15. The Borough
15
THE BOROUGH
S affron anticipated Cylvan not being particularly thrilled to visit the satyr borough so soon after arriving, but the prince clearly had enough training to keep it off his face. His demeanor, however, was an open book. He wrinkled his nose the entire time they walked; adjusted his gloves a hundred times despite going on foot rather than horseback; he fidgeted with his hair until Saffron sighed and pulled him off to the side of the road to braid it for him. He waved for the rest of the group to go on ahead, partially not to keep them, partially because he knew he had to give his prince a chance to de-pressurize before they got even closer to the destination.
“I have nothing against satyrs,” Cylvan insisted once Saffron accused him of acting strangely. “But I already know what they are going to say to me, and I am not looking forward to it. Didn’t I already do enough listening in Erelaine? Ugh.”
“Well, if you already know what they’ll say, then you should have a response prepared,” Saffron countered. “What exactly are you expecting to hear?”
“They’re going to ask why neither of the kings have come to hear their demands in some century or so,” Cylvan muttered. “But they’re a sovereign people, why would the kings come to see them? What good would it do to make an audience with them? Especially since they always refuse to travel to Avren, insisting someone come to them.”
“Oh, boy,” Saffron breathed with a weary smile, and Cylvan hmph’d in annoyance. “I promise to be there with you throughout it all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Saffron laughed. He finished braiding Cylvan’s hair, smoothing his hands over the handsome doublet he wore, pinching a fallen leaf from his shoulder.
“I’m here to be your balance,” he said. “You chose me because I can help you better understand those who aren’t high fey. Right?”
Cylvan wanted to argue—it was in his nature, and painted on his expression—but instead, he just closed his eyes, and sighed. He reached into an inner pocket of his doublet, producing the carved hair-pick Saffron had given him the night after the games. Saffron was surprised to see it, eyes lifting to Cylvan in question.
“I carry it with me everywhere,” he said gently, “but don’t get many opportunities to wear it. I don’t know how to put it in so it will stay, like you do. If you could perhaps help me out, since you’ve already braided my hair for me, beantighe…”
Saffron smirked, plucking the pick from Cylvan’s fingers. Beneath his own, he was reminded of how rough the texture of the wood was, a reiteration of how amateur his carving work had been, a reminder that the gift was nowhere near suited for a prince as perfect as Cylvan was—but as he adjusted it in his hand, his thumb brushed over an unexpectedly smooth spot on the carved moon, and Saffron realized it was worn down from constant rubbing. He bit his lip, imagining Cylvan’s thumb gliding back and forth over the shape absentmindedly, under the table, behind his back, without Saffron ever knowing he had it with him.
Cupping the braid in one hand, Saffron carefully threaded the long end of the pick in and out of the plaits a few times, making it visible from the front. Like a needle pricked through multiple ruffles of a collar, holding them in place.
“There,” he said softly. “A little spot of handcraft to balance how pretty the rest of you is. To prove you aren’t so pompous as they think.”
“You believe they already think that?” Cylvan muttered. His hand trapped Saffron’s against where the prick nestled within his dark hair, stealing it to leave a brief kiss against the back of Saffron’s fingers. “Thank you.”
“It’s going to be alright,” Saffron reassured one more time. “Dealing with satyrs can’t be any worse than courtiers. At least they aren’t all trying to marry you.”
“Hm,” Cylvan exhaled, before throwing his head back with a louder, more dramatic sigh, and turning with his hand in Saffron’s to continue up the road. Saffron followed close, holding Cylvan in return.
Saffron didn’t know what to expect of a satyr borough, since his only familiarity came from spotting a few wandering around the Agate Wood where he would scribble down sketches as fast as he could, knowing satyrs vanished into the trees as easily as nymphs. He was also always warier about crossing paths with a playful satyr over a nymph, in many ways. In other ways, a part of him always secretly wished he would, the idea reinvigorated upon laying eyes on Carce the first time. A thought he hadn’t ever shared with Cylvan, and would definitely never with Sionnach or Copper. Not wanting them to know there was a part of him that wondered what exactly it was like to be stolen and used on the unpredictable whims of a wild satyr in the middle of the woods.
