Vessel of Woven Night (Rowan Blood #4)

27. The Historian

27

THE HISTORIAN

M aking their way from campus, still keeping a low-profile, following the well-trodden footpath into the woods made Saffron more emotional than expected. Even with his eclectic mix of companions, the wolf residing in the back of his mind, the horse whose reins he carried behind him, even the owl companion he’d sent ahead to notify Baba Yaga of his surprise visit—he kept absentmindedly reaching up to touch his hair, expecting to feel the tug of veil pins whenever the breeze came through.

He found himself smiling at little landmarks he’d memorized after so many years passing them by, like a gnarled oak tree right off the path, a place where the road had sunk away after a heavy rain, the creaking wooden bridge that spanned Quartz Creek swollen with water from previous rains. The sights, the smells of the rich woodland surroundings, the mud, the persistent magic in the air that wasn’t as intense as that in the Fall Court, but still saturated enough to make him buzz. All of it was so familiar, and brighter than ever on his senses after being away for so long. A few months by the calendar, but an eternity by how he felt like a stranger in that place he once memorized down to every step.

In addition to those comforting, familiar things, there were additional improvements he hadn’t expected. Small, earnest attempts at making things easier for the beantighes who made that long walk morning and night, efforts by Cylvan who simply wanted to do what he could, where he could, while all of Alfidel was still out of reach of his power.

While the bridge over Quartz Creek still creaked beneath their weight, actual support beams had been nailed over the width of the water. Lanterns spotted the walkway every hundred feet, flickering with the same flames as those on campus. Small things—the smallest, most unnoticeable things, that anyone else might scoff at. But Saffron knew. And more than ever—he was learning exactly what lengths Cylvan was forced to go to in order to accomplish even those tiny things, in such an inconsequential place, for even less consequential people. For the first time since leaving him, Saffron squeezed his amethyst pendant. Wondering if Cylvan felt it on the other side, unsure if the prince even still wore it after all that happened.

They crossed paths with no other humans on their way, chatting lightly as they went but otherwise appreciating the silence of the morning. As they approached the gates of Beantighe Village, Saffron spotted a familiar figure waiting right at the gates. An undeniable sight, draped in her knitted shawl and donning two long, silvery braids, the same chicken-foot necklace namesake bouncing on her chest with every step. Her appearance flooded the backs of Saffron’s eyes with emotion, and he whimpered slightly like a lost child finally spotting home. Baba Yaga paced back and forth across the entrance, one hand grasping at her cane while the other held a clinking lantern. Impatient, but seemingly eager.

Fiachra perched on the iron fence and preened under her wing all the while. She only perked up once Saffron and the others appeared at the end of the road, too far yet for the old henmother to see for herself. Still, Saffron couldn’t help himself, throwing up waving hand and yelling out her name. He finally burst into tears the moment his henmother turned and smiled at him, calling his name back.

He ran to embrace her, never let down by the strength of her legs as she bolstered them for an incoming hug. Wrapping her arms back around him, she squeezed him tight, cooing and patting the back of his head while welcoming him home. Home , the word that made held-back tears finally spill from his eyes as he buried his face into the comforting shape of the crook of her neck. Breathing in a familiar perfume of herbs and sweat and spun wool and creek water from washing, before pulling back to litter her face with a hundred kisses that made her laugh in surprise.

“Oooh, I’ve been waiting for you to come see me again, little spice. I know you must have so much to tell me about your time in Avren.” She said, reaching up to tuck hair from Saffron’s eyes, like he was a lost cat finally finding its way home. “Your highness, you look—ah, wait…”

Aodhán grumbled just like the first time. Still, they approached with a look of uncertain curiosity, before offering Baba Yaga a bow with an exaggerated sweep of the arm and a little flick of their foot, as if trying to show off. Followed by an extension of the pastry boxes, that barely kept themselves together after all the abuse.

“A pleasure to meet you,” they said. “I’m Saffron’s personal guard, at least for the time being. Gentle Aodhán.”

“Well, how charming,” Baba Yaga chuckled. “I see your taste in companions has improved, Saffron. Oh, and who’s this handsome creature?” she went on before Saffron could correct her, letting it go as Baba Yaga knelt down to scratch Copper all over. The fox, soaking wet from the rain all over again, practically purred, seemingly the second lost cat eager for a warm welcome.

