hand off…”:

“Mimics have to drink the blood of the thing they copy, though, don’t they?” Saffron argued. “They drink opulence from the creature’s blood and use it on themself.”

“That’s what I’m saying. If I hadn’t split when I did, you might have two of me to deal with.”

Saffron grinned. “Maybe two of you could really put your heads together and clean up that pit of a bedroom.”

“Alright, beantighe , listen here?—”

But Saffron laughed, and Copper grinned.

“Mimics having to drink the blood of what they copy actually makes me have some questions about you and your fox form, you know,” Saffron went on, grabbing a mug for the coffee before taking the ground beans to brew in the boiling kettle.

“I can assure you, my fox form is nothing more dastardly than a family curse from the forest.”

“Because of your family’s ancient feast.”

“Careful—mentioning my family’s feast is a quick way to get my dad’s ears ringing. Really don’t want him trotting into the city, now more than ever.”

Saffron laughed, Copper laughed—and for a moment, everything felt normal again. Even though that normal was still so very different from the life Saffron had known before arriving at Mairwen, even though his normal at Mairwen had only been a few months long—he was beginning to learn to appreciate those small windows of peace he was allotted, as they always came to a crashing, inevitable end. He wouldn’t take that brief moment of peace, there in Muirín’s kitchen, pouring his friend a cup of fresh coffee for granted, either.

“Wanna come to practice with me?” Copper went on as Saffron finished mixing a spoonful of cream into his cup. “Really need someone to hold the body cushion I tackle. Promise I won’t hurt you too badly. Maybe we’ll even see that probably-not-a-unicorn again…”

“Gee, that sounds like a lot of fun, but… Why don’t you try asking Madame Hutter if she needs anything like that in her self-defense lessons? I hear other students are still scrambling for open slots.”

“Oh—you mean ‘cause they can’t compel humans anymore?” Copper smirked. “No, I opted out of that days ago. Personally, if they deserve it, I think a high fey getting their ass walloped by a beantighe would be hilarious.”

“You’re not worried about your own ass, in this uncertain time?” Saffron asked sarcastically.

“Nah. Beantighes aren’t gonna start a fight with me.”

“There are plenty of beantighes who could take someone as big as you.”

“No—I mean, because I have a beantighe name. You know. They wouldn’t pick a fight with one of their own. Just like you never did, either. Wait—was ‘Saffron’ your original beantighe name? Seriously? Cylvan couldn’t come up with something else for you fast enough?”

Saffron snorted. Before he could tell Copper all about it, the soft clopping of hooves approached the kitchen entryway, where a frazzled-looking Sionnach shoved their head inside with a worried flush.

“Oh, thank the gods!” they groaned, throwing the door open and hurrying inside. “I was worried sick as soon as you weren’t in bed, your high—! Erm!”

“Good morning, Sionnach,” Saffron said, lifting his drink as a way of inviting them over. Sionnach hesitated, chocolate-brown eyes flickering to Copper, before they stepped in a little more to join them at the counter.

They intentionally stood an arm’s length from Copper, like they thought he might try something wicked even so early in the morning. Saffron couldn’t exactly blame them, especially with how Copper looked them up and down more than once. Not even trying to hide it, before scoffing something and sipping at his drink.

“Were you up late again last night?” Sionnach asked, thanking Saffron for the cup of coffee he poured them.

“Copper invited me to watch his hurling practice this morning,” Saffron changed the subject, feeling himself mentally recoil from the mention of his worthless research and the lack of sleep he made as payment, “but Maeve finally has some free time to take me to the palace this morning. Copper says he needs someone to—what, hold your tackle-cushion? Even promised it won’t hurt. Why don’t you go with him instead, Sionnach?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Not even a polite second to think about it, huh?” Copper chuckled, only partially in disbelief. He threw back the rest of his coffee, before planting both hands on the counter and getting to his feet. “Well, if you change your mind, goat , there’s a lot more grass to munch on in the field than in the library. Or do you eat the corners of the books you read? No wonder you’re so smart.”

“Goodbye, Copper,” Saffron said in warning. Copper grinned, then laughed, smacking a big hand against Sionnach’s back as a sign of ‘I’m only joking .’ The satyr clopped forward a few steps, scowling as Copper made his goodbyes and saw himself out. Saffron just smiled to himself, pouring another coffee, that time for himself. Knowing he would need it; wanting to be aware, and available, and— awake , during his first chance in days to finally spend time with Cylvan again. Hoping, for once, for once —he might be permitted just one morning with a slightly lessened sense of dread.