10. Erelaine
10
ERELAINE
T he mass of the crowd had dissipated by morning, though a handful of straggling bodies remained outside the stable doors holding quills and pads of paper. Wishing to be the first ones to see how Prince Cylvan fared sleeping with animals in pens. Saffron could already imagine the headlines without having to read them, deciding perhaps gossip writers should try to be a little more creative.
Getting dressed in the stables was no issue for Saffron—he was used to it—which meant he had plenty of stamina to assist the others while they struggled to keep straw out of their hair, off their expensive clothing, even Maeve nearly having a silent meltdown as her horse continually attempted to munch on her hair for breakfast.
Moth was eager to show the group a way out the back where far fewer predatory eyes would know to look. Cylvan offered her a slight bow as they went, and she blushed bright red in the doorway, petrified, the entire time they left after. Not knowing that Cylvan had just finished requesting the stablemaster treat his servant better, in the same terrifyingly calm way he and King Tross had spoken to the High Keeper of Tapestries. Saffron hoped things got better for the girl thanks to it.
From what Moth made Saffron believe about the sanctity of Erelaine’s gates, he was admittedly impressed by the height of the stone archway that opened its wide mouth over the road, where Saffron and the others passed through on foot. Decorated with the same multi-colored lamps, flowers and flags, and Old Alvish writing he didn’t have a chance to read and ask about. Blessed be the gods , or something, he was sure.
What he didn’t expect, however, was the sudden rush of noise and offerings—seemingly made to them , right on the other side. First came a fey that jangled with every movement, shoving an offering bowl into his chest and requesting—demanding—a token of appreciation for the safe arrival of him and his party; flower crowns were tossed onto their heads from the opposite direction, someone else appearing to ask if they needed a guide through the temples, expecting payment up front with hands outstretched; handfuls of candy, pieces of bread, beaded necklaces were tucked into their hands as ‘first offerings’ to the gods as it appeared they hadn’t brought any of their own. One pair of hands even yanked Fiachra off Saffron’s shoulder to draw a half flower on her pale forehead—surprised when Saffron shouted at them and physically shoved them to the ground while stealing his bird back. In the chaos he turned and pitched the owl into the sky, where she rolled over herself before taking wing and arching into the clouds.
Aodhán was the one to sweep Saffron forward again, hooking an arm around his back and forcing him through the rabble. They barked at anyone else who attempted to shove objects into Saffron’s hands, to drape him in flowers or spray him with perfumes, even lashing out when one person lost their balance against them and yanked Saffron’s tunic open.
Had there not been other tourists filing in behind them through the archway gates, Saffron might have thought all the excitement to be over Cylvan’s arrival specifically—but it appeared to be a common greeting from the people of Erelaine. Perhaps even more desperate than usual, considering how many of their previous patrons had fled for the train the night prior, leaving the city essentially abandoned.
“There is a reason no one described Erelaine to be a particularly spiritual place,” Cylvan said with a wry smile, as they made it through the initial mass of people. Saffron knew how disheveled he must have looked with how Cylvan chuckled, then approached to help fix the collar of his tunic pulled open, the mess of his once-nicely-combed hair.
“I suddenly understand how worms caught between two birds feel,” Saffron grumbled, stepping back from Cylvan to scramble fingers through his hair and fully dislodge all sorts of confetti faster than Cylvan could pick them out one-by-one. Fiachra lighted down on his shoulder again once he straightened back up, looking equally irritated to have been man-handled in such a way.
“At the very least, it appears they still don’t allow reporters through the gates,” Cylvan sighed, putting an arm around Saffron’s shoulder to try and reinvigorate him. It helped, for the briefest of moments—until Saffron noticed a familiar carriage tucked off to the side of the road, donning the mac Delbaith crest. In front, someone was already there conversing with visiting fey about an array of silver for sale on the table in the front of them. Cylvan noticed Saffron looking, nudging him back to look ahead. “Don’t mind them,” he breathed. “They won’t bother us. Just taking advantage of an opportunity, like everyone else.”