“That’s my friend Copper,” Saffron said. “He’s normally much taller. And dryer. The ashen state has been hard on him.”

“Oh, I bet you’re just as handsome as a fey lord, aren’t you?” Baba cooed, rubbing under Copper’s chin. “Though I much prefer Saffron bringing home something furry again, like old times. His choice of lords has been questionable lately, to say the least. Ah, come, let’s get you rain-wet things inside before the others make their way home. I have to help the morning-shifts get ready for the day, but you and your friends are welcome to sit in the parlor. You remember how frightful mornings can be.”

“Do you need help with anything?” Saffron asked, taking Boann’s reins again to lead her through the village gates, toward the side of Cottage Wicklow. His home, as much if not more than Luvon’s estate in the Winter Court. The same size, shape, color as he’d left it only a handful of months earlier.

Removing Boann’s bridle once sure she wouldn’t wander far, Saffron left her to graze on the dew-rich grass of the cottage’s front yard, making his way to Cottage Wicklow’s open door where the others had already been invited inside. Where it smelled of breads and breakfast foods, fire crackling in the parlor hearth and warming the entire bottom floor; with its repaired staircase and glass panels in the windows. Many things fixed even while he was there over the summer—but things still foreign to him, things so small, things that again reminded him of Cylvan and made his stomach flutter with a whisper of guilt.

The morning rush came in as much of a flurry as Saffron always remembered, seated toward the back of the parlor with Aodhán alongside him, Copper at his feet, and cups of hot tea between them. On the other side of the wall, beantighes decimated the pastries brought in offering.

As unexpected visitors, they did their best to not stand out too much, to cause any alarm—but of course the others would notice two strangers and a giant, wild beast in the house with them. Especially when Copper wasn’t even the most awkwardly-placed creature there, as Aodhán sat stiffer than a statue as they sipped their tea and looked at the floor, the ceiling, commenting on the colored glass in the parlor window before ever meeting eyes with the dozen of beantighe chicks who came down the stairs. Perhaps Cylvan wasn’t the only person the guard resembled, Saffron suddenly saw so much of Asche in them, too.

Eventually, the investigative looks from the clustering beantighes grew inescapable, and Saffron couldn’t stop himself from glancing up to meet the constant, lingering eyes. Only to jump, spilling the hot drink over his hand when it was Fleece who looked at him with a raised eyebrow, or Silk peered out from the corner into the kitchen. Appraising him like they were sure they knew him from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place it. Saffron could only turn his eyes down again, holding his breath and placing a hand against his chest as his heart pounded hard enough to make his scar ache.

“Everything alright?” Aodhán asked between sips of their drink.

Saffron nodded. “When I left Morrígan to join Cylvan in Avren… they sent royal oracles here to p-pull memories of me from everyone in the village.” He hated how he stammered, how his voice trembled slightly despite his best efforts. “It’s my first time being back since then. I don’t think I realized… how bad it would feel.”

Aodhán considered that for a long moment, watching where Fleece and the other familiar faces hurried into the kitchen to ask for something to eat.

“You gave up many things to be a prince,” they stated.

“Not to be a prince,” Saffron corrected, “to be with Cylvan. I couldn’t care less about any titles like those.”

“Hey,” someone else approached, and Saffron jumped to his feet in an instant. It made the beantighe jump, and Saffron quickly smiled and set his tea down to try and soften his intensity.

“Good morning,” he said, having to resist calling Thread by name. “Can I do something for you?”

Aodhán cleared their throat, but it was too late. Even the corner of Thread’s mouth twitched like they weren’t expecting Saffron’s eagerness, let alone such a beantighe-esque string of words.

“Are you here on behalf of the prince?” They asked, eyes flashing briefly to Aodhán like they’d also confused them for Cylvan.

“Not exactly, but—I can pass any message you need, yes,” Saffron drew their attention back.

“It’s not a message—more of a question.”

“Then I can try to answer it, if you’d like.”

“I was hoping he’d be able to tell me what exactly he wants us to do.”

Saffron blinked, blank smile swelling with confusion. “What he wants…?”

