3. The Circles
3
THE CIRCLES
S affron had only heard of ‘memory tapestries’ a handful of times before, the very first being when Cylvan mentioned them during the early days of their time in Morrígan’s Grand Library. A comment he’d made off-handedly when discussing how even he didn’t know Queen Proserpina’s true name, despite her being long dead. ‘One day I’ll tell you about tapestries…’ he’d teased, perhaps thinking nothing of it. Saffron hadn’t, either, until it came rushing back after only a few sentences exchanged between the kings, the prince, and the person Maeve had called the High Keeper of Tapestries.
Saffron wasn’t allowed in the room where the discussion continued following introductions, leaving him to pace back and forth on the other side of the door, while Maeve stood with her arms crossed against the wall alongside Saoirse. It was grueling, being forced to wait on the wrong side of it all, none of them speaking as if equally restless despite Saffron being the only one so obviously so.
“What’s so important about memory tapestries, again?” He asked. “That they need an entire High Hall dedicated to them? Aren’t they just—fabrics woven to depict scenes from a person’s life?”
“They’re a sort of funerary rite, especially amongst fey nobility,” Maeve corrected, showing Saoirse the pixie bite on her hand as she did. “Far more than just visual depictions of ‘scenes from a person’s life,’ too—There’s a brief window of time following someone’s death that their mind, their memories, remain intact enough that the family oracle can unthread them. Taking every single memory the deceased ever made, and unspooling them onto the floor to be picked back up and woven into what we call ‘tapestries’.”
Saffron stopped pacing. He stared at her for a long moment, as if waiting for her to smile and admit she was only joking—only for her to raise an eyebrow at him in question. Reminding him that Maeve was not the kind to make things up just to make fun of him.
Saffron didn’t know how to feel about her explanation, either way—it was both morbid and poetic, at the same time. He’d found most high fey poetry to be rather morbid, though, so perhaps it shouldn’t have come as any surprise.
“So what’s the purpose of the tapestry hall, then?” He asked. “Just to store them all?”
“Avren’s Hall houses the tapestries of some of the most prestigious fey in history, including members of the royal family,” she said. “Hence why someone causing trouble inside is a little more alarming than, say, when a common cemetery’s tapestry-mausoleum is vandalized. Especially in this time of so many new arid witches coming out of the woodwork… Anything you feel like confessing, witch?” She gave him a sharp, amused little smile, and Saffron stiffened. Quickly shaking his head, he went back to pacing.
“They rarely store actual memory threads of the most important fey folk in the tapestry hall for anyone to pay respects to,” Saoirse added, like she misunderstood Saffron’s antsiness. “So even if someone managed to destroy or steal one on display—they would be sorely disappointed to learn it was only a recreation.”
“… Oh, I’m going to go fucking mad,” Saffron groaned after those words settled, only prickling his nerves more. He turned on heel and going straight for the door. Glancing up and down the corridor, he met Saoirse’s eyes for a moment, then glanced to Maeve. The guard gave him a narrowed, warning look, but Maeve looked curious, which was enough to embolden him to dig into his shoulder bag for a piece of charcoal.
Saoirse released a small, guttural sound when she realized what Saffron was doing, but neither she nor Maeve stopped him as he scribbled the smallest arid circle manageable on the door. Adding hatchmarks for ‘hear inside’ , the low voices of the conversation inside emerged through the wood, loud enough for Saffron to press his ear and listen. Even Maeve and Saoirse stepped a little closer, curious even if they wouldn’t admit it.
“Do we have any proof it was a human witch who did it?” Cylvan asked, and Saffron’s heart thumped. “You mentioned multiple arid circles all over the city—are you to tell me there are dozens of capable arid witches in Avren who have gone unnoticed all this time?”
Saffron’s ears rang. Arid circles reported throughout Avren? Multiples of them, not even in the tapestry hall alone? He thought of all those official messengers they saw racing by in the city on their way to the palace, and panic instantly flooded him. Fearful at first that another part of the veil had been torn open—but there would have been news of that. He would have heard it. He hadn’t heard anything, in fact—not a single knock, for the entire week since the games.
It had to just be a trick, then. Some of Ryder’s witches—or even humans unrelated to him—playing some sort of trick to try and scare the high fey who didn’t know any better. Ryder was not known for doing things quietly , after all. If it had been him behind it, there would have been far more of a show. He would have sent Saffron a personal invitation to watch.
If Saffron could get his eyes on one of the reported circles or another, he would be able to tell for sure if they really were just tricks.
“No one ever said they were capable , your highness,” the voice of the High Keeper responded. “Seeing as none of these circles appear to have had any magical effect.”
“That you know of,” Tross added, sounding like he was in the middle of sipping tea.
“Tell me again exactly where all of them have been found, apart from the High Tapestry Hall.” Cylvan went on.