“Erelaine used to have a better reputation,” Maeve added from behind, her tone equally as annoyed as Saffron felt. Further emphasized by how she ripped fingers through her messy braid in agitation, plaits littered with more small flowers and strings of beads stuffed inside. Petals and bells and polished gems tumbled to the ground as she undid the strands, then stepped right over them again while re-braiding. “A wonder so many willingly travel in every day just to pretend to serve one god or another. While folk dressed as priestesses trick them out of their money.”
“Are all the temples going to feel like that?” Saffron asked wearily, as Cylvan pulled him into his side and turned to continue up the road.
“The really emphatic types tend to stick to the front gates,” he reassured, to Saffron’s relief. “There are real temple-keepers who live and work here full-time, too. You’ll be able to tell them from the grifters easy enough, once we make it past these small-time gods on the lower tier.”
“‘Small-time’…” Saffron repeated, glancing at the temples on either side of them as they made their way up the road. Once free of the cacophony, able to breathe and think clearly again, Saffron was able to relax and fully regard what was in front of him. Altars lined both sides of the street, flooding his senses with the sounds of bells or other god-specific instruments; different kinds of incense and scented candles burned depending on who the offering was meant for; other infrequent visitors to Erelaine stopped in front of one altar or another, making an offering of something from their pocket or pulling a stick of incense from the hanging bowl to breathe in the smoke then whisper something for only the individual god to hear.
“I’ll let you know if I sense that man nearby,” Taran ghosted in the back of Saffron’s mind. Perhaps sensing his perpetual, low-burning anxiety, witnessing how Saffron’s eyes constantly flicked back and forth around the street so restlessly it made him dizzy. Gulping back the nerves, he tried to stay in the moment. He didn’t want Cylvan, or anyone else for that matter, to notice how anxious he was and begin to feel the same. More than they already did.
“Is it usually this quiet?” Saffron asked, knowing how ironic it was to ask after what they’d just passed through. But once the initial frenzied crowd was gone down the street—the atmosphere was peaceful. Relaxed, respectful. Other pedestrians spoke in soft tones, barely raising their voices even to call out to one another. Even Saoirse ahead of them kept one gloved hand on the grip of her sword so it wouldn’t clatter so loudly on her belt.
“You saw how many people fled last night,” Cylvan said under his breath. “I imagine fewer have opted to come and visit, all things considered. The ones who have may be here out of curiosity more than actual intention for prayer.”
Saffron glanced at the nearest tourist couple as he thought about it, frowning when they were definitely watching Cylvan’s party pass by. Whispering to one another. Despite what Cylvan said about reporters prohibited from entering, too—one of them undeniably had a pad of parchment in one hand, a quill in the other.
He had to constantly remind himself they were in Erelaine for a real reason, and he should have been more on his guard considering that reason—but Saffron couldn’t help losing himself in every altar they passed, no matter how small. Sometimes he recognized the names of the deities from the myths he loved so much, sometimes they were strangers that Cylvan was more than happy to explain. Some, he was surprised to learn, were even appropriated from human myths, like the temple to a goddess called Athena and another to Odin . It made Saffron wonder if there were any altars to the likes of ériu, like there was apparently to Bríghde, both being generally worshipped by human beantighes.
“Even Avren had an altar to ériu,” Saffron muttered in disappointment while sipping wine from a shallow dish at the temple of a god called Sucellos . “Even if it wasn’t very well taken care of.”
“When I’m king, I’ll build an altar to ériu in every town,” Cylvan said, making Saffron roll his eyes.
When he spotted a little altar for Niamh further up the road, Saffron couldn’t help but step to it as well, followed by Cylvan who barely let Saffron out of reach for a moment. Saoirse and Aodhán paused on the road with them, though Maeve and Sionnach politely continued on their way. Curious to seek out altars of their own, while there was a chance.
