11. The Temple
11
THE TEMPLE
T he rest of the afternoon was spent walking the streets of Erelaine, where it seemed everyone had a bone to pick with Cylvan and how the kings chose to address their newly-found ashen state. Complaining that it took far too long for Cylvan to arrive—despite boarding the train within hours of hearing the news. They complained that the prince visiting without bringing aid in-hand meant they would be forced to suffer even longer for no purpose—despite there not being anything, particularly, for Cylvan to bring them.
Saffron managed to keep his growing anger at bay throughout it all, by the almighty grace of ériu and every other damned god on that mount—until someone spit at Cylvan’s feet, exclaiming his visit was a waste of time, as Anysta mac Delbaith had already offered more than they would ever receive from a coming night prince. Saffron nearly lunged at the word, but Sionnach threw their arms around him first, hooves clopping against the cobblestones as they struggled to hold him back.
As night fell, Saffron’s venomous mood did not lift, despite Cylvan’s constant reassurances that everything they heard was normal. Everything he’d been expecting. He hadn’t had any false idea about what awaited him once he arrived, and so far everyone had met those expectations. That didn’t make it fair—but it was better for the response to be unfair than unpredictable. Saffron hated that—but he would swallow his temper for Cylvan’s sake. By the end of the day, as they finished dinner and separated for bed, Cylvan looked exhausted from it all. Saffron was not going to add to that weight on his back.
He never anticipated being able to sleep, just like every other night, but Saffron kept it to himself. He didn’t want to keep Cylvan awake, either, if the prince managed to steal a few hours in the darkness.—though even Cylvan proved as restless as he was, stepping from bed to briefly pace the room before claiming his cloak from the hook by the door and whispering something to Saoirse on the other side. All the while, Saffron said nothing. His raven had moved so quietly, as if he thought Saffron was fast asleep alongside him, too. If it would settle his nerves, Saffron would allow Cylvan to believe that. If anything, it meant he was free to slip away himself, to address the impulse eating at the back of his own mind.
Waiting until he was certain Cylvan and Saoirse were no longer lingering in the hallway, certain they’d gone for a walk in the quiet streets to settle Cylvan’s nerves, Saffron followed suit. He slipped from the bed, kicking his feet into his boots, then grabbing his red cloak before hurrying out on his own.
Fiachra followed on silent wing as Saffron snuck through the inn and out the door. The moment the moonlight outside hit him, mixing with the faint glow of surrounding lanterns and flickering lamps, a dark shadow manifested by his side, and Saffron released a low exhale through his nose.
Perhaps because they were already in an unfamiliar setting—but the sight of Taran looming alongside him that night was more unsettling than usual. He seemed bigger than Saffron remembered, more intimidating, more—unnatural, to the deepest of his human instincts. But then, catching the red eyes of the beast in the moonlight, Saffron was reassured all over again that it was still the wolf he commanded. The one whose name he’d carved into his arm.
Pausing just a moment longer, he grabbed a stick of charcoal tucked in the pocket of his cloak, wetting the end with his tongue before drawing an ogham stele down his forearm that read ‘ without trace .’ A spell to keep him from being spotted, as much as possible, especially if Cylvan and Saoirse truly were on a nightly walk. The last thing he needed was for one of them, or even worse, one of the stalking gossip writers, to see and start questioning why the Alvényan was scouting out The Morrígan’s defiled temple in the dead of night.
Tucking the charcoal back into his cloak, he gave Taran another glance while the wolf hovered just a few feet away.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Taran muttered, ears flattening slightly before trotting forward. Saffron followed, with Fiachra hovering just far enough overhead to sweep away at the last second if she had to.
“Can’t help it,” Saffron muttered. “Especially in the dark. Not that I care much for the sight of you during the day, either.”
“You’re the one who trapped me like this.”
“I didn’t like your high fey face much, either.”
The wolf growled lowly from the back of his throat, annoyed. He picked up his pace, making Saffron huff in his own annoyance as he hurried to keep up.
“Remind me why we’re doing this, despite Ryder being long gone?”
“I want to be sure,” Saffron said under his breath, instead of a more stubborn ‘we don’t know he’s long gone’ -sounding reply. “I want to be sure he only chose this place to embarrass Cylvan. Because if there’s any other reason, it means he may do the same thing again somewhere else—and if that’s the case, I want to know now.”
