28. The Remains
28
THE REMAINS
S affron managed a few hours of sleep that night—only to be wide awake again the moment the sky lightened through the attic window.
At least that night, there had been no screaming to wake him. His restlessness was his own; he couldn’t even blame the hard floor of the attic under his back, or the dusty rafters overhead, or the occasional chatter as night-shift beantighes woke their day-shift counterparts and stole their pre-warmed beds in the early morning. Saffron’s restlessness was bone deep, only sinking its teeth with more fervor after the conversation with Adelard the night before.
Not even considering Saffron’s constant, low-burning worry of what Cylvan must be thinking since he left. What he would think once they found one another again, and Saffron told him everything he’d learned. Specifically—that there was no way under ériu’s plucking harp Saffron would be going back to Avren again anytime soon, after what they’d determined of Ryder’s intentions.
Fresh air wafted through the attic window cracked open over the back yard, and Saffron finally lifted his head from the patchwork pillow when he heard the distinct sound of buzzing wings hovering around the gap. Three shimmering spots hummed inside, going first to Fiachra perched and tucked into her wing, to Copper lying on his back between Saffron and Aodhán on their bedrolls, then lastly to Saffron. He had to bite back a laugh as they immediately crawled into his hair, pulling at the gem in his engagement ring and the amethyst in his pendant. Peeping and squeaking and pinching his cheeks, they attempted to tug on his eyelashes to steal for themselves, artfully dodging every one of his swiping hands to try and knock them away.
Kicking himself free of the blankets, Saffron moved silently as to not wake Aodhán or the fox lying like a motionless corpse on the bedroll alongside him. Gathering his doublet and cloak, he paused upon spotting a familiar sight resting on a box in the corner—his old roaming boots, still caked with mud around the bottom soles from the last time they’d been taken into the wood. Biting his lip, he left his fancy fey-made boots in favor of the others, holding them in one hand while pulling up the hatch and slipping through with only his newest pixies companions to see him go.
Sitting on the bottommost step of the main stairs, Saffron pulled on his boots, then his doublet, shaking his head when Baba Yaga offered him something to eat. He just kissed her cheek like he used to every morning, telling her not to let Aodhán worry when they woke up and he was gone. Asking she keep Copper close by as well, as he wasn’t sure how much actual survival instinct the beast had. He was only going for a walk in the woods, he’d be back soon enough. He’d have his best guard dog with him, anyway.
That made Baba narrow her eyes, but she decided against arguing, just sighing and muttering about how she’d put Aodhán back to work the moment they came down the stairs, and would even think of something for the fox to do if Saffron really wished to be left alone in the woods. He hurried out before the old witch could think of any more tasks to assign to him at the last second, too.
Finger-combing his hair as he left Cottage Wicklow, Fiachra swept down from the attic window with a number of complaints to him for leaving her behind. He scratched under her beak in apology, before throwing her back into the sky where she tumbled before catching the wind and soaring. Meanwhile, Saffron double-checked his shoulder bag for his sketchbook and the pouch stuffed with wild fairy fruits from the satyr borough. Feeling only a little bad for lying to his henmother. It hadn’t been an entire lie, at least—he did technically have to walk to the Kyteler Ruins. It would just take a bit longer than expected. He might be gone all day. He’d apologize profusely as soon as he returned back home.
Wandering up the length of the iron fence, Saffron appreciated the red rowan berries weighing down the trees right on the other side, smirking as he knew how the overburdened branches felt. The pixies followed him, as he went, making him laugh as they jumped from iron prong to prong ahead of him, wings fluttering as they turned to see if he was watching.
He didn’t recognize them as ones he’d named in the past, but they seemed to recognize him all the same, either as the impatient human who used to tromp around while waiting for his prince to call him to Avren, or maybe even further back when he was the human who brought honeycomb in exchange for rifling around in their stolen treasures.
Daffodil. Chartreuse. Cherry. Copper, he named them one by one, out of old habit.
“Don’t tell my friend you share his name,” he said to the golden-orange creature perched on his finger, attempting to pry the emerald jewel from his engagement ring. “He might eat you out of jealousy.”