“You mentioned Niamh on the train, but I never expected her to be considered a goddess,” Saffron said, appreciating the tokens on display for her. Golden threads woven with bells, bowls of sea water, flowers and shimmering pieces of polished mirrors dangling from strings between the two marble stone columns. The priestess was clearly too busy behind the tent to tell him anything else, but luckily, the Prince of Alfidel was the best informant Saffron could ask for.
“Outside of Alfidel, she isn’t,” Cylvan said, reaching down to pluck two mirrors tied together with a string, letting them dangle from the hook of one of his nails. “But the fey love deifying all beings of myth. Can you guess what she represents?”
Saffron gazed over the minor altar again, before flicking one of the mirrors hanging from Cylvan’s finger and watching it spin.
“Beauty?”
“Hmm, almost,” Cylvan smiled. “Think about her story, beantighe. I know you have it memorized by now.”
Saffron frowned, watching the mirror pieces spin before swaying to a halt.
“Love.”
“That’s it,” Cylvan smiled, taking Saffron’s hand and tucking both mirror pieces into his palm, closing his fingers over them. “ Eternal love, to be specific. She blesses couples with shared protection, so one might never be without the other. They say mirrors touched by her grace allow you to always see your beloved in the reflection, even when apart.”
Saffron’s cheeks flushed, peeking at the two mirrors in his hand, but seeing only himself looking back.
“A trick of Erelaine,” he said with a sigh, remembering what Maeve said. Cylvan just tucked his fingers closed again.
“Who knows. Perhaps you only need to win her favor.”
“Or perhaps it’s the ashen state.”
“Bold of you, to assume something as simple as an ashen state could keep Lady Niamh from charming these little trinkets to bless two eternal lovers.”
Saffron rolled his eyes, tucking the mirrors into his pocket—only to jump when someone wearing priestess garb barked at him to put them back. Cylvan gasped, dramatically accusing Saffron of being a thief, laughing loudly as Saffron scrambled to toss the mirrors back on the table and bow to the priestess in apology. He punched Cylvan in the gut and shoved him back down the road, face bright red as Cylvan howled in amusement.
Meeting back up with Sionnach and Maeve before passing into the upper tier of the gods, Saffron was in the middle of rambling on and on about the altars he and Cylvan had passed by and the random gods he’d recognized—when Maeve suddenly put out a hand, stopping him.
“You have to be shitting me,” she muttered. Saffron petrified, turning slowly, afraid of what he’d find—but melted in an instant at the sight of red hair visible a ways down the unoccupied street. Clearly attempting to blend in at one of the altars, despite being one of only five people loitering around.
“Is that…?” Sionnach asked, squinting.
“Copper!” Saffron gasped, shoving Cylvan out of his way and hurrying into the street. He didn’t have to move much closer to know for sure, especially once Copper’s golden-brown eyes met his, and the fox-lord grinned ear-to-ear.
“Oh, Lord Saffron!” He exclaimed. “What a coincidence! Was it Erelaine you said you were visiting? Huh, I could have sworn it was Morlaín…”
Saffron hugged him, which seemed to catch Copper off guard, before laughing and hugging him back. Like he wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he would get upon showing himself. The fact he ever worried Saffron wouldn’t be thrilled only made Saffron hug him tighter—even if Copper really was the biggest idiot he knew.
“How ironic…” he went on, like he’d spent all morning scripting exactly how it would go when they accidentally crossed paths. “Here I just wanted to get away from Avren, thought I might visit some of the ol’ family gods and pray for good favor… huh… Hey, where are you guys staying? I’m still looking for an inn that has a room open… Oh, good morning, your highness, funny running into you here?—”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Cylvan asked as he approached. “Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?”
“Because of something right now, or in general?”
“You followed us here?” Sionnach asked, eyes narrowed.
