26. The Professor
26
THE PROFESSOR
R ain continued to soak the earth, and while King Tross’ gifted cloak did its best to protect him, the Spring Court’s familiar chill infiltrated Saffron’s bones as they approached campus. Traveling down the main road for some time, Dullahan eventually veered off into the woods, and Saffron followed without question. Even as Boann and Aodhán both protested with grunts and scoffs of continued skepticism. But Taran walking slightly ahead of them didn’t alert to anything astray, and even Copper, who, as far as Saffron knew, had never been to Morrígan, seemed more curious than nervous.
Approaching campus from the shadows, not needing his access ring after all while following Dullahan’s lead, Saffron summoned Taran back into his mind. Not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention—especially since, the last time a massive wolf had stalked that place, it took a rowan spirit to come and banish it.
Even keeping to the edge of the treeline, Saffron felt wave after wave of familiarity wash over him, from all the times he’d walked to and from the Grand Library at night during his geis with Cylvan; those trees, hidden paths, underbrush he knew as well as he knew the interior of every one of Morrígan’s buildings. As intimately as he knew Beantighe Village. Even in the darkness, far from the road, Saffron knew exactly where they were. Needing only a peek toward the school and its flickering lantern-light. The silhouettes of its buildings. The sound of the fountain in the center of campus. And—the occasional whisper of night-shift beantighes going about their chores.
Even as the strange traveling party emerged onto the paved walkways from the shadows, those same beantighes barely paid them any mind, except the briefest of glances. Some of them offered a greeting, nodding to Professor Dullahan specifically and reigniting Saffron’s curiosity that told him something had gone amiss to earn the professor’s behavior on the road. For more reason than that, Saffron had to resist looking back at those they passed, wanting see if he recognized any of them who had their veils pinned up. Having to remind himself that, with his glamour back in place, he was just another fey lord. And a fey lord wouldn’t pay nighttime beantighes any mind. A fey lord wouldn’t have noticed—how few actually wandered between the buildings, compared to when he’d been there only months prior. A sinking thought, that even those so far from Avren were falling for Ryder’s promises, too.
The Administration Building was dark except for ambient light of lanterns lining the walkway outside, and one window illuminated from the inside. Saffron knew that window better than any other, too—he’d once been lifted inside by Hollow’s hands, after Adelard offered his office as a safe refuge while Saffron performed as the rowan spirit for the beantighes on campus. Where he slept curled up on a bedroll in the corner, where Taran came to threaten Hollow to tell him where Saffron was hiding. Ironic, the dynamic they returned with, after all of that. Saffron felt Hollow’s absence more than ever in that moment, exhaling a small breath and praying once again his friends were safe on the other side of the veil. Unsure how he felt to think they may have been joined by familiar faces of Beantighe Village since then, too.
Rather than approaching the front doors of the building, Professor Dullahan led his draft horse through the decorative brambles alongside the exterior, to that one illuminated window of Adelard’s office. Saffron dismounted his horse as Dullahan did, approaching the glass as the man knocked a gloved knuckle against the pane. On the other side, a familiar form shifted from where he’d clearly fallen asleep at his desk, lifting his head with a piece of parchment stuck to his cheek.
Professor Adelard adjusted his glasses, glancing blearily around the room before stopping at the window, a sleepy smile growing on his lips as he spotted Dullahan’s shadow on the other side. He quickly pulled the parchment from his face, ran a hand back through his wild curly hair, then smoothed the wrinkles of his vest before getting up to push the window open.
“It appears a wild wraith of the night has come to tempt me into someth— SAFFRON!” Adelard exclaimed, hand flying out in surprise, nearly slamming the windowpane against the building had Dullahan not grabbed it, first. “Oh, Saffron, child, look at you! Wh—what in god’s name are you doing all the way here! You as well, Prince Cylv—oh, hold on a moment…”
Adelard adjusted his glasses as Aodhán wrinkled their nose—admittedly very Prince Cylvan-esque of them—as Adelard adjusted his glasses, studying them longer than was really necessary. His eyes then traveled to Copper, who sat like a patient dog at Saffron’s feet. Then to a ruffled-looking Fiachra on Saffron’s shoulder, before his eyes traveled back to Saffron.
“My, what a curious band of wild things you’ve brought me, Cormac. Alright, all of you, come inside and warm up before you catch your death out there. Through the window, Cormac, if you don’t mind—probably shouldn’t leave any trace of opening the front door, considering the nature of this company…”
Cormac must have been Professor Dullahan’s first name, Saffron realized, once the man turned to him. Without warning, he scooped Saffron around the waist and heaved him in through the window, catching him off guard so that his foot caught on the sill and he tumbled in face-first. Adelard yelped, rushing to help him up as Copper was tossed inside like a bag of sloppy wet potatoes next, followed by a stern ‘don’t you dare’ from Aodhán as they pulled themself up on their own with one arm, the other hand still protectively balancing the pastry boxes.