“Well—those humans keep coming from Avren offering us ways out of our contracts, right?” they said outright. “But then witchhunters follow right after them. The people with the red cards claim they’re here on behalf of the rowan spirit—but anyone who worked at Morrígan when the rowan spirit actually haunted this place knows it was once a friend of Cylvan’s, and he was the one to give it peace in the end… So are the red cards being sent by him or not? Why’s he trying to trick us to take them, only to send witchhunters right after? Kind of evil, if you ask me.”

Saffron stared at them, the smile still stiffly plastered on his face. Other beantighes clearly watched, too, like it was a common point of discussion.

“What?” he rasped at first. A little dumbfounded by how blatant the question was. Thread paled slightly, like they realized they’d completely misinterpreted everything happening. But when they bowed in apology, turning to hurry away, Saffron’s hand lashed out to grab their arm.

“No, wait, sorry!” he said, before cringing, then having to move past it. “I didn’t mean to confuse you. I simply wasn’t expecting anyone to be so upfront when they asked. Can you actually tell me—what exactly have the humans with the red cards told you about the rowan spirit?”

“They… said the rowan spirit would save all humans like it saved us here at Morrígan,” Thread answered, slightly less bold that time. Saffron waited for them to continue—and when they didn’t, his nerves ground into one another in agitation. Ah. He smiled, but his jaw clenched through it. Insulted that Ryder and his witches would feel so emboldened to continue using that moniker without fully understanding what it ever meant.

“The humans passing out the red cards, claiming to be messengers of the rowan spirit, have no real understanding of what happened here at Morrígan,” he said. “I’d advise you to be careful who you follow into the woods. That’s not to say the real spirit won’t come one day soon, but—until it does, there will be people who make promises similar to what was done here, when they are actually the wolf in disguise.”

Thread didn’t look frightened, or even anxious—in a way, they almost looked relieved, like there had been something bothering them about those who came to Morrígan looking for people to take.

“Prince Cylvan is not sending the witchhunters to come for you, either,” Saffron added with certainty. “I swear to you. They are acting on their own—and may even be hunting the people who are claiming to be rowan messengers in the first place.”

“A lot of us here have been hesitant to believe anything they say,” Thread said quietly. “After what the actual rowan spirit did for us—and then the things Prince Cylvan has tried to do afterward—it’s hard to believe some of the things those false messengers claim. Someone from Cottage Dublin actually punched one of them because she hated how they were using the spirit’s name… they haven’t come by in a while since then. Maybe got tired of wasting time on us.”

Not to mention the dubhlachan blocking their way in , Saffron thought, biting back a smile when he understood.

“Will you tell the others what I said?” he asked. “Also, tell them that—when the real rowan spirit comes, you’ll know. The beantighes of Morrígan will know better than anyone else—and they should say so, when the time comes.”

“Alright,” Thread answered with a little smile. They offered Saffron a nod of thanks, before giving one to Aodhán, then turning to hurry back into the kitchen. Saffron watched them go, unable to reclaim his seat for a long while as something petrified his insides. Turning him to stone as he watched night-shift beantighes saunter in from their exhausting chores, and day-shift beantighes scurried out in the opposite direction.

Rage—that feeling locking Saffron’s joints and filling him with clay was rage. That Ryder would continue to claim the rowan spirit’s name as his own, that he would still pretend like Saffron had anything to do with him. To take that crimson veil and parade it around like a false prophet, when he had no idea exactly what Saffron gave in order to don that mantle for himself.

Saffron wouldn’t lose his chance on Ryder Kyteler again, the next time it came. He would face the consequences worthy of a false prophet.

Once the house settled down again, with night-shift beantighes asleep in their beds and all the others long gone down the road, Saffron couldn’t sit and wait any longer. He carried the tea tray into the kitchen, asking if there was anything Baba Yaga needed done while he was there. If he didn’t do something about his itching bloodlust, he might just tear his own skin off.

Baba Yaga, as it turned out, had a similar idea—but not for the same reasons. She pinched at Saffron’s cheek, then his ear, tugging on it.

“Enough of this, now. Take this glamour off, child, let me really look at you.”

Saffron grimaced, knowing with certainty, it wasn’t going to be a particularly pretty sight, considering how little he’d slept in the past week. He’d been able to get away with it on the road with Dullahan due to the darkness, but his henmother would spot every inch of him in an instant, thinking of the confrontation with Ryder in Ailinne. All of the traveling they’d done, falling off his horse, being thrown to the ground by Aodhán outside the train station…

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Baba, considering anyone could come downstairs?—”

Baba Yaga pinched his ear harder, a threatening look sharp as a knife in her eyes. Aodhán wandered in a moment later, crossing their arms and leaning against the wall. Like they wanted to see, too. Saffron’s grimace deepened.