There were plenty of wild things Saffron had the same sentiments about—but god help him if the wrong people found out. Especially considering his closest circle of confidantes at the moment, three of whom could pass as those sort of wild fey if Saffron squinted. A wild fox, a satyr, a leanan sídhe. He had to resist shivering; he had to shove that realization far, far away before he flushed so bright even they noticed.
While he certainly didn’t imagine them to have streets as houses as decadent as those of the high fey, Saffron also didn’t expect how particularly simple the small satyr community was, either. It made his heart flutter in curiosity the moment they found the others at a spot in the road that branched off into a thicket of trees, passing through a veil of hanging vines and wild wisteria into a dark corridor of foliage on the other side—and emerging into a wide open meadow, flush in every direction with flowers amongst grass and scattered stones arranged in spiraling designs, others marking a path into the center of the clearing where a massive tent the size of Carce’s entire garden ten-times over stretched. From it, multiple spirals of smoke emerged through openings in the fabric, smelling of spiced meats and herbs and incense, combining with the natural aroma of the forest into something that made Saffron’s mouth water.
Encircling the tent, garlands pierced with leafy twigs of golden oaks, maple trees, pines swayed lightly in the wind, adorned with ribbons braided from what Saffron realized was hand-pressed paper and woven strips of fabric that matched the fabric of the tent canopy. The center mass of the tent was made of a creamy-white spun wool, sweeping out from a towering tree in the center and extending like fingers to a circle of trees along the outer edge. The flared fabric whispered with every breath of wind that strained its anchor points, while the dangling edges ruffled with a patchwork of additional fabrics, some embroidered, some decorated with beadwork, others dyed in unique ways or stamped with flowers like Saffron used to do with his friends in Beantighe Village.
The borough whistled lightly with flutes dangling from strings, some forged from iron while others were carved with expertise from pieces of wood, some even woven from grasses in such a way they created a buzzing whistle when the wind passed through. More buzzing flutes could be heard off to the side of the open field, combined with chatter and laughter, and Saffron spotted a cluster of furry things racing each other up and down the treeline. They banged sticks with bells along the trunks as they went, leaving one of a hundred markings behind in the bark. Up and down they ran, only stopping when a pair of sparrows finally had enough of all the noise and emerged from their nests to screech and swoop down at them. The furry daemons waved wooden baskets through the air whenever the birds dipped close enough—until soon they captured one, half a dozen shrill voices howling and shouting in celebration.
“They’re sparrow-catching,” Sionnach said, noticing how Saffron stared.
“For a snack, right?” Copper interjected, but Sionnach ignored him.
“Sparrow feathers are used to fletch light arrows for hunting. Children are always trained with that kind, first.”
“Those are children!” Saffron gasped, making Sionnach laugh.
“What did you think they were?”
“I—! I don’t know, god! Look at them! I thought they might be wild grogoch or something—since there are all those decorative stones at the head of the road, I just… Ah, please don’t tell anyone…”
But Sionnach just kept laughing, shaking their head. “They’re much cuter up close—but tend to have a mouth on them. Try not to take offense to anything they might say, they love trying to get a rise out of visitors.” Their eyes specifically skimmed over to Cylvan, who grimaced, before turning his nose up like he of all people were immune to being insulted by a bunch of children. Saffron squeezed his hand in emotional support.
Following the path to the main entrance of the tent, Saffron could hardly keep the interest off his face, and knew it was obvious by how the satyrs they approached turned to look back at him. With matched interest, at first, even a bit of reservation, until they noticed Carce and étaín led the way. Until they spotted the Crown Prince on their heels, and then suddenly every satyr within shouting distance was suddenly upright to hurry over.
Satyrs were as diverse in appearance as humans or high fey, particularly with so many varying shades of fur, patterns of growth, how much actually covered their bodies; the length of their tails, the shape and curl of their horns; even the spots on their ears and how they hung. Some wore their hair long, braided out of their eyes, while others kept it cropped short; they painted symbols and other adornments on bare skin, while patches of fur were shaved away in swirling or leafy designs down their legs, around their navel. Saffron knew it was rude to stare as they approached—but he couldn’t help it.
