13. The Search
13
THE SEARCH
“ W ake up, wake up!”
Saffron’s thoughts were heavy from a restless sleep, eyes cracking open first to darkness, then the faint light of a candle being quickly struck. Between the bunk beds, Sionnach was quickly pulling on a robe over their sleeping clothes, while Maeve and Copper crowded the doorway. The curtains were drawn over the window, too dark to see outside—except for a slow-moving, bobbing line of lantern light that slowly passed by. Only then did Saffron realize the train had come to an unexpected stop.
Cylvan was suddenly there, pushing his way between Maeve and Copper in the doorway and moving straight to where Saffron was only just beginning to sit up. Saffron had no chance to ask what was going on before Cylvan’s hands were under his arms, fully lifting him from the bed and pulling him to the floor. He said nothing, moving quickly to ask Sionnach where Saffron’s dressing gown was, while Saoirse and Aodhán appeared in the corridor outside carrying a lamp of their own.
“What’s going on?” Saffron finally asked. Cylvan didn’t meet his eyes, just grabbing the robe from Sionnach’s hand and quickly dressing Saffron in it. “Cylvan?—!”
“Witchhunters,” he said, quick and low. “The ones who rode with us to Erelaine—they must have followed us. They’ve stopped the train.” His voice trembled. “They’re checking any human beantighes registered on board. They may search the rooms for any others who may be hiding.”
“What?” Saffron’s voice cracked, grabbing Cylvan’s shoulder. “Cylvan!”
“It’s going to be alright, Saffron, come,” Cylvan insisted, putting his arm securely around Saffron’s waist and leading him toward the corridor.
“Passengers are gathering in the drinking car. The rest of you as well,” Saoirse instructed.
Saffron walked quickly in line with Cylvan, who held him close in an arm that never loosened. The brief moment he glanced up to his prince’s face, his jaw was locked tight enough to flex the tendons in his throat, staring straight ahead as they passed swiftly between the cars.
As they went, any passengers who stepped aside averted their eyes, before making the motion of beseeching a Day Court. Saffron wished he could put his arm around Cylvan in return, wished he could take his raven’s hand and reassure him it was going to be alright, everything was going to be alright, this wasn’t the first time they’d had to slip unnoticed beneath the gaze of searching witchhunters—but even he wasn’t sure how much he believed it.
But even if he himself could go unbothered by the privilege of his glamour and the company he kept—what about the other humans on board? What if there were any who had been dabbling in arid magic, who had eaten rowan berries, who had been swept up in Ryder’s sweet promises, like all those others?
He wanted to say something, he wanted to quietly beg for Cylvan to do something, knowing if anyone could, it would be him—but for the first time, Saffron’s mouth remained clamped shut. His voice might not have come even if he’d tried with how fast and hard his heart pounded in his chest, either, the moment he was reminded—witchhunters knew him, proven by how they once tried to give him a rowan burial. Those on the train, there, knew him specifically. One of them had looked directly at him on Avren’s platform. Would they be bold enough to accuse him there, in front of everyone? Even with his glamour, even with no indication he was anything other than another fey lord…?
They arrived in the dimly-lit drinking car, where a small group of beantighes gathered near the opposite end while their patron families gathered at the bar, where the bartender worked to keep up with the sudden rush of midnight orders. With the humans, one of the witchhunters stood waiting for all to be accounted for. Their face remained hidden beneath the veil, but Saffron felt their eyes the moment he and Prince Cylvan appeared with the rest.
“Please do not worry, ladies, lords, gentles, we will not keep your beantighe servants long,” another witchhunter announced in a calm, reassuring voice. Making Saffron jump, as he didn’t realize exactly how close they were with how they blended with the low light of the car. Nearly within reach, had he taken another few steps forward. “The train will return on its way momentarily.”
“What is it you’re looking for?”
Cylvan’s hand tightened on Saffron’s shoulder. The faces of every person in the train car turned toward him—and only then did Saffron realize, he’d been the one to ask. Without thinking, numbed by fear yet simultaneously emboldened by Cylvan’s nearness. Even the witchhunter’s gaze lingered on the prince’s hand evident where it held Saffron close, as they folded their own hands politely over their stomach.