“God—alright. Just a warning though, that I haven’t slept in a while, and we’ve run into some trouble on the road, but everything is alright, and I’m fine, so?—”

“Oh, Saffron, if you don’t show me your face right this second?—”

“Alright!” Saffron exclaimed, tucking his hand down his shirt and yanking the amethyst over his head in one motion. “Anyway, about those chores?—”

“Saffron!” Baba cried out, staring at him. She grabbed his face again before he could pull away, looking him over more aggressively than the first time, turning him this way and that. She pressed her thumbs into the bags under his eyes, the bruises on his face, the scuffs under his chin, then took his hands to do the same. Saffron finally managed to pull free with a groan, about to reassure her everything was fine, but she whipped around to look at Aodhán, first. “What in god’s name have you allowed to happen! Personal guard , my wrinkled ass!”

“Baba!” Saffron attempted—but even Aodhán just stared at the state of him, looking a little paler than normal. Like even they were shocked at how well the glamour worked to hide all of Saffron’s slow, exhausted withering. “I said it was alright! It’s just been a rough couple of days. How about you mix me up one of those pastes you used to put on us after falling off rooftops? I think it would feel really nice. You can brew me a sleeping tea tonight, too, if you want. I would like that a lot.”

Baba Yaga muttered something, clearly frustrated by Saffron’s attempts to brush it off, but she knew better than anyone that was exactly how Saffron had always responded to bruises being found somewhere on him. Grabbing her cane from next to the door, she hobbled past him and started angrily yanking down dry herbs from the bundles hanging over the sink.

As she worked, she tried to insist Saffron go upstairs and get some sleep, instead, like she could see the exhaustion emanating off him no different than Luvon with his aura-glasses. But Saffron just shook his head, making up a lie about how he’d slept all the day earlier, despite the henmother knowing better. Knowing he was as impossibly stubborn as she was, she listed off a handful of chores he was welcome to do around the cottage, and even around the village, if he so badly wished to work himself to death. Saffron said nothing to deny that—he just turned to Aodhán with a tiny nod, and excused himself to start.

Shoveling dirt, pulling weeds, climbing up onto the roof to hammer-down loose shingles while once-fellow beantighes slept in the rooms beneath him, Saffron disappeared into the movement of it. He turned off his thoughts, he turned off his emotions, he just did the work asked of him.

Work that used to be grueling, but came with open arms that morning. He’d spent too long sleeping in beds that were too soft, eating foods that were too indulgent and rich, reveling in pretty luxurious things he didn’t deserve. Working himself to death felt right, at least for a few hours. He even nodded off alongside the water wheel with Copper in the afternoon, while Aodhán helped Baba Yaga around inside. Even they didn’t call him lazy, as if equally shocked by the exhaustion on his unglamoured face.

When morning crept into afternoon, then evening, then sunset, Saffron was in the middle of scolding Fiachra for harassing Baba Yaga’s orange cat in the rafters when a knock came at the door, and his heart pounded for a different reason. On the other side, Adelard stood with a apprehensive smile and greeting, wearing a cloak pulled over his head. Behind him, Saffron was more surprised to spot Cormac Dullahan, who looked handsome and stoic as ever as he followed the smaller man inside.

After pleasantries were finished exchanging, Cormac sat in the parlor with Aodhán and Copper while Adelard made himself at home there in Cottage Wicklow’s kitchen. He sat at the table across from Saffron, eating a piece of Baba Yaga’s pound cake like it was the true source of his youthfulness. He and the henmother even bickered back and forth some, hinting at a sense of growing closeness while Saffron was gone. Saffron had to hide his amusement. Anyone who didn’t know any better, who didn’t know the giant, frighteningly intimidating man in the parlor was Adelard’s paramour, might think them an old married couple. Perhaps a grandmother and her stubborn grandson. Strange to think that Adelard was, technically, a few centuries older than Baba Yaga, even if he hardly looked or acted like it.