Dullahan hovered by the window as Adelard scurried around the room to stoke the fire and hang a kettle of water over the flames. Copper loped lazily to the hearth, shaking off his thickly-soaked fur and making Aodhán pull his tail as they were splashed. Fiachra perched on the skeleton in the corner of the room, preening her feathers as Adelard hurried back to the window where they exchanged whispers. Saffron barely caught the essence of their conversation—Adelard asking if Dullahan was returning to the road for the night, Dullahan confirming so, before tucking something into Adelard’s palm and telling him to call if he needed anything. Adelard then threw a quick glance over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone was watching, and Saffron looked away. Adelard quickly leaned out to give Dullahan a kiss and wish goodbye.
When he finally closed the window and turned back to the room, he placed something on his desk before speaking, and Saffron saw it to be a palm-sized acorn squash carved with another wonky smile like the gourd on the road had. The object shuddered slightly, making Saffron jump, before it rolled around a few times on Adelard’s desk, then righted itself, rocking back and forth until it fully turned to observe the room. Saffron bit back a smile.
Professor Adelard’s office never changed in all the time Saffron knew him, from their earliest secret meetings to their weeks spent while Saffron waited to hear from Cylvan. And while it was hardly different that night, Saffron sensed right away something was— off about it at the same time. The smallest shift in the air, like all of Adelard’s belongings had been tucked slightly one way or another. Askew enough to feel but not enough to see. Saffron tried to ignore it, especially when everything else about the professor seemed perfectly fine, especially as he puttered to hurry and clean off the scant chairs around the room, shoveling armfuls of books and stacks of papers onto any available surface so Saffron and Aodhán had somewhere to sit.
Saffron claimed the chair he normally did when visiting, as the man hurried to address the whistling kettle for tea. Right after settling, his eyes caught on something sticking free of a stack of parchment on Adelard’s desk—and Saffron’s heart thumped nervously. A rowan-red corner of thick paper, the shade of it just a little too familiar.
He reached for it. He shouldn’t have, and he tried to resist at first, especially with the acorn squash shifting to watch his movements—but the sudden anxiety was overwhelming. He wanted to prove himself wrong—but the moment he pulled it free and saw the words printed on the front, he knew there had been no point in trying to convince himself otherwise. He already knew, just by observing how few night-shift beantighes passed by on campus.
Saffron sat back in the chair with the card pinched between his fingers, only for Adelard to practically leap across the length of the room. He snatched the card from Saffron’s grasp, grabbing a handful of the parchment stack and slamming it back between the pages with a flurry of panic. Saffron attempted to reassure him not to worry, that he already knew what it was, but Adelard had suddenly gone serious. He spoke in a tone Saffron had never heard before—one that chilled his blood to the bone.
“You will not touch such things of mine so freely again, Saffron. Do you understand?”
“I—” he gulped. “I’m sorry, professor.”
Adelard’s looming boldness lingered barely a moment longer, before he slumped again with a small exhale. Saffron couldn’t help but continue: “It’s just—I’ve seen that card before. I know what it is. God, I know more than I’d ever care for.”
While his intensity diminished, Adelard didn’t fully relax again. Still, his gaze shifted into something more like concern rather than fury, and Saffron swallowed back the lump in his throat.
“I—I saw many things in Avren, having to do with… with, erm, cards like those,” he went on. “I know the man behind them, even—the same one who opened the veil at the summer games…”
Adelard put a hand up, and Saffron closed his mouth in an instant. Behind him, even Aodhán and Copper were stiff and wide-eyed. That was a familiar motion, too, from when Saffron had been just a beantighe begging for any information Adelard would be willing to give him. That lifted hand to wait, be patient , before he’d normally hurry around the room to ensure everything was fully closed; the rug was lodged into the crack beneath the door and the floor, the window was pulled shut and latched; the air vents were shuttered. That time, though, Adelard didn’t leap up to address such tasks, as if already in place before Saffron arrived.
“Are these companions of yours trustworthy, Saffron?” He asked, and Saffron’s raised his eyebrows.
“Yes—”
“I know all there is to know about this witch already,” Aodhán interjected, clearly trying to establish their authority, even with pink, scuffed pastry boxes on their lap—but even they chilled slightly at the narrowed, dark look Adelard shot them.