“Considering what we lost at the Midsummer Games, my lord,” they answered, speaking slowly, edging on condescension, “… it is in the best interest of the people of Alfidel to ensure we cut this human resistance off at the root. We mean no harm to anyone found innocent. We only mean to question what they may know.”
Saffron nearly asked what, exactly, they could possibly be looking for—something that a handful of spring witches at best would be able to share, especially if they already had Ryder who always had an answer to everything—but something else prickled at the back of his throat, first. That question, exactly. Why not ask Ryder directly—unless…?
“Members of the resistance would not be on this train with their patron families,” Saffron said instead. That time, more curious than accusatory. Wondering if they would be uncoordinated enough to answer what he suddenly suspected.
Murmurs rose from the groups of high fey standing around the empty bar, looking a mix of annoyed at him for speaking up, and intrigued by the point he made.
“There is no way of knowing exactly how far this recent growth of red witchcraft has spread,” the witchhunter replied, and that time, Saffron had to purposefully bite his tongue. Once again fighting the impulse to snap back: ‘you know exactly how far-reaching the resistance is, considering your closeness to Ryder Kyteler…’ but again, he swallowed it. Another suspicion clogged the back of his throat, feeding the first. If the witchhunters could get whatever they were looking for from Ryder directly—they never would have any reason reason to put on such a large show for such a small crowd.
To follow Saffron and the others from Avren to Erelaine, the site of the veil event—then to continue with them from Erelaine into the Fall Court, despite no reports of anything else on Ryder’s heels?—
Saffron questioned—if even the witchhunters didn’t know where Ryder Kyteler had gone, or where he might appear next.
“If there are arid-magic practicing humans on this train, living amongst their patron families, then there are a far few more you should be taking with you for questioning, witchhunter,” Saffron said, next. His eyes flickered to the cluster of high fey, who shifted uncomfortably on their feet. Cylvan’s hand on Saffron’s shoulder locked tight enough to bruise. A silent command for him to be quiet .
“Your interest in defending these beantighes makes me think perhaps you are the one who should be brought for questioning, Lord Saffron,” the witchhunter countered, but Saffron didn’t flinch. A clear, threatening reminder that those on the train were well aware of his secret thanks to their allyship with Ryder—but Saffron knew, especially if they were also looking for the man, that causing trouble with Saffron would only be a distraction.
“Am I defending the beantighes, or their patron families?” Saffron asked. Unfazed by the veiled threat. Cylvan’s grip on him tightened—but then loosened. Catching on to exactly what Saffron was trying to do.
“Am I to believe there are potentially high fey on this train who are patronizing magic-practicing humans?” Cylvan spoke as the Prince of Alfidel, commanding and authoritative. It gave Saffron chills, and he had to resist turning to smile at him. “Perhaps Lord Saffron is right—the fact so many of you are silent despite such serious accusations makes me wonder what you’re hiding, using your servant as a shield…”
A brief moment of silence—followed by Copper, of all people, who scoffed loud enough to even make Cylvan jump.
“If some witchhunter accused me of patronizing an arid human, I’d tell ‘em to kick rocks, personally…”
Saffron bit back another smile, unable to help it as Copper’s delivery wasn’t nearly as polished as Cylvan’s. It seemed to do its job, however, as the gathered fey looked between one another uncomfortably, some shuffling away from their neighbors, straightening up to look judgmentally down at those standing next to them. Saffron could practically see the cloud of gossip forming along the ceiling.
“As if I would trust some out-of-date trial to determine the loyalties of one of my own servants, anyway,” Maeve interjected with a disapproving sigh. “Who knows what sort of agenda they have behind the scenes.”
“Would be real easy to accuse some noble family of harboring arid humans, huh?” Copper added.
“Makes me wonder, considering how few of us there are on this train as it is.”
Silence rang like an echo. Discomfort, as those words lingered, as the passengers surrounding them looked between one another again, shifting back and forth on their feet. Finally, someone spoke up. A fey lady who cleared her throat, airing herself with the feathered fan in her hand.