As they ate, Saffron undid the tight ribbon keeping the satchel of his emotions at bay, allowing them to spill out at a controlled pace. As Adelard asked him to start from the beginning all over again, that time sharing even the littlest details he never would have thought important, without any reservations at all. And Saffron did—he started at the very beginning, when Ryder first visited him in the hospital in Avren.

Only when Saffron recalled his contact with Ryder at the Beltane festival, and how he thought that was the first time a memory was taken from him, did things become complicated to try and keep track of in order. To explain why he suspected memory manipulation, he had to explain how he later learned Ryder was only half-human, and according to Taran, must have been oracle-trained in threadweaving. He described how Ryder could also manipulate the veil using veil circles—at that point producing the man’s pixie ring stolen by Copper—and adding how one of Ryder’s own accomplices once implied he wasn’t even oathed to the veil. The veil wanted nothing to do with him, yet he could still somehow cause so much destruction through it, seemingly with just the rings on his fingers. It was around that time Aodhán appeared in the entryway to the kitchen, crossing their arms and looking more perturbed than ever as it was the first time they were hearing about Ryder’s attack in Ailinne.

Saffron continued on tangents about how Ryder was intent on trying to make Saffron doubt Cylvan every time they were alone together; how he spoke endlessly about how he was exactly what Saffron needed to understand his rowan magic, even promising him a way to get his witch’s mark, though whenever they were together he always insisted Saffron try and find it all for himself, first. Which, eventually, made sense once Saffron actually had a chance to peruse the man’s library in the ruins and realized there was nothing there of note.

He talked about the portrait he and Cylvan found in Avren National Library archives, that painting of Acacia Kyteler that so closely resembled Sunbeam; he then described what Asche had once told him about how Sunbeam used to be the one in Ryder’s position in the Finnian Ruins, trying to help displaced beantighes, keeping them safe when they no longer wanted to be owned by their high fey patrons. How Ryder came in and took that from her—and how Saffron wondered if her place in the hierarchy wasn’t the only thing he took, in whatever happened between them. How he might’ve even been holding someone close to Sunbeam named Chandry hostage on the human side, which was why she was in Morrígan at all, looking for the Kyteler School ruins to try and get through the veil that way—and it was then Adelard cleared his throat, urging Saffron back on track.

Halfway through his diatribe, Adelard began scribbling down notes. Quick, few-word notes, though he never interrupted. Each time Saffron paused to watch him, waiting for a word or a question, Adelard just motioned for Saffron to continue. And Saffron did, growing more tangled in his voice, forgetting what he’d explained and what he’d forgotten, voice growing hoarse by the end of it all.

“Last night you said he’s following the night queen’s coronation route, didn’t you? Opening the veil along the way?” Adelard clarified while jotting down another note. Saffron nodded. “Do you mind showing me that epithet of his again?”

“Be careful—” Baba began, but Adelard threw her a smile.

“Your chick is quite clever, left the circle incomplete and all so as to not perform anything he doesn’t mean to.”

Baba Yaga smiled like a proud parent, and Saffron blushed as he hurried to remove his sketchbook. Once he did, Adelard dragged the book closer to himself, gazing down at the page for a long while. Just like the night before—except that time, his eyes lingered for a long time on each and every stroke. He skimmed Saffron’s notes off to the side, considering the yew branches, apple, and other objects included within the circle. All the while, the tip of his pen hovering over a hair’s breadth from his notepaper.

“Professor?” Saffron eventually whispered, but Adelard only shook his head, sitting back slightly. He adjusted his glasses, again like the night before, a little more pale than when he started as he adjusted how he sat.

“I didn’t imagine it, then,” he breathed. Cormac suddenly appeared, as if he could sense the shift in Adelard’s demeanor even from the other room. “He’s trying to contact the dead.”

Saffron gaped at him a moment. Baba Yaga made a small noise, too, before hurriedly shuffling over to get a look at the epithet for herself.

“Oh my,” she whispered, barely audible. “Such a thing is…”

“Very old,” Adelard whispered with a small nod. That time, he reached out to gently pass his hand over the drawing, like he couldn’t believe it himself.

“Contacting the dead?” Saffron asked, a mix of confusion and disbelief.

“That’s right.” Adelard sat forward slightly. “Nora recognizes it, too. This is a very old spell for calling out to someone in the mounds. You said the veil once described it as being ‘from the Dagda’s spellbook’? I’m not one to confirm whether or not that specifically is true, however—‘ proclaim self, shelter soul, disgrace,’ with these objects, and in this arrangement, it’s quite undeniable. Nora, would you like to explain?”