They awkwardly adjusted how they sat as Adelard took a seat at his desk. He fished a black-stone wand from a locked box in a chest by the foot of his drawers, pausing only a moment to glance between everyone in the room one last time.
“They’re safe,” Saffron reiterated, throwing Aodhán a look that dared them to try and speak up again. They didn’t.
Adelard still said nothing, getting to his feet and proceeding to use the stone point to draw an implied, uninterrupted line around the edge of the room, followed by adorned arid hatchmarks. It was then that cold sweat dripped down Saffron’s spine, unsure what to expect next. Only knowing that it must have been serious for Adelard to perform human magic right there in front of him, in front of Aodhán, in his own office only a few doors down from the headmistress’. Empty or not—performing such things in that building posed a dangerous risk.
“You say you know the man who opened the veil?” Adelard only started once he finished and returned to his desk. By then he appeared pale, forehead beneath his dirty-blonde hair shiny with a thin layer of nervous sweat. “How well? What sort of things did he tell you, Saffron? About these cards, specifically.”
“Not much,” Saffron admitted. “Only that he used them to recruit beantighes wishing to join him, to be trained as witches.”
Adelard looked him over a moment longer, like a part of him still wasn’t sure how much he wished to share. His finger tapped the book where the card was stuffed, as he considered it.
“The first four lines printed on that card were once used by actual human rebels, during the War of the Veil,” he finally said. “Hence why it is so dangerous for you—or anyone , for that matter—to be found carrying one.”
Saffron nodded. He hated feeling like he was being scolded, while Adelard’s tone was merely informative.
“That random thing your lover said on the road, then, is fair game?” Aodhán interjected, both Saffron and Adelard throwing them a look. Adelard frowned, eyes flicking back to Saffron.
“What did Cormac say to you?”
“Um—he asked, ‘have you heard the music of the moon’s harp?’”
He expected Adelard to groan, like he would be disappointed in even Cormac for uttering something else that might be risky if overheard by the wrong folk—but Adelard only nodded.
“And you didn’t know how to answer?” He asked, surprising Saffron. “A wonder he let you pass.”
“I sort of… pulled off my glamour, to prove I was human,” Saffron admitted sheepishly. Adelard narrowed his eyes, but Saffron added before the scolding could finally come: “How should I have responded? To that phrase, I mean. Is it also something from the war?”
Adelard, once again, let his consideration pass in silence, only shifting his eyes to Aodhán, then Copper, then Fiachra a few more times. Finally, he answered: “‘I’ve heard it close, and learned the song myself.’ It references the harp of ériu. Who you know well enough is a human goddess. Plenty of old rebel musings revolved around her, understandably.”
“Sure,” Saffron nodded. Adelard tapped his finger against the book again.
“Back to my original concern with your dealings, Saffron. The man who has been passing these out, the one you say you met and got to know well—what sort of dangerous things did he tell you, exactly?”
Saffron bit his lip. His eyes lingered on the stone pointer in Adelard’s hand, clutched so tightly it rattled against the side of the desk as the professor hovered too close.
“Is that a hematite wand?” he asked before answering. Adelard somehow grew paler, practically fainting into his chair with his hand over his face.
“Oh, god help us,” he whispered, voice shrill. “God help you, god help me, god help?—”
“He calls himself Ryder Kyteler,” Saffron went on before Adelard could fully spiral. The professor’s pleas for heavenly mercy petered off, before lifting his hand from his eyes just enough to look at Saffron again. That sharp intensity had returned, making Saffron shift where he sat. Afraid to speak more too soon.
“He does, does he…?” Adelard asked. He finally sat back up, staring down at his desk before carefully lifting and placing the black-stone wand in front of him. Saffron wished he could read every new, sudden, wild thought racing behind the professor’s eyes. Did he recognize Ryder’s name? Its relation to the red card he’d snatched from Saffron’s grasp? Or perhaps because of their proximity to the old Kyteler school?
But something old, something ancient churned in Adelard’s countenance with the same intensity as moments prior, to the point Saffron barely recognized the man sitting in front of him. Even as Adelard lifted his eyes back to Saffron again, blue in the firelight, hair wavy and still clinging to his nervous forehead. He released a long breath through his nose, before placing the stone rod on the desk in front of him with a small, glasslike sound.
“This is a hematite wand, yes. Used by practiced arid witches to cast spells without having to write them down. I take it Ryder Kyteler shared such things with you.”
Saffron nodded. “Ryder Kyteler once gave me a hematite ring to do the same. I practiced with it a few times, but… stopped as soon as I realized he wasn’t who I thought.”