Even so, it quickly became clear that the sprawling community of satyrs beneath the tent were no more wild than beantighes with far too much time off from chores. Chatting away in the cool evening air, knitting scarves and ankle-cuffs and headbands for each other; smoking wild herbs they picked from patches of the scattered gardens, or maybe found deeper in the woods; playing games with squares of painted bark no differently than beantighes played with cards. In reality, to a high fey, any living thing that didn’t mind a little mud on their feet was wilder than they could fathom.
Perhaps that was why Saffron fought so hard to hold his tongue. Overcome with the urge to pull out his sketchbook to draw them lounging; to ask why some shaved designs into the fur, while others used paints or adorned with jewelry; then why some adorned with jewelry, while otherwise naked; even as others wore random pieces of clothing, like beautifully-beaded waist belts that cinched over their hips, or bracelets and anklets made from hammered-gold. Saffron wanted to ask, he wanted to know all of it, he wanted to sketch them onto paper like he did other beautiful things found in the woods—but not like a high fey trying to study them. Like a human who wanted to be eaten alive by every mouth at once—but not even so literally. He wasn’t sure there was a string of words to properly explain. So he just kept his mouth shut.
“Ah—there she is, right where I thought. Good morning, Síomha,” Carce drew Saffron’s attention back as he led them through the center of the tent, toward a satyr perched on a mossy log on the opposite side.
“My prince,” the old satyr woman smiled at Carce from where she sat, a swathe of beaded fabric draped over her lap. Cylvan made a sound to answer—but Carce spoke first, and the rest of them had to stand there and silently comprehend exactly what had just been revealed so casually.
“I’ve brought some special guests here to see you. Specifically—ah, Saffron, come on, come a little closer. Síomha’s eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“I can see a glamour charm from across the field just fine, though,” she smiled wickedly, like when Baba Yaga would tease. Saffron hurried forward, offering the old woman a bow, only for her to take his hand without warning and turn it over in her own. Her nails were grown long, but well taken care of, filed into almond shapes and even painted with a springy green tone. “Saffron, your name is? Looks to me like you’re due for a long and happy life.”
“Sorry?” Saffron said, before realizing she was reading the lines on his palm by how she traced the tip of a fingernail along one of them. Rather than pulling away, he crouched on the balls of his feet, having to resist shoving his hand a little closer for her to continue.
“Your dad’s the prince of the satyrs?” Copper meanwhile muttered from the back of the group, followed by a nervous sound from Sionnach.
“It’s different from how the fey do it.”
“That makes you like, what, satyr royalty?” Copper continued anyway. “Or was the honor stripped from you like how your mom was stripped of her nobility when she chose— hrk!” Out of the corner of Saffron’s eye, Maeve elbowed Copper in the gut before slicing him in half with a cutting look.
“Saffron was hoping you might show him the stripped henge,” Carce went on as Síomha continued tracing lines up and down Saffron’s palm.
“Dangerous place to go, right now,” she answered, but it wasn’t a refusal. Her round green eyes lifted to look at Saffron directly, and Saffron straightened himself up.
“Has anyone heard anything strange coming from there recently? Something to do with the veil,” he asked. “Carce mentioned having sensed something as recent as last night…?”
The old woman smiled, tilting her head in curiosity. “And how did you know about that, child? Not even the fey in Tyara felt it. Some rogue entered the henge and tore the veil open right over it.”
Saffron’s heart pounded loudly in his ears. Ringing loud, like those sparrow-whistles shrieked all around him. All he could do was nod, before answering: “I… saw it in a dream, last night.”
“A dream?” Síomha asked, matching Saffron’s curiosity with the look on her face. “Well—I can’t remember the last time I met a human as in tune with the veil as that. Did it call out to you itself, child?”
Saffron jumped. His stomach turned, but he managed to keep the nausea at bay. “I—I hear a voice when I dream of it, yes, but—I don’t know if it’s the veil. I sounds… it sounds like someone else I know, but… I don’t know.”
Síomha gazed at him for a long moment, observing him closely, or like she read the lines of his face as well as she’d read those of his palm.