“What? Of course not—like I was just saying to Saffron, I totally misunderstood what exactly you all were doing?—”
“Copper, just— shut up,” Saffron groaned, squeezing his friend one more time. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Well—it’s not for any of you, of course,” Copper reiterated, wrapping his arms around Saffron again and squeezing until Saffron wheezed. “Definitely not for any kind of royal mission or whatever, either… Definitely on my own volition, by my own choice… I’m not here to help with whatever King Ailir asked for, so don’t go telling anyone?—”
“God— shut up!” Cylvan hissed, grappling for one of Copper’s hidden ears and yanking on it. “You’re goddamn insufferable! Why does everything have to be so godsdamned dramatic with you!”
“Speak for yourself, dragon prince,” Copper argued, bumping Saffron away to accost Cylvan instead, throwing him in a headlock until they were fighting in the middle of the street. Saoirse was the one to clear her throat, while Aodhán just hissed at Cylvan for letting Copper overpower him so easily.
Releasing Cylvan in a flurry of curses and rumpling Cylvan’s clothing, Copper pushed hair from his eyes and let out a casual sigh.
“Well, since I ran into you all… might as well spend the afternoon together too, huh? Have you had a chance to check out the event site yet? I’ve been keeping my eye out for anything suspicious, you know… nothing to report, for now. They’ve got some great food in the upper tiers, though, Saffron, you’re gonna love it. I assume the prince is paying.”
“Are you sure you can stomach a meal afford by the crown?” Cylvan sneered, grabbing Saffron’s arm and yanking him close, like they were fighting over a toy. Saffron swallowed back a laugh.
“Aren’t all meals afforded by the crown? Seeing as you all oversee imports into Alfidel, and… whatnot…” Copper attempted, clearly overwhelmed by his own uncertainty as the insult petered off. Cylvan just stared at him like he’d grown a second head, as even Copper shifted uncomfortably on his feet before clearing his throat. “I’ll eat whatever you wanna give me, yeah. Used all my money on the train ticket, anyway.”
“Useless,” Cylvan muttered, turning with a whip of his hair and furl of his cloak. “Come, Lord Saffron, we have more temples to see this way… Let us see what’s waiting for us in the second tier, as obliged by the Primary King of Alfidel, Ailir dé Tuatha ? —”
“Alright, don’t be a dick about it,” Copper muttered, nudging his toe into the pit of Cylvan’s knee and almost making Cylvan trip. Had Saffron not burst out laughing and pulled Cylvan forward again, it would have definitely resulted in more fist-fighting on the cobblestones.
Commissioning a wagon to take them to the higher tiers of the mount, and long before they arrived at the site of the veil event—Saffron felt it. The words in his mouth, in the middle of chatting idly with Sionnach, dried up into a rasp as his throat tightened. His blood buzzed, skin flushing hot, then cold, as he tasted iron at the back of his throat.
Turning to look, the number of pedestrians in that area of the city had grown compared to the lower temples, likely due to what Cylvan had said about curiosity around what had happened—but even with the added activity, Saffron noticed the fruits first. The smallest little bulbs of pink fairy fruits spawning from cracks in the street, though scattered figures with shovels and netted bags on their hips were in the process of hurriedly scooping the sparkling plants up to toss them out before they could mature.
The only thing to possibly make Saffron’s already-buzzing blood boil was the sight of silver cuffs and veils on those working. Realizing right away, they were beantighes who scraped the berries away. Beantighes, seemingly allowed into the city just for the special occasion of cleaning up after Ryder’s most recent mess. Saffron wondered if Ryder was aware—but knew, even if he was, he wouldn’t care.
Saffron also knew without having to ask—the cuffs they wore were opulent. It was obvious by their shape, the ornate designs embellishing them, not to mention how they’d passed a mac Delbaith carriage on their way in. Sellers of mac Delbaith silver had already arrived, had already distributed accessories for control long before setting up their stall at the mouth of the city. He thought he might be sick; he thought he might not be able to resist the urge to set fire to the carriage on their way out again.