He thought Adelard might look relieved to hear that, that Saffron had given such a thing back; then he expected Adelard to ask for more details, about who exactly Ryder was, or who Saffron first thought he was, then who he ended up actually being—but the professor did neither of those things. He just shook his head, gazing down at the wand a moment longer. Seemingly in disbelief, then in silent consideration.
“News of what happened during the summer games traveled to Morrígan quickly, of course,” he said, instead. He met Saffron’s eyes again, expression soft. “I’m sorry to hear what happened to Daurae Asche. As well as all those innocent people. How is Prince Cylvan doing?” His eyes flickered to Aodhán as he asked, who remained in their chair sipping silently at their tea. Avoiding Adelard’s eyes, like it was actually the first time anyone had ever mistaken them for the prince. Like they’d never noticed the resemblance, themself, and were embarrassed by it.
“He’s doing alright, all things considered,” Saffron answered, before grimacing and wringing his hands together. “Cylvan, he… he doesn’t know I’m here, actually. Erm, well, maybe he does. I technically left a note. I’m sure he’s figured it out. But he didn’t know I was… planning on coming here, without him.”
“Why are you here, child?” Adelard asked, the familiar sound of his voice breaking through again. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s… complicated,” Saffron said, eyes remaining lowered on his hands over his lap. “But… professor, there have been more veil events. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. More than just the one in Avren, there was one in Erelaine, then another one in the Fall Court. There would have been one in Ailinne last night, but—” His eyes flashed to Aodhán, then back to Adelard. “But we were lucky. We’ve been trying to chase him down, we realized he’s following Queen Proserpina’s old coronation route, so I thought I would be able to do something if I found him, but… that’s proving too difficult. Cylvan wanted to go back to Avren, but… but I couldn’t stomach it. Going back there to just sit and wait for news. I thought… I was hoping… you might finally be willing to help me with more than just my arid vocabulary, professor. Ryder has more than just Daurae Asche, he also took my friends?—”
“Your friends?”
Saffron’s hands wrung together harder in growing agitation. He nodded. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Before the Midsummer Games ever happened, Ryder took Hollow, Letty, and Nimue through the veil. I think he did so to try and trap me. He—he wanted me to partner with him in this attempt at a human rebellion, I think, and I was slow to agree?—”
“Good,” Adelard said firmly, and Saffron finally met his eyes again. The intensity had returned—that time, as proof Adelard knew more than he shared. Saffron went on, hoping the professor might finally explain. He went on about how Taran had been his intended familiar all along; he talked about Sunbeam, and how she was there with Asche during the games; he reiterated every promise Ryder had ever made to him, about controlling his magic, offering him a witch’s mark. Lying the entire time, purposefully keeping truths from Saffron because, in reality, he wanted Saffron’s magic as wild as possible to ensure he would be the one to wreak havoc at the games. And by refusing to be that tool for him—Ryder had resorted to opening the veil, instead.
The words spilled out of him like blood from a desperate cut. Adelard never interrupted, just nodding, resting his chin against intertwined fingers on his desk. All the while, Aodhán gazed at Saffron in the same way, eyebrow slightly raised in curiosity. It wasn’t widely known exactly what happened in those final moments of the games, after all. Saffron couldn’t blame them for being intrigued.
“I thought you might be able to help me because, paired with his trail of veil events—” Saffron hurriedly yanked his sketchbook from his bag, flipping through the pages to where he’d kept the leaflet of illustrations Cylvan provided him when the high keeper first reported the circles to the palace; on the page alongside it, he’d re-drawn the Tapestry Hall’s strange circle larger, with accompanying notes.
Adelard adjusted his glasses as he leaned forward—before reeling back with a choked sound, nearly knocking his chair over backward. He stared at the drawing with wide eyes, paler than ever as Saffron gently questioned his name. He could practically hear the pounding of Adelard’s heart, especially once the man opened his mouth to clear his throat and speak.
“M-my apologies,” he said, voice shaking. “You only startled me with that one, Saffron, ahaha… Ah, there, I see it now, you left your drawing of the circle broken so it wouldn’t activate. Good lad. Let me—let me take a closer look, hm? Thank you.”
Saffron gave him plenty of time to skim every marking on the page, before quietly continuing.
“Before we knew it was Ryder doing it, I—I kept having these nightmares. Someone calling out to me, begging me to come and find them. To save them. At first I thought it was Asche, but...” He glanced to Aodhán again briefly. “But recently, realized the cries only come to me when Ryder performs this spell. I think they’re related.”