They slipped between temples glowing beneath multicolored lights, and by then Saffron could even figure out a few of them by the smell of their strong incense alone. No one they passed spotted any movement thanks to Saffron’s little arid trick, which seemed to naturally extend to Taran’s form like he hoped it would. Though imagining how folks might react to the ghostly form of the wolf king made him smirk with possibility.
Without the bustle of other visitors, the overwhelming mash of smells and sights to distract him, Saffron sensed the damaged veil sooner than the first time. That low buzzing sensation in his bones, the taste of mint and rust on the back of his tongue, a ripple of magic that teased the rowan threads in his blood. He swallowed the spit growing in the back of his throat and instinctively wiped his hand under his nose, relieved to see there still was no smear of blood left behind.
Approaching the burned temple from the side, Saffron slipped behind one of the tall pillars, into the shadows as a group of temple guardians passed by with lanterns. Taran watched them go with the same alertness, ears perked up straight and eyes trained like an attack dog.
When they didn’t catch sight of him, Saffron’s heart thumped in annoyance. Perhaps it was no wonder the temple’s most recent, destructive visitor was able to slip in unseen, after all. Once again reminded that Ryder Kyteler was merely a man, not a wraith. Not a ghost. Nothing Saffron couldn’t put his hands on, when he got his next chance.
“Come on,” Saffron whispered, hurrying between the rows of columns and the polished stone wall of the temple’s antechamber, around the front corner to where the entrance was barricaded with ancient rows of candles, woven ropes, garlands of dried herbs and flowers, and plaques indicating where patrons could find the new temple dedicated to the goddess instead. Saffron passed beneath the crossed ropes and herbs with ease, though Taran’s fur bristled and he sneezed upon following, like he’d inhaled a plume of dirt and smoke. It made Saffron smirk, reaching back to scratch the wolf’s snout, making Taran yank back with a snarl of warning.
The inside of the temple smelled of stale smoke, due to what Sionnach had described to him earlier in the day. It reminded Saffron of the scent of the charred remains of the Kyteler School outside of Morrígan. He had to press the edge of his cloak to his nose in an attempt to smudge it out, but the feelings of swirling apprehension were already making his chest tight.
He focused on the interior in front of him—burned dark and crumbling from centuries of slow decay. Clearly untouched from the very day it all burned down, like the morning after the flames faded, all the people could think to do was close it off in an attempt to trap any lingering misfortune inside. To build something new a little higher on the tiered mountainside, as if demonstrating a little more respect would keep the queen’s ire at bay from returning.
“When it first burned, I wonder what sparked the flames?” Saffron asked. Even speaking in a whisper, his voice bounced off the silence and skipped along the floor, like spirits joined him in conversation. “Why didn’t they do anything to stop it from spreading and destroying the entire place?”
“They likely thought it a direct message from The Morrígan, herself,” Taran grumbled, tracing his nose along the floor and kicking up tiny clouds of dust with every exhale. “I’m sure they thought if they tried to stop it, she would only curse them more for defying her will.”
Saffron grumbled under his breath about that, thinking once again about the burnt Kyteler School, even about the burning of Beantighe Village by Taran’s own hand. Apparently high fey both feared fire and had no qualms about using it to cleanse anything they didn’t like—which, perhaps, further explained why everyone in Avren was so keen on Asche taking Cylvan’s place, what with their fire magic. Fire magic they were afraid to use, risk hurting someone or something they cared about. The irony cut so deep, Saffron had to resist snorting with bitter laughter.
“There,” Taran spoke next, drawing Saffron back into the moment. He turned, squinting in the darkness, unable to see as clearly as the wolf could. Taran noticed, rolling his eyes and taking a mouthful of Saffron’s cloak to physically drag him to the opposite side of the burnt room, having to crawl over upturned chunks of the mosaic floor on the way. Fiachra met them there, perching on the edge of upturned stone.
He could hardly inhale a full breath upon standing within touching distance of what he’d hoped—but also dreaded finding inside. Black charcoal mixed with bloody red markings on one of the overturned stones of the floor, torn apart by the opening veil performed after the initial circle was drawn.
Even amongst the broken pieces throughout the debris—Saffron recognized the wide arc of a strange, nauseatingly, newly-familiar arid epithet. Specifically, the elongated lines that cut through the center, crossing over one another before split amongst the broken mosaic flooring. Just like what Cylvan had shown him of the arid circle found in the Tapestry Hall. Proclaim self—shelter soul—disgrace.