Baba Yaga sighed, restlessly stroking one of her silver braids. At her feet, her fat orange cat meowed and rubbed against her ankles, like it could sense her nerves as well as Cormac had sensed Adelard’s.

“There are three parts to any formal fey deal,” she finally began. “At least, there used to be, when such things were taught to keep humans from being fooled. All fey deals come with terms—I suppose unless you make a geis with a prince, in which case the rules seem to be a little looser.”

Saffron grimaced. Adelard grinned. Baba Yaga continued.

“The request, the offer, the consequence. The request, understandably, is what the person proposing the deal wishes; the offer is what they’re willing to give for it; and the consequence is what the secondary party will face if they break the terms. In this spell—the request : proclaim self; the offer: shelter soul; the consequence: disgrace… which is quite bold of him, considering he’s trying to wake some poor slumbering soul to listen to his inane demands…”

“What could he mean by ‘shelter soul’?” Aodhán asked, still leaning against the wall. “Assuming he’s really trying to contact someone long in the mounds.”

Adelard adjusted his glasses, gazing at Aodhán in consideration. Before Baba Yaga could answer, the professor steepled his fingers together, pressing them against his lips. Saffron swore he saw Cormac smirk, just for a moment.

“How old are you, Gentle Aodhán?” Adelard asked.

Aodhán scoffed. “Older than you, human?—”

“With all due respect—I doubt that,” Adelard smiled, before chuckling. His anti-aging ring, a simple gold band on his thumb, shined in the candlelight as if choreographed. “This man’s first attempt at calling out to his chosen deceased in Avren’s Tapestry Hall, specifically, does not escape me. All these other arid circles reported around Avren are pure nonsense, aren’t they, Saffron? You knew that already.”

Saffron nodded. “I assume to confuse the high fey who found them. I told Cylvan I thought as much, too.”

“That’s right. Now—to communicate with someone who has passed, you generally utilize something of personal value to them; something that could ring through the veil between life and death. However, he clearly does not possess such a thing, so one can only guess why he continues the way he does.”

“Maybe he thinks he does?” Saffron asked. “The apple, or the yew branches, or… maybe something he picks back up before leaving to try again at the next place.”

“Did you see anything when he performed it in Ailinne?”

Saffron thought about it, before shaking his head. “Not that I remember, but, it was dark, and he had me compelled, so I don’t know…”

“It’s possible, too, that he is not calling out to the lost soul itself—but rather to its memory tapestry,” Adelard went on.

“Then why use a spell for summoning the dead?” Aodhán asked. “Surely you witches have spells for finding lost things.”

“What makes a soul, Gentle Aodhán?” Adelard asked, eyes flicking up to meet theirs. “Perhaps high fey believe differently, but humans, witches especially, oracles especially , believe memory tapestries contain genuine pieces of a person’s soul, enough to make them viable. It’s the only way they can explain how some tapestries simply refuse to weave, or go blank after a time.”

“So he’s not trying to talk directly to someone who’s dead,” Saffron clarified. “He’s just trying to find their memory tapestry. And using a very old spell to do it. What for?”

“You will have to ask him yourself, if you ever get the chance again,” Adelard smiled wryly. “Who can say why a madman does anything.”

“Do you know who he might be trying to find?” Baba Yaga asked Saffron, who bit his lip.

“Well—I assume someone important, if one of his first places to check was in the Tapestry Hall. But whoever it was, clearly wasn’t being stored there.”

“He’s following Queen Proserpina’s coronation route,” Aodhán muttered. “Is it not obvious?”

“Queen Proserpina?” Saffron asked, turning to them in disbelief. Even Adelard made a small noise like he’d been kicked in the stomach. Perhaps on the surface, that answer made the most sense—but even with someone like Ryder, Saffron could hardly fathom it. What purpose would he have, to seek the veiled queen in that way? When everything he claimed to be doing in favor of liberating humans was in direct opposition of everything she ever did?

“Saffron, you said you’ve been hearing voices, seeing visions, whenever the spell is performed. Could any of those provide any insight?” Adelard asked, like he was just as eager to figure out something else. Saffron pressed his lips together, nodding. The reminder did nothing to settle his confusion.