Rather than taking his normal path down the fence straight to the nearest gate, Saffron took the long way around, allowing him a chance to see every part of Beantighe Village he’d missed so much while away. First passing the celebration field, then appreciating the new paint on the exterior of the gathering hall, smiling to himself at how the number of individually-painted accents had grown since he last saw it. Some beantighes drew flowers, others butterflies and bugs, others pixies or unicorns or other wild fey. All signed in scraggly attempts at their own names, many drawn in flowing cursive by one of the henmothers who knew how to write. A bittersweet sight, a bittersweet reminder that he’d always made excuses for why he didn’t ever have time to add his own to the wall. At the time, not knowing how to tell anyone that, within a few more weeks, none of them would remember he existed once he vanished off to Avren.
“Icarus, come.”
Saffron knew the Agate Wood inside and out, but not what went on while he was away. He didn’t know if something shadowy had moved in, he didn’t know if something dangerous crept around because there was no longer at least one beantighe wandering around in the daylight.
Never would that same beantighe have thought that, one day, he’d be back there with the wolf of the Agate Wood by his side, either. A wolf who perked up and stretched his legs with a yawn like a cat in the sun as soon as his paws touched the fresh earth. But Taran made it easier for Saffron to relax, even in a place he knew so well. To not have to continually glance over his shoulder or jump at every unexpected noise, especially with Ryder on the loose. Especially not knowing where, exactly, Ryder would be until his next anticipated event in Vjallrod. Especially after what Adelard had told him the night before—that Ryder Kyteler might be someone older and more powerful than any of them could have anticipated.
God—Saffron wished he knew what that meant. He wished he had more time to speak with the professor about it, maybe even in private, in case there were things the man didn’t wish to discuss in front of Aodhán, or even Baba Yaga. He fiddled with the hematite wand from his bag as he thought about it, rubbing his thumb up and down the side, pressing it into the slightly-flared tip.
“Do you have anything to say about that?” He asked, speaking aloud for the first time since summoning Taran to his side. Taran perked up, glancing over his shoulder, eyes like dark rubies in the dull morning light. Not yet raining, but the smell on the air told Saffron it would be soon enough.
“No,” he answered. “But I have been thinking about it.”
Saffron rolled his eyes. He should have expected no less from such a proud beast.
“What about anything else Adelard shared?” he went on, following the wolf over a downed tree, enjoying every moment his hand pressed into the soft moss growing on the bark, or when the heels of his familiar boots squished into the loamy earth on the other side. He never expected exactly how much he’d miss wearing those old leather boots, formed so perfectly to his feet it was like being held in the embrace of a life-long lover.
“I think it’s interesting how much Adelard seemed to know about human practices during the great war,” Taran answered after some consideration. “Perhaps he thinks he’s keeping his secret well, but it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“That he may have been involved, somehow…?” Saffron asked with a little nod. “I thought about that too. Though I can’t imagine someone so meek and, well— anxious being anything more than, I don’t know… a messenger, maybe? Or just a rebel on the side? I guess I don’t know much about the goings-on of the war, or what exactly humans were doing while fighting in it.”
“That’s on purpose.”
“Wouldn’t want any current-day humans getting ideas, I suppose,” Saffron chuckled bitterly. “But the joke’s on them—humans are figuring it out all on their own.”
“Maybe asking the professor for a little more information wouldn’t hurt, in that sense.”
“What’s this, Taran mac Delbaith encouraging me to engage in treasonous behavior?” Saffron gasped with a dramatic lilt, and the wolf growled in exasperation. Chuckling, Saffron went on: “Maybe. If we get another chance before…” he trailed off, unsure. Before what? He pushed the thought away. He’d worry about that later.
They made their way through the overcast wood in mostly silence, only the occasional comment passed between them, though otherwise Saffron just tried to enjoy himself. He breathed in as much of the familiar air as he could hold in his lungs; he watched as Fiachra swept in and out of the trees, seeming to feel none of the same apprehension in such an open sky as she normally did in Avren. The pixies flit this way and that closer to earth, either trying to steal beads off Saffron’s doublet or bringing him wild berries in attempt to trade. He just traded berries back, though, plucked from bushes as he passed without the pixies noticing. They always squealed and threw tantrums when they realized.