“They’re fireproof,” Taran informed him lazily, and Saffron mentally cursed him back into his cage.
Hardly a single part of him wanted to get too close to The Morrígan’s temple ruined by Ryder’s actions—but Saffron also knew he had no choice. Maybe more pointedly, he knew Cylvan had no choice. Considering it was his duty to walk the site and observe the damage per King Ailir’s request, Saffron was not about to leave him to do so alone. Not when there was still the chance of Ryder remaining nearby. Ryder, or one of his other red witches, as the fey passengers on the train had called them. Saffron clenched his fists on his thighs, fighting to keep the apprehension off his expression.
Despite having just snapped at Taran to go away , Saffron returned to mentally dig around in the back of his mind, like combing fingers through stalks of wheat. Searching for where a shadowy beast might be crouching amongst the grains.
Do you sense anything? He asked upon finding it, that small sense of a presence other than his. Specifically—do you sense Ryder? Or anything else with veil magic?
The dog stirred, clearly still annoyed to have been told off only moments prior.
“No,” Taran answered simply. “Not right now.”
Tell me if you do.
“I already said I would. Don’t bother me again.”
“I’ll bother you all I like, mutt,” Saffron grumbled as the wagon slowed to a halt at the base of the ruined temple, and he rose to his feet to step out before anyone could stop him.
Saffron knew enough about The Morrígan from myth to know exactly why the destruction of their temple was alarming for the people of Alfidel, even when not considering the means in which it happened. The goddess of war and death; sometimes referring only to Queen Morrígan herself, sometimes to her and her sisters, Macha and Badb, the crow. For one of their temples to burn down, of course it would be considered an omen of death, destruction, catastrophe to come. Then to be visited by the coming Night Prince, himself, to observe the damage—it was no wonder those fey fleeing Erelaine the night before had been so bold to shout such terrible things.
Originally built from marble, with columns stacked every few feet around the perimeter of the great building, only half remained standing from how the earth had split beneath it. Stone crumbled from what remained of the interior, where Saffron noticed another handful of beantighes crawling around in the debris attempting to recover anything they could. Donning the same veils and cuffs as those on the road.
A flock of crows gathered on the remaining stone roof overhead, cawing and opening their wings wide whenever someone passed, as if to warn all from coming too close to such a desecrated place. Fiachra made sure to flare her wings at the birds in response, but when challenged back, just tucking in close to the side of Saffron’s neck.
Where the temple had been devoured on one side, the earth beneath was equally churned and turned over itself. It resembled the field of the Midsummer Games almost exactly, though instead of grass, stone mosaic flooring jutted out from the rent soil like a neglected graveyard. All of it, beneath a thick blanket of veil magic that both suffocated and energized Saffron to a nauseating degree, having to put his arm over his mouth while no one else seemed to notice. It called out to him, to the magic in his blood—and he suddenly recalled that thin dream of crying off in the distance. Someone calling to him for help.
“Your highness,” a familiar voice greeted once everyone disembarked the wagon, turning as Anysta mac Delbaith approached with a small box in her hands. Saffron instinctively took a step forward, but Cylvan put out a subtle hand to stop him. “I heard you may be coming to witness the destruction, here. Funny how our paths have crossed a second time; I am glad your journey was a safe one.”
“You as well,” Cylvan said with as polite a smile as ever, before glancing to Saffron like he could sense the indignation emanating from him. “Lord Saffron, you remember Lady Anysta. We met her a few days ago, at the palace.”
“I remember,” Saffron said, forcing himself to be good. Forcing himself to be as polite as Cylvan was, though he had no idea how persuasive his tone could possibly be in that circumstance. “I also saw your salesperson on the road in the lower tier—did they not permit your silver offerings this far up the mount?”
Anysta’s smile tightened slightly, but she had no grounds to snap back at him. As far as she knew, he was still just a naive countryfey who didn’t know when he was being rude.