“It’s as I said in the cabin—this is an outrageous thing to do in the middle of nowhere. We’ve nearly entered the Fall Court—we could be robbed blind while sitting here, playing this theater.”
Copper muttered something at that, but Sionnach elbowed him to be quiet.
“Do they think us such poor patron fey that we wouldn’t know if one of our own beantighes is acting out?” Another snapped. “Preposterous—return my beantighe at once! I will not stand for this blatant disrespect.”
“Mine as well. Come, Flicker. You must light the heater in my cabin again.”
One beantighe in the group wasted no time shoving free of the others, hurrying to where their patron lady extended an arm to possessively pull them in and lead them away. As they passed, they met Saffron’s eyes. Full of silent gratitude. Saffron pretended not to notice, though his stomach knotted.
“If they wish to investigate my property, they can send me a formal letter,” came another. “They can’t just come and search my things without warning. And expect me to just bow and accept it! Come, Dandelion!”
“You as well, Cotton!”
The beantighes huddled at the head of the car scattered, all hurrying back to their patron families as the volume of voices in the car rose to near-deafening. Saffron had to stumble back into Cylvan to avoid being crushed by the sudden swell, but Cylvan kept a steady, protective grasp on him the entire time. Soon, even the witchhunters at the head of the car scowled, turning and hissing orders to one another before disappearing through the doorway into the upper car.
Only once they left did Saffron’s confidence wane like water from a broken glass, legs buckling beneath him but caught in Cylvan’s arms before he reached the floor. He helped Saffron to one of the nearby chairs, as if Saffron was merely lightheaded from the cramped confines of the car. Kneeling in front of him, he touched Saffron’s face, before asking Copper over his shoulder to get Saffron something to drink.
“Whiskey,” Saffron croaked. “God, as much as is in the bottle.”
Copper chuckled, lumbering over to the drink counter like he was told. Behind him, Aodhán’s eyes lingered on Saffron in an indiscernible mix of confusion and intrigue, before they turned to join Copper at the bar counter.
Cylvan, meanwhile, never pulled back, just touching Saffron’s face again and again, pushing hair from his eyes with such a soft expression—like he wanted to ask if Saffron was alright, but not confident those would actually be the words to leave his mouth. Saffron avoided the prince’s eyes for as long as he could, knowing that once he met them, he wouldn’t be able to keep it together any longer—and he was right.
The instant he accidentally met Cylvan’s gaze, the emotional dam inside him broke, tears filling his eyes and streaming over. At least he cried silently, quickly drying them with a kerchief offered by Sionnach. He kept his composure, just looking at Cylvan and letting the emotion come while shaking his head.
“Thank you,” he whispered, taking Cylvan’s hands and bowing his head to kiss them. “Thank you, thank you, for saying something.”
“You spoke up for them first, Saffron,” Cylvan whispered, squeezing Saffron’s hands in return. “You were very brave. Those beantighes may owe you their lives. They may owe Copper and Maeve, too, but don’t tell them that. Especially not Copper,” Cylvan smirked, lightening the mood. “He will undoubtedly never shut up about it.”
Saffron laughed weakly, lifting his watery eyes to look for Maeve, who hovered nearby, but her attention remained on the head of the car where the witchhunters had disappeared through the door. When Copper came with Saffron’s golden drink, he carried a second one for himself, declaring it all the thanks he needed before downing half in one go. Saffron did the same with his, only for the glass to be snatched away by Cylvan who took his own massive gulp of what remained.
Saffron saw how the prince’s hand shook as he threw it back, making his insides squirm with something that felt like guilt, or shame, or relief, he didn’t know. Only that he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to keep the alcohol down, especially if they stayed out there in the open for anyone to see. Where those who hadn’t returned to their sleeping cars with their beantighes still lingered, some looking their way, others gazing out the windows, all whispering softly to one another.
The cloud of gossip lingered near the ceiling, invisible but nearly tangible. Perhaps Saffron was simply learning how to recognize when moments were colorful enough to be worthy of discourse. Perhaps he subconsciously noticed something out of the corner of his eye, otherwise hidden behind the edge of someone’s cloak. A quill quickly scribbling over parchment.