“Must have been the very end of the war when I last read the hands of someone like you, you know. Touched by the veil as you are; I think his name was Virtue , but it was so long ago, perhaps I’m mistaken. I’ll never forget that tired look on his face, though—the same exhaustion you wear on yours, beneath that glamour. He’d just lost his sister, and was trying to decide what to do with himself next. What have you lost, Saffron?”
The satyr woman waited for a response, even as Saffron felt the earth tilt beneath him. Finally, he managed to wobble out a quiet answer.
“There’s a man abusing the veil as he pleases; maybe even the same one who came to your henge last night. He took some very important people from me, and is hiding them on the other side,” he said. “I thought the person calling out to me in my dream might have been one of them, but… like I said, I don’t know, I—I’m just trying to find them, or find him, I don’t know…”
“Do you intend on opening the veil, yourself? To chase after him?”
Saffron hesitated, unsure how to answer that, either. The mere thought made his heart race with anxiety, with— fear . A fear he’d held for a long time, since he was a child; one he hadn’t resolved even after making his oath, and especially after witnessing exactly how much damage the veil could do when misused.
He let the answer come on its own, allowing his instincts to dictate for him: “I don’t want to, if I don’t have to.”
“What has the veil advised of you?”
Saffron shook his head. “Nothing. I haven’t heard anything from it.”
Síomha tilted her head in curiosity again. “So you can sense shifts in the veil, enough to dream of them—but you do not communicate directly with it?”
“I… didn’t know that was something I should have been doing,” he admitted, voice hitching in a rush of embarrassment. “I spoke to it once when I first made my oath, but—nothing else since then, really…”
The humiliation mixed with shame in his gut, but Síomha didn’t taunt him for it. She didn’t even smirk. The old satyr just released his hand, rising to her hooves and grabbing a nearby cane leaned against the sitting log.
As she turned, her long tail whipped out and snapped against Saffron’s shoulder, making him jump back with a yelp, though she clearly hadn’t noticed. The appendage was longer than any he’d seen on other satyrs—possibly even twice as long as she was tall. He quickly rose to his feet to avoid getting whacked a second time.
“Come, come on, then,” she said out as she hobbled away from the log, moving faster than Saffron anticipated. He hurried after her. “I’ll show you what’s come of the stripped henge. Veil might even be willing to chat with you there, too, if you’re patient enough. Ah, not all of you—just this one.”
Copper, Sionnach, Maeve all exchanged looks, coming to a halt—but Cylvan pressed ahead, grabbing Saffron’s hand possessively and locking himself in place. Refusing to be left behind. Saffron clung to him in return, grateful for something to hold and keep him grounded.
“Really?” He asked while hurrying after her, even Cylvan struggling to keep up through the cramped tent arrangements. “You can—you can help me talk to the veil?”
“Sure. S’not that hard, if you know how. Even calfs know how to solicit the veil for the smallest things. You’ve already made an oath with it, anyway, haven’t you? Should have no reason to ignore any beseeching, so long as you haven’t done anything to upset it.”
Saffron grimaced. What a thought.
Leaving the shade of the community tent, Síomha led them into a nondescript edge of the trees, into the thickest undergrowth Saffron had ever seen. He managed to navigate the upturned roots, reaching vines, thorny brambles well enough, but soon had the thought to glance behind him to see how his raven fared through the same.
As if Cylvan had sent him a mental plea for help, Saffron barely threw out his hand to pull the prince back upright as he almost twisted an ankle on the uneven ground. It nearly knocked them both off their feet, and Saffron couldn’t help but chuckle as he brushed Cylvan off. Keeping hold of his hand again while continuing forward.
“I assume you made your oath via the traditional arid way?” Síomha asked as they went, though it took Saffron a moment to respond, that time busy untangling the heel of Cylvan’s book from a cluster of weeds snaking around his ankle.
“Yes, ah—are there other ways?”
“Every type of magic user has their way of making oaths,” she answered without looking back. “High fey, humans, satyrs, even the wild fey, though they don’t require so much pomp and ritual to do so. The veil tends to offer its benefits to the wildest of creatures without demanding trade—as they’re the least likely to use it for selfish reasons.”
“That… makes sense,” Saffron breathed. Cylvan squeezed his hand.