Approaching the outer gates of the Kyteler Ruins was familiar enough from all the trips he’d made on his own in the months waiting for Cylvan’s call, but that time there was the added irritation of the beast walking ahead of him. Taran, who was tangible but incorporeal, who was weak to yew branches as much as Saffron was, whose thick fur still twitched in irritation as they approached the iron gates surrounding the old school. Who snorted in agitation and rubbed his nose against the ground like the air burned to breathe, ears laying flat against his head the entire time Saffron walked down the length of the iron fence to the same gap in the bars where he’d once snuck in and out with Sunbeam.
When Taran was too large to pass through in his wolf form, Saffron had to command him away, then summon him back on the other side, which was a clear hit to the dog’s ego as he walked ahead with his head bowed and snout wrinkled in annoyance.
Following the same trail through the trees he’d also learned from Sunbeam, they emerged on the edge of the clearing on the other side, able to see where the buildings stood clustered together in a blanket of mist. By then, Saffron had gone quiet; Taran had gone quiet. The pixies had fluttered off to mind their business elsewhere, leaving the abandoned grounds silent except sunsingers and robins and crows that clustered on the sinking beams of the old buildings. Even Fiachra soon lighted down on Saffron’s shoulder, like the openness of the clearing was finally too broad for her to comfortably explore.
Taran was the one to break the silence as they reached the perimeter of the buildings, voice like a shout despite spoken normally. Saffron would never get accustomed to constant, ringing silence of that place, even after visiting so many times.
“I’m surprised any of it still stands, even after Asche burned more.”
“Asche mostly burned down the library,” Saffron said. “But maybe the fire just made all the stone stronger, like after the first time.”
The first time , words that struck him more than he expected. It was different that morning, and not because Saffron had brought the wolf as his companion by his side. That morning, Saffron understood better than ever what it meant to open a veil in the middle of the library where students could flee for safety. He could imagine exactly what they may have been running from, witchhunters draped in black veils and carrying bottles of silver liquid that would burn them from the inside.
“That’s where I broke my leg,” Saffron said, attempting to lighten his own mood as they passed the queen’s collapsed chapel. “Remember when Asche dragged me out of the ruins and you left me on the side of the road?”
Taran exhaled with a sharp sound.
“I recall no such thing.”
“You were definitely coming back to kill me. Because you were tired of my shit. But Cylvan reached me first, so you couldn’t.”
“Oh, if only.”
Saffron chuckled again, and Taran gave him a wary look, before flattening his ears.
“There are many things I look back on that I…”
“Regret?”
“Am ashamed of,” he growled. “But not out of guilt for my cruelty—only because it’s embarrassing, to be reminded how mad I’d gone during it all. Trying to maintain my control on Cylvan, I would have done anything. Even make a futile deal with a stupid beantighe… Danu strike me down in all my arrogance.”
“Who, me?” Saffron really laughed that time, hurrying to catch up as Taran stalked off in irritation. He put a hand on Taran’s back, petting him like a dog needing comfort, and Taran snapped teeth at Saffron’s hand before hurrying up ahead. Saffron hurried after him, until they were both running full-speed down the center of the ruins, Saffron practically howling with laughter as Taran easily outpaced him.
Reaching the doors to the burned-out library, Saffron breathed in the smell of the charred wood and stone with the same familiarity as the woods all around them. Even with the ceiling gone, the interior gutted, the shelves along the walls hardly more than skeletal bones after Asche’s fire ate away at them, that place still brought Saffron a sense of peace.
“I know this has been your problem from the start,” Saffron said as they climbed the creaking stairs to the upper floor of the building. Fiachra took off from his shoulder again to explore the burned shelves, wings swirling up black dust whenever she swooped too close. “But do you think you could try and sniff out any wild fairy fruits amongst the bushels here?”