“I once… in Ailinne, that is, I… well…” his cheeks went hot, shifting in his chair. “I saw a vision of who I later realized—might have been the queen and Clymeus. I was sitting on a fey lord’s lap in the pools; he resembled, erm… well, he resembled Taran mac Delbaith quite a bit, which I know is something people have said before. Er, that Taran resembled Clymeus, that is.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean—” Adelard attempted, but Saffron shook his head.

“She—erm, I... in my vision, I had breasts. And long blonde hair. Just like… she did.”

Adelard stiffly adjusted his glasses.

“Is that so?” He asked. “Well—have any other visions been so clear?”

“No,” Saffron answered right away. “No, nothing as vibrant as that one.”

“Why would Saffron be receiving visions when the spell is performed?” Baba Yaga asked, next. “When that man is the one performing it.”

“Well—I do wonder if that could also be a clue as to who Ryder is trying to find.” Adelard gazed at the drawn arid circle again. “The specific epithet he’s chosen to use in this search makes me think… he considers himself somehow significant to the tapestry, which may give us a clue.”

“The veil once told me…” Saffron trailed off as all eyes turned to him, eyebrows raised. He cleared his throat. “Erm, it said—that Ryder ‘thinks himself a ghost’s most precious thing’… so whatever—erm, whoever he’s trying to find, maybe he knew them when they were alive?”

“Perhaps,” Adelard considered. “He may also think himself significant to them as an ally. Perhaps as the leader of these human rebels. Considering you are also witnessing the visions he summons, perhaps we should not disregard your rowan witch status in that regard, either. Further considering who exactly you witnessed in your visions, and their historical significance, perhaps Ryder is trying to call out to?—”

“Another rowan witch?” Saffron blurted, heart fluttering in what he could only describe as a rush of protectiveness.

“You say the veil has refused to oath with him,” Adelard said with a nod. “Perhaps this is his attempt to circumvent that. To steal the tapestry of a rowan witch and try to learn their techniques that way. A foolish, insulting effort of perverting the sacred oath… it will only come back to bite him, I can assure you.”

“Even if he can manipulate memory threads, it doesn’t mean he’d be able to read them in a way that’s useful,” Aodhán commented, that time with a sprinkling of sincerity.

“Ah—that brings me back to why I asked your age, Gentle Aodhán,” Adelard said. “I was curious if you were familiar with the old practice of woven surrogates.”

Baba Yaga inhaled sharply, catching Saffron’s attention. She paled slightly, staring at Adelard like he would dare speak of something so wicked in her cottage.

“I’m vaguely aware of them,” they answered, though something about their tone made it sound like an attempt to hide how much they actually did know. “Woven surrogates fell out of practice with King Elanyl.”

“But memory tapestries did not. Ah—that look on your face. You’re understanding my concern.”

“What are woven surrogates?” Saffron finally asked, and Adelard turned back to him, looking grim.

“An ancient practice no longer observed, as Gentle Aodhán said. Made more controversial than ever once Queen Proserpina died by Verity Holt’s hand. Woven surrogates are the bodies of people, given consensually, to be unwoven of their own memories and re-woven with the memories of someone deceased. A form of necromancy, if you will.” Adelard sipped his tea, as if biding his time before continuing. “Queen Proserpina, specifically, had nearly a dozen woven surrogates at the time of her reign—at least that we know of. A cloister of volunteers willing to give their lives and bodies to her, should anything happen to her during her great work. They were her first priestesses, in fact—and soon became her first witchhunters. Like a baptismal in her ideals to prepare for when she would need them. Hence why, once Verity Holt killed her, King Elanyl and Queen Una were coronated less than a moment later. Kneeling in the fresh blood of his mother—so no woven surrogate could be made into a new queen to continue the war.”

Saffron’s ears rang. He pushed past the horrible images, shoving forward to remain in the moment. “Then—then you think Ryder is trying to find a memory tapestry, in order to put it into someone? To bring someone back to life?”

“A rowan witch?” Baba Yaga rasped. “Since the veil will not respond to him? And Saffron has refused as well?”

“Perhaps. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like the man is in desperate need of some guidance in his cause, after all.”

“But who?” Saffron sat forward. “Could he—Verity Holt? Virtue Holt?”