No different from approaching the crumbling temple in Erelaine, Saffron could sense the moment the site of the torn veil came within reach. That buzzing under his skin, the warm goosebumps that flushed his arms, even the minty-sweet taste of the air. There in the old woods, though, there were no temple guardians hurrying in every direction to scrape up any fairy fruits sprouting from the earth—they grew wild as ever, uninhibited, almost suffocating the surrounding flora.
Crossing into the clearing, Saffron had to stop for a moment and take it all in. Exactly like how he’d seen it in his dream, though with the earth tilled beneath their feet, the henge of stones circling the center knocked on their sides and turned upside down.
“Did the satyrs in the borough experience any ashenness from this?” Cylvan asked first, and Síomha gave him a funny look.
“Not that I know of, your highness. That’s a high fey curse.”
Cylvan frowned. Síomha noticed, adding: “No need to pout. Make amends with the veil and it’ll stop biting back.”
Saffron had to bite back a little smile, just squeezing Cylvan’s hand and pulling him forward to observe the damage closer. Síomha hopped up onto a tall churn of soil, fresh and damp beneath her hooves that left half-moon prints behind. Saffron wasn’t brave enough to get that close, but he did lean over to gaze into the remains, unsure if he was unsettled or relieved to see they resembled what had been left behind at The Morrígan’s temple in Erelaine, too. Even down to the same strange arid circle hand-painted with charcoal over the grass. No surprises, at least; no explanations, either.
Síomha, meanwhile, bent her furry legs to pluck a handful of fat, pink blackberries from the tilled earth, casually popping one into her mouth before extending the rest toward Saffron. Saffron shuffled his way over, accepting the offering in hands that immediately went clammy.
“If you wish to communicate with it, the fruits help,” she said. “I recommend doing so now, while they’re still ripe. Once the veil starts healing from this damage, the fruits will wither off quickly.”
Saffron stared down at the morsels, blackberries candied pink by the magic of the veil; once again unsettled by how something so violent could result in such pretty, glittering remnants. Síomha’s instruction reminded him of Ryder right before the summer games, and how the man’s eyes had been as bright and pink as the berries in his hands. He must have eaten so many, before tearing open the veil with such ferocity.
Saffron glanced back to Cylvan in uncertainty. The prince immediately stepped into Saffron’s reach, placing a hand on Saffron’s back.
“Do you want to try?” he asked in quiet encouragement. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Whether or not he wanted to—Saffron didn’t feel like he had much choice. But, at least, he would be able to make the attempt there in private. In the quiet safety of that henge, with both the ancient satyr woman and his prince watching over him.
“Strange to be holding these so casually, considering they were the reason you and I ever made our geis,” Saffron whispered, attempting to relax his nerves. Cylvan smiled at him with months and months of lovingly-nurtured affection for those memories, the sight of him so handsome and familiar and safe . Saffron would be brave enough to try anything, if Cylvan was there next to him.
“How many should I have?” he asked Síomha before committing. She’d taken a cross-legged seat on her perch, watching a cluster of robins pecking at worms wriggling free of the upturned earth.
“As many as it takes,” she said. “As many as you need, little witch.”
Saffron gulped. He closed his eyes, then glanced back down at the fruits again. His hands trembled slightly, but he wouldn’t be a coward. He’d done it before. The veil wasn’t going to hurt him—if it wanted to, it would have, already. It wouldn’t have made an oath with him in the first place.
Stepping away from the churned soil, Saffron wandered like a lost cat for a moment, unsure where exactly he wanted to engage the veil while drugged on the fruits. By the trees? In the clearing? Would it be best in the center of the ruined earth, or off to the side? Would it matter? Would the veil have a preference? He followed the edge of the tilted henge stones while Cylvan followed in silence.
Saffron nearly asked what he thought a good place would be—but then Fiachra swooped in from where she’d been exploring the grass between the feet of the others, landing straight ahead on the tip of the tallest henge stone at the head of the circle. Saffron exhaled a breath, following her lead. There was a patch of smooth grass at the base of it, facing the tilled earth but not directly within it. That was good enough for him.