Taran’s upper lip curled, but he said nothing, just turning his nose to the floor to do as he was asked. Saffron, meanwhile, breathed in another lungful of the acrid air, before approaching the wide circle in the floorboards. Partially destroyed by the daurae’s flames, though even the parts swallowed beneath charred wood were just barely visible. Saffron spent a long moment studying every arch of the massive circle, like hundreds of times before. That time, though, he specifically scouted for the knock-rings that should have been at the bottom of the epithet, like Ryder once told him was required for all veil circles. The one at his feet lacked anything like that.
Removing his sketchbook, he crouched down on the balls of his feet, snapping away a piece of long, burnt wood fibre from a nearby floorboard, and used it as his drawing utensil.
Taking his time, he walked the perimeter, drawing every line one after another. Some areas were easier to transcribe, others took a little more focus, some were so deeply burned he had to guess a few hatchmarks over others.
“There are no fruits anywhere in this library,” Taran informed him flatly an hour later, approaching where Saffron was crouched alongside another heavily-burned section.
“Alright,” Saffron said without looking away from his page.
“Isn’t this where you made your oath as a rowan witch?” Taran asked. “Perhaps it’s not a circle to pass through the veil at all, but to oath with it.”
“Maybe,” Saffron mumbled in consideration. But would Sunbeam have spent so much time working on it if that was the case? Wouldn’t she have been able to tell the difference? Even the ghosts of the ruins, the beannighe-headmistress herself, said it’d been used to send students to safety—so what was the truth?
Saffron swallowed back against the lump in his throat. Another thought occurred to him, as he reached out to trace his fingers down the charred lines. Technically, it had been that burnt when he made his oath. The circle wasn’t entirely destroyed. Could he beseech the veil again, like he did the first time, or like he did at the satyr borough, to ask for its help? Would it listen to him if he asked from that same place they once shook hands?
Saffron closed his eyes, pausing a moment before tucking his sketchbook away. In the same motion, he pulled the small collection of wild fairy fruits he still had in his pouch, dumping them into his hand.
It was worth a shot.
He followed the same order of movement as in the satyr borough; eating the berries, closing his eyes, allowing them to infiltrate every inch of him. Imagining their natural veil magic kissing the rowan in his veins, combining with it, flooding him quietly and smoothly until it traveled from his heart out to his feet, his fingers, up the back of his neck, and finally—into his eyes. Blinking them open, he knew right away the halos of undulating color meant he was fairy-drunk, just as much as in the stripped henge.
In front of him, though, there were no clear remnants of a brutal tear through the veil had been in the Fall Court; there were no shimmering cracks in the air, no buzz of poorly-stitched gaps repaired by the veil itself after being rent apart. There was nothing, except the slightest glow of pink magic in the edges of the epithet burned into the floor.
In his drunkenness, Saffron could hear the voice of the beannighe speaking to him, instructing him on what to do next. To beseech the veil, to hear its voice. To call out to it.
Rising to his feet, Taran observed him in silent question as he began unbuttoning the front of his doublet.
“Into the mounds the way you came; stripped of your magic, both the same…” He mumbled to himself, recalling that spell with more clarity than anything else he’d learned before or since. Stripping off his doublet, he kicked off his shoes, next, then his pants, though left his undershirt on against the chill. “ Devour the flesh, the root of the other; breath to breath, exchange your charter…”
He stepped over the outer edge of the circle, moving with an uneven, drunken gait into the center, where he stood staring down at his feet.
“ Exchanging a look, a hand, a kiss; whichever you choose, share in your bliss…”
The last time, he’d touched himself. Drawing himself to climax, his bliss, on his own, as Cylvan wasn’t there to help him. Cylvan was the reason he did any of it, trapped in Avren at Taran’s side. Saffron had done it all by himself once before, and the understanding that he was there all by himself, a second time—made his stomach sink. Made hot tears threaten to drip over his eyes as the emotions inside him swirled untethered in the buzz of the fruits.
“I’m not here to make another oath,” he said out loud instead, lifting his eyes again to search the rim of the epithet. “I just want to speak with you. I don’t know any other way.”
To his surprise, the air shifted in response. Even Taran took a slight step away from the edge of the circle, hairs on his back standing up like he could sense it.