Adelard stiffened, shaking his head quickly. “No, no, neither of those. Verity Holt insisted her memories be left intact when she died. There was no tapestry made for her.”

“And Virtue?”

“Who knows where Virtue Holt has gone, in all this time,” Adelard answered simply, adjusting his glasses again. “Once King Elanyl was crowned, and after some time to ensure as peaceful a transition of power as possible… well, Virtue took his leave. Perhaps back to the human world, perhaps hoping to find a quiet life somewhere else in Alfidel, considering what the war had done to so many like him. He’d just lost his sister, after all…”

Saffron sat back in his chair again, letting all of the information weave in and out of him like a thousand pricking needles embroidering his skin.

“If Ryder is following the queen’s route, then it surely must be someone related to the war,” he said. Considering Ryder’s motives for freeing humans from beantighehood, or perhaps simply his greed for power being refused by the veil, it made sense.

Adelard’s eyes suddenly lingered on the gold pixie ring still on the table between them, slowly reaching out to pinch it. He turned it over in the candlelight, appreciating the detail of the wings, the band.

“Who, indeed…” he whispered, but something about it was heavy, like he knew. Like he had an idea. Rather than sharing it, he just gazed at the ring, brows furrowing the longer he stalled.

“Professor?” Saffron asked, hardly a whisper.

“You know—these rings are no more than veil-touched pixies,” Adelard spoke, casual, informative, as if his own mind didn’t turn over like Saffron’s did. Saffron had to force himself to pay attention, rather than snapping at him to focus. “Pixies have such a unique relationship with the veil, including how they are the only known wild-fey things that can create micro-tears for passage between worlds. Some say they are even physical embodiments of the veil, itself, due to their mischievous nature… the way their colors reflect every shade of the light-spectrum… the fact you will never find any explanation for where they come from, how they are born… The Dagda’s freckles, or perhaps their tears… jewels from their crown, given life by their innate magic…”

Adelard returned the ring to the table, hardly making a noise—though it sounded like crashing glass in Saffron’s ringing ears.

“After getting them drunk on wild fairy fruits, you pluck their wings,” he went on. “Then, with a little fire, and a little luck, you can forge their veil-magic into rings like these. To force the veil to bend to your whims, whether oathed to it or not. That is, until the veil realizes what you’re doing, and responds. You said the veil refuses to commune with Ryder Kyteler, didn’t you? It’s no wonder he’s resorted to such old tricks to fool anyone who doesn’t know any better.”

“Old tricks?”

Adelard tapped a finger against the table, through the loop of the ring.

“Pixie rings were first used by rebels during the War of the Veil. The means of forging them was kept a well-guarded secret, knowing there would be consequences for anyone who used them without the veil’s consent.”

Saffron’s heart lifted and spun. In the back of his mind, where he was certain Taran had sat listening, the wolf let out a breath like he’d been holding it all along. Even Copper had long wandered into the kitchen, ears perked as he sat by Adelard’s feet to listen.

“Did the rebels have consent?” Saffron asked, barely a whisper.

“Oh, yes,” Adelard sighed with the weight of a thousand years—and Saffron’s heart thrummed, like he was only just making a connection that should have been obvious from the start. “Verity and Virtue were the first human-human bridge oathed through the veil. They had quite the unique relationship with it, too. Verity, especially. Just like two mischievous pixies themselves…”

Saffron wanted to ask—he wanted to know more. He wanted to know exactly how well Adelard knew all those things he explained, personally, even first-hand—but the professor continued before Saffron could, wiping any and all whimsy that dared tease the back of his thoughts.

“From what you’ve described to me, Saffron, there is only one thing I can say with near-certainty.” He flattened his hand over the paper donning his scribbled notes, and took a deep breath. “Virtue Holt made sure every pixie ring used by humans fighting in that war were destroyed once it was done, with a promise to the veil that they would never be used to twist it up ever again.” He pointed at the ring, and Saffron’s heart thudded. “For this man to know the significance of the Kyteler name enough to steal it for himself; for him to know how to ally himself with witchhunters once only loyal to the queen herself; for him to know how to both make and use pixie rings to rip open the veil to his will… for even the veil to know better than to oath with him despite his practice—I can say, with certainty, he is much, much older than any of us could have ever guessed. Much older—and far more powerful, more dangerous, than simply a rebel sowing havoc in Avren.”