Cylvan took the initiative, sitting first and putting out his hands for Saffron to join him. Saffron crossed his legs, seated between Cylvan’s thighs and leaning back into his chest. Wrapped gently around the waist in the safety of Cylvan’s arms.
“If there’s anyone who can do this, I know it’s you,” Cylvan whispered, making Saffron’s heart flutter. He looked at Cylvan over his shoulder for a moment, before biting his lip. He gazed down at the fruits in his hands again. They left specks of dark red juice on his palms, like flecks of paint.
Swallowing back the apprehension, Saffron tilted his head back and put two in his mouth to start. As he did, Cylvan reached for a small handful more within reach of where they sat.
The taste made Saffron gag—but only because it reminded him of all the artificial fruits he’d ever been forced to eat at fetes, while cornered on campus, after being dragged into the woods for a prank. But the flavor also reminded him of when he first made his oath, that night in the burned out library of the Kyteler School. Guided by the beannighe, who offered the end of her long life in order to open the door for conversation. Allowing him to save Cylvan; to save everyone he cared for. At least for the time being. Having no idea what would come next.
The bittersweet sensation on his tongue, sparkling and fizzing like champagne, sugary-sweet and minty blackberry that blanketed his tastebuds, finally slid like warm syrup down the back of his throat. In the Kyteler library, the effects of the berries had taken a few minutes to fully settle in, creeping like a rising tide, shifting so gradually he never felt the sensation fully swallow him—but there, at the edge of Ryder’s most recent chaos, they hooked into Saffron’s being in an instant.
The world grew brighter, more vivid; his ears rang, his thoughts spun like petals caught in a summer wind; every smell of the woods struck his nose, laced with a thick coat of the same sugary-mint aroma of the fruits. Overwhelming him, overtaking him, a cacophony of sensations that rang wildly at first, before slipping into step with one another. Finding the music only they could hear, his thoughts, the flickering colors and lights, the hum of the wind in the trees, the undulating scents in his nose, soon it all found rhythm with one another, and Saffron’s spirit stopped reeling.
It slowed, attempting to match the pace, until soon enough—there was more than just his brightened senses. Saffron could see something shifting in his vision, flashes of colorful light, like reflections cast on the wall from polished glass in the sun. His hand lifted, and he nudged a few more berries between his lips. Knowing he needed them without actively having the thought. Like every dancing sense compelled him to continue chasing a little closer.
Those undulating streaks crawling like spiderwebs over the tilled earth—were tears in the veil. Minuscule cracks through the intangible fabric of magic that draped all of Alfidel, all of the fey world. Only then did he understand the first line of Baba Yaga’s knocking rhyme: split knocks are memories .
Those tears were the remnants of what Ryder had done, open wounds slowly stitching themselves back together like a bleeding cut on the back of Saffron’s hands.
“It’s… awful,” he whispered. He didn’t know the word—it was beautiful, it was painful. He didn’t have to feel it then to know how badly it hurt; he’d been subjected to moments of the same agony after made drunk on the same artificial taste that coated his tongue. Torn apart, explored against his will, so that a stranger might climb through to get what they wished on the other side. And while Saffron had never been physically torn to shreds in the process—he understood the shimmering ribbons left behind. Scattering seeds for fruits that were never meant to exist except as proof of the suffering, like patches of memories that remained no matter how much weaverthistle tea he drank afterward. It was no wonder why the veil shrieked every time, loud enough to ring through his dreams—and before he realized he did, Saffron began to silently cry.
Have you brought me… your bridgepartner, witch?
A chill raced down his spine, striking through the wavering emotions. His hand lashed out, gripping Cylvan’s wrist and holding it tight.
“No,” he answered in a rasp, emotion still thick in his voice. Don’t take him from me. “Not yet.”
Ahh…
The voice came from the ruined earth—from the trees—from the sky—from every glittering scar undulating in front of him. From far, far off in the distance, Cylvan’s voice joined it, asking if Saffron was alright. Saffron just clung to him without answering.
Have you come… to split me open as well, then?
“N-no,” Saffron repeated weakly. His grasp on Cylvan loosened, just slightly. “No, I haven’t, I—I keep hearing this call coming through you, someone who needs my help?—”
There is no thing that calls through me without me knowing.