Adelard nodded along. He adjusted his glasses once again, as if paranoid they’d slipped off and he wasn’t seeing correctly.
“ Proclaim self, shelter soul, disgrace,” he read under his breath. Saffron nodded.
“Do you know what it means?”
“Unfortunately, I may have an idea, yes,” Adelard finally answered after what felt like a century of bated silence. He smiled wearily at Saffron, pressing his glasses into his nose yet another time before gingerly closing the sketchbook and sliding it back across the desk. “Not here, though, lad. God above, not here. This really is none of my business. In fact, I think you would be better off doing as Prince Cylvan said, and returning to Avren once you’ve completed your social visits here.”
“Then—”
“I’m sure you’re itching to get to Beantighe Village before the sun rises, hm?” Adelard said, getting to his feet and brushing the wrinkles from his sweater. “Best start making your way, so no night-shift beantighes spot you and start asking questions. ériu knows, with those rebels sniffing around, they’ve been nagging your poor henmothers for information on human magic they keep hearing about. Ah—best you keep this from Nora for now too, hm?”
“Professor, please—!” Saffron begged, leaping to his feet as Adelard shoved the sketchbook closer. “Professor—with all due respect, damnit, I’m not leaving until you help me! I’m not going to be polite anymore, not when you might be THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN HELP ME!”
Saffron didn’t expect to shout—but even Aodhán jumped. Adelard stared at him, standing stiffly on the other side of the desk as Saffron’s breaths came in hard and fast.
“I—” he croaked. “Professor, I’m sorry, I—I’m just—” Defeated tears rimmed his eyes. “I’m begging you, Adelard. I need you. My friends, Daurae Asche—we all need you.”
Adelard said nothing for a long time, again. Long enough that Saffron’s shoulders slumped, and he finally lowered his eyes. He reclaimed the sketchbook from the desk, tucking it into his bag.
“You’ve grown quite bold, after spending all that time in Avren,” the professor finally spoke.
Saffron winced, looking back at Adelard—surprised when the professor looked at him more in fatherly exasperation than full disapproval.
“I never would have imagined someone so polite would raise their voice at me in my own office,” he went on, finally removing his glasses to wipe the lenses as the ear-chain dangled around the back of his neck. He gazed down into the glass pieces for a long moment, as if regarding something only he could see in the reflection. “Are you asking as a beantighe, or as a prince?”
“I’m asking as your friend,” Saffron said weakly. Adelard’s movements paused, and his eyes flickered up to him again. Saffron swallowed against his tight throat. “I’m asking—as a stupid human who’s gotten too far in over his head with all of this. The veil is relying on me, and I can barely even string an arid stele together. I desperately— desperately need someone who can help me.”
“You tried to set Cormac on fire on the road. Seems you can deliver arid steles well enough.”
Saffron grimaced. “Well—someone very dear to me once taught me a long list of arid vocabulary. But, as much as I would enjoy it—I don’t think setting Ryder Kyteler on fire is going to solve all my problems.”
“A thought,” Aodhán muttered.
Adelard smirked, too, then sighed. He tucked his glasses back in place.
“I will come to Beantighe Village after sunset, where we can speak a little more openly.” He looked at Saffron pointedly, that time, and Saffron straightened up. “I’m sure your henmother will like to know what sort of ideas I’m planting in your head this time around. I am not promising to teach you anything, but—is that at least acceptable to you, for now?”
“Y-yes!” Saffron exclaimed, holding his bag close to his chest, before sinking into a deep bow that made Aodhán grunt in disapproval. “Thank you! Thank you, professor! I’m really sorry! I’m really so, so sorry?—!”
“Don’t bow to me, your highness, I’ll blush,” Adelard answered with a new, weary playfulness as he sank into his desk chair.
Saffron gathered himself again. His heart pounded in excitement, at the mere thought of Adelard finally, finally being willing to speak openly about even some of the things he knew, his long lifetime of experience with magic.
Adelard continued to gaze at him as the others got to their feet as well, before lowering his eyes to where the hematite wand sat on his desk. He turned it in a slow, considerate circle with his finger, before flicking it faster then sweeping it into his hand.
“Hold onto this for me, will you?” He asked, extending it to Saffron. “It’s much more effective than a mere ring; much less painful than pricking your finger to draw with your blood, as well.”
Saffron’s cheeks went hot, unsure what to say as he slowly reached to take it. Cold and smooth in his hand, it was hardly no thicker than the sticks of charcoal he used for drawing, barely longer than his fist with every finger curled around it. He didn’t get his chance to offer Adelard proper thanks, before the professor was shuffling all of them on their way out.