“Well—the National Library, the High Hospital, in an alleyway off the city square, reportedly outside a handful of courtier homes ? —”
“And you’re certain these are markings left by arid witches , not simply high fey children playing pranks?” The prince interjected, and Saffron bit back a smile, even flushing a little bit in pride. As if Cylvan read his mind. “Even you say you don’t recognize the markings as, how did you put it? A ‘standard arid circle’? Yet you can tell they performed no successful spell? By what authority do you know if taboo is ‘standard’ or ‘successful’, High Keeper…? Have you been training as an oracle without our knowledge? Considering the delicate nature of the sacred objects you oversee, you can understand my concern.”
Saffron wanted to kiss him. Saffron would show Cylvan all there was to know about arid spells later, with how eloquently he spoke. Meanwhile, the High Keeper only cleared their throat. “Even if I cannot identify each exactly, the markings simply resemble arid magic circles, your highness. I am not sure who else it could have been. Even a young fey playing tricks would not have been able to create something so convincing.”
“Anything can be made convincing to those who don’t know any better.”
“Are young fey drawing fake arid circles often, as pranks?” King Tross asked with a flutter of conspiratorial curiosity. “How many times before now has that occurred and not been reported?” Even Ailir let out a small breath that time, and Saffron could picture the old king placing a hand on Tross’ in an attempt to keep him focused. “I only ask so that we might better know if these circles truly are something to be concerned about, or simply the hijinks of young fey that are being taken far out of proportion due to recent events. Not that I am accusing you of fear mongering, High-Keeper. Of course.”
“Of course,” the keeper answered, but it sounded flat. “Whether or not it is only the hijinks of young fey, your highness, I thought it best to alert you. Like you said, particularly due to what has occurred recently, I think it better to consider them a real threat rather than merely jokes. What the humans did at the summer games were also unprecedented, until now. It should come as no surprise that their antics may continue to escalate. While most young fey tricks consist of a randomly drawn circle here and there, waking to find these all across Avren, even in the High Hall where I oversee—you understand how it was alarming.”
“You said nothing was taken,” King Ailir spoke, next. Clearly having taken his time to consider every possibility—or perhaps just to ensure both King Tross and Cylvan had their chance to pinch and appraise every side of the claim first. To ensure the keeper told enough of the truth to survive it. “How can you be sure if you only found the alleged arid circle a few hours ago? I’m sure with the number of tapestries stored in the high hall ? —”
“We have our ways of keeping track of tapestries kept in our care, your highness.”
“Opulent means?” Cylvan asked, still polite but ever so coy, like he secretly enjoyed making the high keeper sweat. Even Saoirse over Saffron’s shoulder groaned quietly, like she wished Cylvan would behave better. “Do you know if anything else was stolen from any of the other locations, yet? There are some very dangerous books stored in the National Library’s archives, for example.”
“I’m sure you’re performing checks by hand as well, just to be safe?” Tross chimed in with the same tone as Cylvan, like even he enjoyed making the official sweat. To be on the receiving end of two sardonic Tuatha dé Danann, Saffron couldn’t fathom. “Have you consulted with the others heads of the high council to ensure the same could be said for the library? The hospital? The reformatory…?”
“Of course, your highness. Messengers were sent before, and even still as I made my journey here to inform you.”
“Should we have all high council members gather for a meeting, father?” Cylvan went on. “Until then, we have these copies of the circles found. We can show them to the royal oracles and have them determine which are real and which may only be pranks. Lugh pray they’re only pranks.”
“Lugh pray, indeed…” Tross hummed in the same tone.
Saffron knew Cylvan’s composure was only in performance—a master of remaining calm and collected, even if the news unsettled him as much as it did Saffron. The result of a lifetime of royal training, to never let anyone see the cracks. A skill Saffron both admired and despised, whenever Cylvan had to implement it.
The pleasantries continued a few minutes longer, and Saffron finally swept his own arid circle from the wood once the conversation ebbed and he knew they would be making their way out soon enough. But in what could have only been a minute or two of silence between stepping back and when the door would open—it passed like an eternity as Saffron’s heart raced, making him feel flush in his fine doublet. Suddenly feeling tight, claustrophobic in even a hallway as broad as where he loitered. Thoughts turning, tangling. Each one as disorganized and dismayed as the cloud of pixies that had nibbled on Maeve’s finger.
Two days after the games, Saoirse and a small troupe of trusted guards had been sent in secret—by Cylvan’s order, but Saffron’s anxious request—to search the Finnian Ruins for Ryder and his witches. They returned to report them as empty as the day they were first abandoned, with no sign of life from anyone—specifically wording their report as if it had been foolish to ever suspect human activity there at all. Cylvan took it as an insult, but Saffron understood it differently—as proof Ryder knew what he was doing, knew how to cover his tracks.
Wholly cleared out, the only possible sign of recent activity came in the smell of charred wood and stone on the air, as well as a few that had fully crumbled since scouts previously passed through decades prior. Though even the report stated neither of those things were indisputable proof of life.
When Cylvan specifically asked Saoirse which buildings had been destroyed, Saffron was unsurprised as she described the main cathedral, then the smaller building he, Cylvan, Copper, and Taran had once passed through while fleeing the ruins. That unassuming building with the door at the very end, that transitioned through a veneer into the King’s Keep, all the way in the Winter Court. Where they’d crossed between the buildings and into the surrounding woods, where the same veneer carried them back into the forest outside the ruins. Back in Avren. Ryder must have been beside himself with fury when he realized.