It left Saffron paralyzed where he stood, ears ringing as he swallowed the confirmation he’d been looking for, but never fully considered the implications of finding. Whoever had placed that epithet in the Tapestry Hall, was the same person who’d done it there, in The Morrígan’s profaned temple. And Saffron was certain, only Ryder knew how to rend open the veil in the way the floor beneath his feet indicated—which meant, Ryder must have been the one to first draw it in the Tapestry Hall, too. The random circles discovered around Avren actually had been him and his red witches—though for what purpose, Saffron still couldn’t fathom.
“Look there,” Taran mentioned, pulling Saffron back into his body. He quickly spotted what the wolf indicated, raising his eyebrows and carefully shuffling through the upturned flooring to get a closer look. Hardly any bigger than Saffron’s fingernail, a pink fairy fruit missed by searching beantighes shimmered in the moonlight, stark against the darkness of the burnt floor. He couldn’t resist crouching on the balls of his feet to regard it even closer, having to frantically whip Fiachra away the moment the owl landed and attempted to gulp it down for herself.
“Here, beantighe,” Taran went on, having already turned to continue his search. “Another one, here.”
Saffron followed the wolf’s calls through the darkness, plucking every fruit as he went on an impulse he couldn’t explain, more than just an effort to keep his bird from swallowing them whole. Down a short corridor to the side, Saffron kept on Taran’s heels into a secondary room far less crumbling than the main hall, but still equally neglected.
Immediately, he jumped back with a startled yelp when something massive flared its wings toward him in the darkness—only for an intricate crow statuette carved from dark wood to come into view as his eyes adjusted.
“Good god,” he wheezed, clutching his chest. “For what goddamned reason would… they…”
He trailed off, mind racing when he realized, he knew the shape of that bird. He’d seen it before, vaguely, only for a moment—but joined by those crying pleas for help . For rescue, to be found, that nightmare of Asche wailing and begging for Saffron to find them.
Instantly, Saffron perked. He searched the room, breathing fast as for a split second, he wondered if the daurae would be hidden somewhere inside, even if it was a foolish thing to believe. But just for a moment, it consumed every inch of him, until reality crept back in and reclaimed his nerves. Asche wasn’t in a burned-out, cordoned-off room in The Morrígan’s old temple in Erelaine. As much as he wished it would be that easy, he couldn’t allow himself to lose focus.
Taran indicated another weak bushel of fairy fruits, and Saffron approached to claim them, adding them to the front pocket of his shoulder bag in silence.
“What is this place?” He asked, only once he was sure his voice wouldn’t tremble from the adrenaline, then the disappointment.
“There’s likely a room similar to this in her new temple, too,” Taran said from the opposite side of the carving, just as Fiachra swept into the room and landed on one of the bird’s outstretched wings. “Look at the base of the bird, there—worshippers used to leave scrolls tucked inside, hoping the crow would carry their plea to The Morrígan.”
Saffron did as Taran invited, crouching on the balls of his feet to examine exactly how many little notes were tucked within the base of the statue. But more than that, he realized—there were hundreds, thousands more stuffed into notches of the walls, into cracks between the floorboards, some even in the plastered adornments along the ceiling. An uncountable number of scrolls, individual pleas for The Morrígan to answer or ignore, from centuries of patrons who passed through before the main chamber burned and those notes were left to time with the rest of the building.
He couldn’t resist gliding his palm over the nearest cluster stuffed within every tiny nook and cranny of the wall, biting back little laughs whenever he accidentally knocked a few loose. The majority of notes were written on plain parchment, as if scribbled and tucked away in the moment, though others were clearly planned ahead of time. They donned wax seals on their ends, little golden strings that spilled out from the cracks, and one, even, reflected light off a golden scroll-cap shaped like the head of a unicorn. Saffron knew that was the universal symbol of the royal family, and couldn’t resist intentionally plucking it out to see. Taran grumbled something about daring to show disrespect, considering whose temple they stood in, but Saffron shushed him, popping off the golden endcap and unrolling the tightly-wound paper.
“From some courtier, surely, to be bold enough to decorate their little note with the unicorn of the Tuatha dé Danann…” he mused, flattening the scroll and squinting through the darkness to read it. “Don’t make me laugh… I’m sure they’re begging for riches or more power, if that were even possible, or maybe…” he trailed off as the golden ink shined up at him, ears ringing as, first and foremost, he saw the name written at the bottom. Swallowing against the new, sharp lump in the back of his throat, his eyes dragged back to the top of the scroll to read from the beginning.