You always go to such lengths, the veil hummed, but it wasn’t teasing. It sounded—agitated. You only call to me when you need something, witch. What is it this time?
The harsh tone made every plea halt at the back of Saffron’s throat. Suddenly confused, even embarrassed, to be standing there in only his undershirt, not exactly sure what he wished to ask for. If the veil could take him straight to where his friends resided in London , would it? But then what would he do—half-naked, in a place he’d never been?
“Where did this circle once lead?” he asked instead. “I know it’s where I made my oath with you, but I’ve also been told it was?—”
A place called Dùn èideann, in Alba. This circle was delivered by two bridgekeepers. Only they can revive it.
Saffron didn’t know what he was expecting, but the clear Gaeilge sound of those words piqued his interest.
“Is Alba anywhere close to a place called ‘London’?”
The veil shifted; it swirled around him, circling him like a fox circling prey, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to catch. It made Saffron’s heart pound, chills racing up and down his skin as the sensation burrowed and plucked at a deep-rooted human fear inside of him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Have I done something wrong?”
Are you so daft?
Something within his shoulder bag moved, catching Saffron’s attention. From the bottom of the leather sack, the hematite wand suddenly rolled out—then bolted upright, shuddering before sliding forward. The tip of it carved a line in the wood floor as it moved, emitting a shrill sound as it approached then circled around Saffron once, twice, three times.
You nearly had that man in Ailinne. I told you right where to find him, yet where is he now? Who knows what he may do next. Who knows where he may tear me open next!
You know how to pass through the veil, it continued, harsh and cold. You have been told. You have the tools to do it yourself. Why must you continue to bother me for answers? Are you such a coward? If I’d known my only witch was so useless, I would have chosen someone else to help me.
Saffron stared at the floor, where the hematite wand had come to a sudden halt in front of him. There was no more air in his lungs, like he’d been hit in the chest. The words rang in his ears, loud and echoing, only made worse as the veil used his own voice to utter them.
You know what to do. You know how to do it. You wish to go to ‘London,’ do you? The wand stiffened again, before circling Saffron once more, but that time with two knock-circles at the bottom. Saffron gasped, tripping backward, out of the center in an instant.
Coward! The veil shrieked, loud enough that Saffron threw his hands over his ears. Beseech me for nothing else, bumbling malingerer! Arrogant charlatan! You promised me so much, you promised me protection! I promised you all you ever needed—and yet you hesitate! You watch as I am torn apart, too frightened to do a thing! I will brook no more false promises from you! Selfish! Arrogant! Impertinent witch!
Saffron stumbled fully out of the circle, crashing to the floor and kicking away from the edge of it as the hematite wand dug trenches into the wood again, tearing in fast circles around and around as the veil shredded all that remained of the ancient epithet. And all Saffron could do was watch in horror, in shame, in confusion—in gut-wrenching heartbreak, as the insults thrown at him repeated endlessly in his fairy-inebriated mind.
Only once the hematite wand bounced off a piece of the uplifted floor, thrown across the room and out of the circle, did Saffron finally snap out of his agonized trance.
He hurried for his clothes. Saying nothing, keeping his eyes low. He pulled on his pants, his boots, his doublet, not bothering to button up the front before throwing the bag over his shoulder. He nearly left the wand behind, but in a final moment of uncertainty, swept it off the floor before hurrying toward the exit.
Taran followed closely behind, asking what happened, what was wrong—but Saffron felt like he was being turned inside out. The fairy fruits made it hard to think. Hard to walk. Hard to know what was real and what wasn’t.
He just wanted to go home. He wanted to go home . To his bed in Cottage Wicklow. Where Baba Yaga would brew him some tea, where he’d be able to lie down and sleep, to disappear beneath the blankets where there was nothing, nothing, nothing, except the smell of linen and baked bread and the Agate Wood and nothing, nothing, nothing else?—
He heard his name called. As soon as he stumbled through the iron fence around the old school, he heard it loud and clear—someone calling out to him, like all those times before, loud and echoing off the inside of his head. He didn’t know how much more he could take of it. Especially when, that time—the voice was Cylvan’s.