News of the abandoned ruins had itched at the back of Saffron’s mind since. Haunting him when the nights hunched over books at his desk stretched long. Buzzing constantly in the back of his mind the few times he attempted to sleep. Begging the question: if Ryder and his witches had long cleared out of the Finnian Ruins—where had they gone instead?
And with the reports that morning, a new question hooked into him—wondering if they remained hidden in Avren; more than just those few who continued recruiting beantighes from the shadows. Who may indeed have had something to do with the circles left around the city. Hating that he would only get an idea once able to see the circles for himself.
Gazing down at his feet, Saffron rubbed the toe of his boot into the palace’s polished floor. Ahead of him, voices and footsteps approached the door from the other side, forcing him to straighten back up again. Returning to the present, where he was needed far more.
The doors finally opened, and those inside emerged. The High Keeper looked slightly less stately than when they first arrived, belted robe slightly askew and the long silver braid down the center of their back free of a few fine hairs over their forehead. As if discussing anything with the kings and the prince always took a decade off their life. They didn’t bother meeting eyes with Saffron or Saoirse as they emerged, though did offer a slight bow to Maeve.
Cylvan, meanwhile searched for Saffron right away, and Saffron smiled at him with innocently-fluttering eyelashes. Wordlessly informing his raven that he had absolutely been up to some dirty work while forced to wait outside. Cylvan should have known better—and he did, proven by the sly smile he gave back.
“I eagerly await your next report on the situation, High Keeper,” Cylvan said, turning back to the old fey whose lips were pursed and pale, clearly displeased with how the discussion had gone. “I’m sure King Tross will be able to provide a time for the council meeting.”
“Perhaps dinner,” Tross said thoughtfully, though directed neither at Cylvan nor the keeper, instead turning to flutter his own eyelashes at Ailir who just shook his head with a weary smile and wrapped an arm around his harmonious king.
“Now—I hope you don’t mind,” Cylvan went on, “I promised one very handsome friend of mine a private brunch. Have you decided what we should eat, flower?”
“There are so many options,” Saffron sighed lazily, stepping in close to Cylvan to wrap his arms around the prince’s waist and smile up at him. “Whatever you think I would like, your highness.”
“Then you’ll excuse us,” Cylvan said in finality to the others, putting his arm around Saffron in return.
“Oh—how could I have nearly forgotten?” the keeper said, just as Cylvan turned away with Saffron on his arm. “Lady mac Delbaith happened to be in the courtyard when I arrived; after briefly discussing this morning’s events, she offered to send a bird to the oracles of Fjornar, requesting they come at once. Many still practice in the old ways, so if there is anyone who would be able to recognize the intent of the spell in the Tapestry Hall, or any of the others, I’m sure it would be one of them. I imagine they may be able to assist in the recovery of the daurae as well, should they be needed… I’ve heard word of the royal oracles struggling to connect with the veil, something about it not responding to their calls, closed off from opening for even them after the harm caused at the Midsummer Games… If there is anyone in Alfidel who may know better, it is those from Fjornar, your highness.”
Cylvan’s eyes flashed to Saffron, showing the briefest flicker of uncertainty, just as Saffron’s eyes snapped to Cylvan in return.
“I think… that is a wise call to make,” Cylvan finally answered, as even the kings waited to see how he would respond. “In the meantime, however, let’s avoid discussing this morning’s events with anyone else, shall we? We wouldn’t want a panic over something that may be nothing more than a prank. Should I read about this in the morning gossip, High Keeper, I will know exactly whom to call back to the palace for an explanation.”
“Of—of course!” the keeper stammered, loud enough to echo off the ceiling.
“Good,” Cylvan answered, before smiling at Saffron. “Shall we go enjoy our meal, then?”
Saffron fluttered his eyelashes again, lifting his hand demurely to his mouth and letting his eyes sparkle in adoration as he asked, “Was your discussion important, your highness? You’re so handsome when dressed so formally,” as sweetly and vapidly as he could. Cylvan playfully bared his teeth like Saffron was something to eat, putting an arm back around his shoulder to finally walk away with him. Maeve and Saoirse followed on their heels.
“I thought of you the entire time,” Cylvan whispered, leaning close so only Saffron would hear. “Though I’m sure you managed to eavesdrop on every word yourself, so you can fill in any gaps I missed while fantasizing about your mouth.”
“I suppose I could provide that service, amongst any others you need from me,” Saffron smiled, pulling Cylvan down to playfully kiss him just as they rounded the corner. A small moment of lightheartedness, stolen like a loose thread from a fraying blanket draped over all of Avren. Plucked and hidden in that brief moment between their mouths, until Cylvan pulled a leaf of paper from his pocket, donning illustrations of the arid circles found around Avren for Saffron to look over. As Saffron silently took it from him, the sweetness faded as quickly as it came. The weight of apprehension returned, an unwelcome presence Saffron had long come to accept a constant companion over his shoulder.