Beloved Badb, I humbly beseech thee to deliver this plea from one to-be-crowned queen to another.
I ask for no power, influence, or protection, more than I am already blessed to have. I ask only that you may shelter those I love left behind through the veil; my dearest Adone and Deimne, and those who watch over them.
Yours in perpetual worship,
Princess Aryadna dé Tuatha dé Danann.
A low chuckle rumbled from the wolf at Saffron’s side, the only thing that could bring him back into his body again. Only then did Saffron realize his hands trembled, to be holding something once written by the veiled queen, herself. It was a wonder his skin didn’t burn, that the paper didn’t erupt into flames, to dare be touched by a rowan witch like those she would later come to despise so deeply.
“It’s no wonder the temple went up in flames the day she was crowned,” Taran mused. “The queen was here begging for The Morrígan to watch over those who had no right to her grace.”
“Adone was Proserpina’s human lover,” Saffron said. His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. He didn’t know what else to say, there was nothing else to add to that comment—but speaking the name out loud was enough to sense a new chill in the air. “She asked The Morrígan to protect her human lover, just days before she would be crowned alongside Clymeus… to then do what they did, to all of those humans, both arid and not… to destroy the veil the way they did, when she’d pleaded for the protection of her own human lover just before...”
The words spilled out of him; a mix of confusion, resentment, practically a plea to understand. His next instinct was to crumple the paper between his hands, to tear it into a thousand pieces; to desecrate it just as the temple had been, just as the Kyteler School, Beantighe Village had once been—but his fingers disobeyed.
Instead, they gently pinched the edges of the smooth paper, rolling it back into place. He even returned the gold unicorn-shaped caps to either end, though there was no repairing the broken seal on the front. Taran only watched as Saffron then tucked the note into an inner pocket of his cloak, then turned to leave.
He didn’t know why. He had no reason to keep it. Had Taran asked for an explanation, Saffron didn’t know what he would say.
Only that something about the title Princess, followed by her full name, filled him with a strange dread—perhaps because it reminded him so much of how Cylvan’s name looked when he once wrote it in Morrígan’s Grand Library for Saffron to see.
Returning to the inn, Saffron’s mind looped over a hundred things at once, resulting in hardly more than a buzz of thoughts that went nowhere, started with nothing, culminating in unhelpful nonsense. Only one thing remained clear above the rest, and it was the constant sound of Sionnach’s words repeating from their earlier explanation of the queen’s coronation route. How it’d originated in the Winter Court, where she must have come through the veil from where she originally lived in the human world with her lover. With Adone. Her human lover, who she’d left in the human world when called to become queen alongside Clymeus. She must have still loved Adone so deeply, to still plead for his protection while away…
Something in Saffron’s gut couldn’t let it go. Wouldn’t let it fade into the rest of the noisy cacophony of ideas and fears and anxieties swarming him from every angle.
Even as he snuck back into Cylvan’s room, where the prince waited for him. Wide awake with a book on his lap. Candle burning, regarding Saffron with annoyed exasperation like a worried parent, as if he himself hadn’t been the one to sneak out first. Even so—the knotting in Saffron’s gut never faded. He walked straight into Cylvan’s arms, straddling the prince’s lap in the chair and snuggling into him before Cylvan ever had a chance to scold him. Pressing their mouths together before Cylvan could gather himself to remember what he was so worried about.
Cylvan seemed just as willing to let it go, as worn-through as Saffron was from the journey, too much to spare the strength to discuss it. At least until morning. Saffron was grateful, kissing the side of Cylvan’s next before sinking into the shape of him with a deep exhale. Closing his eyes to vanish into his warmth, for as long as he was allowed.
Once offered another chance, sleep still came as hesitantly as every night prior—only to be stolen out from beneath Saffron’s attempts, once again by the shrieking call of someone begging for his help. Echoing off the inside of his skull as if cried directly in his ear; pleading with him. Find me. Please, save me. I’m lost. I’m here. That time, surrounded by a brightly-lit forest; a henge of stones, a black and red arid circle painted in the grass beneath his feet, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock— deafening until Saffron woke with a shuddering gasp. Heart pounding as only one thought met him on the other side—a harrowing sense that Ryder had done it again.