Saffron’s mouth dangled open, unsure if the emotion paralyzing him was more disappointment or embarrassment.
“Then…” he croaked, still wishing to keep the veil’s voice nearby, feeling like he had to continue prompting it in order to do so. “Then... I want to find the man who keeps doing this to you.”
He is near. But not for much longer.
“What?” Saffron jumped. His head snapped to one side, then the other, in search, but everything moved slowly around him. The sun was too bright, everything was too vivid to properly see, and moving so quickly made his vision swirl like trying to see clearly through a bowl of milk. “Why—is he doing this?”
He’s searching.
“For what?”
Can you not read the spell he uses? The veil’s voice came harsher that time, reminding Saffron too much like Asche when they were being intentionally condescending. Have I really made an oath with someone who cannot even read the spells required to ? —
“I’ve read it,” Saffron croaked. “But I didn’t understand it. It—was strange. The feda markings, the lines were—strange.”
The veil ribboned in consideration around him, as if trying to decide whether that admission was worth more derision, or perhaps something they could extend patience to. Saffron closed his eyes, hoping it would take pity on him.
It’s a very old epithet, yes, it whispered. From The Dagda’s own book. Older than oaths, older than rowan witches and yew mancers. Even older than me, even if he requires me to carry it…
“The…?” Saffron started, but was interrupted.
He is searching for something, calling out to a lost thing.
“What?” Saffron insisted. “What is he looking for?”
By the nature of it… the old power of the magic… even I do not know. That is between the deliverer and the most innate parts of me I cannot fathom. But—he thinks himself a ghost’s most precious thing. Precious enough to hear its call. Perhaps that is what you’ve heard calling out to you; but it is not me.
“A ghost?” Saffron fought to keep the frustration out of his voice. His hand on Cylvan’s arm tightened again, a flash of pure panic freezing his veins at the thought of the veil calling it a ghost, when the voice resembled Asche so much?—
I care little for him and his pleas, the veil spat. He begs to kiss my lips so often, but until the day the Dagda draws me back, I will not submit to him.
Saffron forced his nerves to settle. Through the thick milk of his thoughts, he recalled what Breton had once said, about how the veil refused to speak to Ryder. To make any oath with him.
“If he’s trying to find something through you, I think…” Saffron croaked. “He’s going to open you again, until he does.”
If he is as predictable as the last—he will seek his missing ghost next where the earth’s minerals heat the rocks.
“What?”
He is not the first to unhook me in this order. From these places. One by one, like buttons.
Saffron wanted to ask again what the voice meant—but forced himself to be silent. When the veil’s words began to drift, he blindly pawed at Cylvan’s hand holding more berries, pressing them between his teeth.
“I’m trying to stop him,” Saffron tried to tell it. It didn’t hear him, or it didn’t listen. It didn’t want to, as it only grew more agitated.
Pull enough of my seams, and I will unfurl entirely. What then, when all opulence curls in on itself and dies?
Saffron had to force himself to blink. His eyes burned from staring ahead.
What then, when I turn inside out? When both sides collide? When human and fey become one; when life and death become one; when the mounds split open and The Dagda wakes from their long sleep to wipe the earth and begin anew. Then there will be nothing left of any of you. Maybe then I will be allowed to rest. Perhaps I should allow it. Perhaps my suffering will finally cease. Only then can none violate me any longer.
Please , Saffron wanted to say, but his voice was whisked away with each attempt. The veil did not want to hear it. He wasn’t sure the veil recalled him listening, if it perceived him there speaking any longer, or if the pain of its ribbons slowly drove it mad. He didn’t know if the wetness on his face was tears—or blood dripping from his nose. He wanted to let go, he wanted to pull away. The agony roiling in his body wasn’t his—or perhaps it was. Perhaps the veil gave it to him, perhaps it simply unlocked a lifetime of his own suffering so that it might have a companion to weep with.
Saffron closed his mouth, then his eyes. He let the veil’s agony sink into him, through his skin, around his bones, until it touched every inch. If that was as close as someone like him could come to embracing something that suffered so much pain—he wouldn’t pull away. He would let it weep for as long as it needed, with the first person who could hear it in centuries.