“I much prefer to offer our family silver in charitable donations, when possible,” she said, motioning with her hand to the beantighes who cleaned out the interior of the temple, no different from those who picked fairy fruits off the street; donning silver cuffs to ensure they didn’t wander further than allowed.
A high fey appearing to be the keeper of the temple hurried over to Cylvan, next, taking the prince’s attention to show him the damage a little closer; to go into detail about what had happened the night of the event, which wasn’t too different from what Moth had told them. It happened during the night, where temple guardians only pass through every few hours to ensure things are in line and nothing is amiss. Even then, due to the temple’s history, guardians never had any reason to pass through that one, specifically.
The comment made Saffron glance back to the destruction, wondering if The Morrígan were so frightening that no one ever made offerings even during the day—but then he realized, there was fire damage on the interior of the walls. A barricade had been set up at the mouth of the entrance, but the closer he looked, the more Saffron realized it was far older than only a few days. Possibly years, maybe even decades, or even longer, by how the bells and tapestries appeared faded from the sun and weather.
“Sionnach,” Saffron asked in a whisper as Cylvan and the keeper of the temple continued their conversation, turning to make their way toward the temple itself. “Is there a reason no one would be allowed inside this temple? Maybe that’s the only reason Ryder chose to do it here…”
“Well… he may have chosen this one for its state of abandonment, yes. But also…” Sionnach said thoughtfully, standing next to Saffron and taking a moment to observe the crumbling remains for themself. “This location comes with some notoriety regarding Queen Proserpina.”
Saffron raised his eyebrows, noticing how Sionnach’s voice grew quiet as they spoke. As if it was to summon a storm just to speak of it.
“This was technically The Morrígan’s first temple here in Erelaine; there’s a new one a little higher up the mount. Some call this one, specifically, the ‘Profaned Temple of The Morrígan,’” Sionnach explained in a conspiratorial whisper, and Saffron’s eyes widened in curiosity. “Because this was the final place on Queen Proserpina’s coronation route, before she became queen. She prayed here very last, before entering Avren, beseeching The Morrígan for a court protected from destruction and misfortune like other crowned rulers had before her. Except—it burned down the same night she and King Clymeus were crowned a week later. Perhaps Ryder thought it a good place to bring attention, to destroy it while everyone’s eyes were on Cylvan most after what happened at the games…”
Saffron pressed his lips together, gazing back at the temple with a frown and furrowed brows.
“What’s a ‘coronation route?’” he asked first.
“When a new ruler wasn’t raised in Avren, they would make a spectacle of traveling from their home city to the capital, stopping at small towns and sacred sites along the way to greet the people and pray and give offerings in exchange for a peaceful rule. Queen Proserpina was from the Winter Court—erm, at least, the Winter Court was where she passed through from her home in the human world, so hers started from there.” Sionnach explained thoughtfully. “You know, when this temple burned, people say the flames were ‘so fierce that they rearranged the stars.’ Enough that the queen’s Night Court was anticipated long before her Court of Expectations.”
“Oh,” Saffron exhaled, not expecting the squeeze in his chest. Resisting the impulse to acknowledge how familiar that sounded, as his eyes traveled to where Cylvan stood at the mouth of the damage with the temple keeper, extending his hand toward where the beantighes worked inside. Saffron’s heart thumped as the prince clearly waved the beantighes toward the exit, while sharing a tense conversation with the keeper. Demanding the servants be relieved of their duties, due to the instability of the temple over their heads.
“Ryder really must have been trying to make Cylvan look bad again, like you said,” he finally spoke again, like a curse. Hoping that, if Ryder was still nearby, he would feel the intention ricochet through him like a burning arrow. Saffron knew what Ryder was thinking, which meant he was closer to finding him. He’d already taken enough—and Saffron would get back what was stolen from him, with his prince still intact. In fact—he would scour every inch of that profaned temple, for as long as he had to, to figure out exactly where Ryder had gone next.