32. The Warmth
32
THE WARMTH
S affron hit the snow at the bottom with a thud softened only by the thick blanket of powder. It was enough to stave off death, but not nearly cushion enough to keep the wind from being knocked out of him.
Buried almost instantly beneath the blanket, he couldn’t grasp which way was up until the feeling of fingers hooked into the fabric of his sleeve and yanked him upward. They unearthed him back into the cold, air, the cutting wind, and he almost wished to sink back beneath the frost in comparison.
“You alive?” the gruff voice asked, still pulling Saffron upward, though Saffron just sank back into the deep snow every time the grasp on him was loosened even a little bit. Saffron didn’t know—he didn’t know if he was still alive. But the pain of the freezing air on his skin gave him a clue, and all he could do was roll his head. “That’s a good boy. C’mon, up you go.”
The man bent his knees to heave Saffron onto his back. Saffron sank into him, arms draping over his shoulders and head hanging forward. Only then did actual thoughts finally poke through the frozen haze—and he realized who it was that carried him.
Jerking backward, he tumbled off Ryder’s back, inadvertently taking the man down with him. He crushed Saffron into the snow, making Saffron groan as the brief air he’d reclaimed in his lungs was instantly knocked free again. Focusing instead on kicking his legs and throwing his hands out. Ryder grunted in response, finally grabbing a hold of one of Saffron’s arms to shout at him over the howling wind.
“I’m not takin’ you anywhere except out of the snow, Saffron! Unless you want to freeze to death, I suggest you stop being so difficult!”
“Get your hands off me!” Saffron snarled back, attempting to yank his hand away, but Ryder just audibly groaned in exasperation. He bent forward again, that time throwing Saffron over one shoulder and getting back to his feet. Saffron could only shout, kicking his legs and pounding his fists against Ryder’s back, but Ryder seemed to feel none of it.
Saffron didn’t know for how long he was carried—he didn’t even know if Ryder was taking him somewhere on purpose, or just wandering aimlessly in that snow-blinding landscape, though the man’s slowly deteriorating movements hinted at one more than the other. Eventually even Saffron was too cold to kick, to pound his fists, just shivering and attempting to pull his body into itself as much as he could. As he did, he tried to take stock of what he had with him, what he didn’t; his cloak was still tied securely to his shoulders, by the grace of ériu. His shoulder bag dangled heavy across his chest, though he had no idea what still remained inside. Fiachra wasn’t following them. Neither was anyone else, it seemed. Perhaps they all thought him dead, just like that. So easily.
“Fuck—thank the gods,” Ryder finally groaned, and Saffron managed to lift his head. Through the ice-frosted ends of his hair, he spotted what Ryder meant—the silhouette of a cabin in the distance, perhaps for hunting, perhaps a witch’s trap for lost travelers just like them. Saffron didn’t care. He was a witch, too. He could reason with some old crone if he had to.
The door was locked as they reached it, remaining firm even as Ryder attempted to shoulder his way inside. Finally, he set Saffron down beneath the eaves that offered minimal protection from the snow, where Saffron promptly collapsed against the wall and sank to the snow. Ryder scolded him through clenched teeth, but focused on reeling back to slam himself into the door. Again and again, until the wood cracked, then split, and he threw himself inside and crashed to the floor. Saffron wished he was warm enough to laugh. He just dragged himself to his feet, using the wall of the cabin for support as he stumbled inside after the man who was just pushing himself up to his knees.
“What, couldn’t close the door behind you, your highness?”
“F-f-fuck you,” Saffron chattered through his teeth, going straight to where the moth-eaten bed was located on the opposite side of the room, bumping into the table and chair on the way. Collapsing on top of it and summoning a cloud of dust, the mattress was hardly more than wool-stuffed linen, lumpier in some places than others, the pillow in no better shape—but it reminded him of Beantighe Village. Of his own bed back in Fern Room, before Cylvan’s demands had everyone’s sleeping conditions improved. He’d long moved on to plush high fey silks and thick cushions by then.
At the thought, Saffron buried a stiff hand into his shoulder bag, mentally taking stock of everything inside. Relieved when he’d lost nothing of note, particularly when his fingers trailed over the cold stone of the hematite wand. He pulled it from the bag in a flash, tucking it up his sleeve before Ryder could notice.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the cabin, Ryder had managed to pin the broken door back in place using the wooden table, though the sound of the whistling wind remained deafening as blustering snow spilled in through the gap where the latch had broken away. Saffron nearly piped up about the fireplace hearth in the wall—though the distinct lack of joined whistling, flurries down the chimney told him it was likely too clogged with debris to be useful. He collapsed back to the bed again, closing his eyes in defeat.
When Ryder turned to approach Saffron on the bed, Saffron didn’t even look at him.
“Don’t come any closer,” he said. Ryder’s footsteps stopped.
“We’ll freeze to death otherwise.”
“Speak for yourself,” Saffron hissed. “I grew up in the Winter Court. I can keep myself warm.”
“I did too, unless you already forgot,” Ryder answered flatly. “But that only means you know as well as I do, it’s no chilly Winter Court night outside. I’m not going to do anything to you but share my body heat.”
“Yeah, right,” Saffron muttered. “Keep away from me before I break both your hands.”
“Don’t think you could. Maybe back when you were a beantighe, but not anymore, highness.”
Saffron knew he only kept using that title because he’d once insisted he didn’t—but Saffron did not correct him. He did think himself higher than Ryder Kyteler, or whatever the fuck his real name was, even freezing his ass off in the middle of nowhere after falling from a cliff. He pressed the base of his wrist into the tip of the wand tucked in his sleeve at the thought, wondering if he could just stab the man instead.
Fighting the urge, Saffron instead just ignored him, pulling the near-rotten blanket off the bed and over himself, hardly bothered by the smell of mothballs, the holes eaten through the fabric. He barely thought to strip off his wet cloak first before curling up as tightly as he could, ears remaining sharp as Ryder sighed and paced the room.
He even approached to pick up Saffron’s discarded cloak, draping it over the back of the lonely chair before taking a seat in it for himself.
“You sure?” he asked one more time. Saffron could practically see the smirk on his face. “I promise you I run warm. We’d both be feeling better in?—”
“Icarus, come.”
Taran manifested from the shadows, head low and ears flat against his head. Ryder said nothing, only exhaling a small breath, though Saffron didn’t know if it was through a smile or just exasperation.
“I could always wear your prince’s face for you, if you’d like. How are things between you and him after Ailinne, anyway? Noticed he wasn’t there earlier?—”
“Taran, kill him.”
Taran’s snout wrinkled over a growl, and Ryder put his hands up again with another smarmy grin.
“Alright, sorry.”
“Do you ever shut up?” Saffron asked, crossed his arms over his face, attempting to block his ears. “Don’t think about coming anywhere near me. My dog will tear you apart.”
“You two are on good terms, then? Been a while, Taran. See you’ve finally grown into those bones of yours.”
Taran snarled again. Saffron didn’t want to—but Ryder’s words caught his attention, and the man grinned in satisfaction when he peeked over his shoulder.
“Curious, your highness? C’mon. Don’t you remember anything I’ve told you? Taran and I spent some time in Fjornar together as kids, didn’t we, my lord? You were such a favorite of those oracles there.”
Saffron didn’t want to listen. He’d already assumed all of that, after learning about Taran’s past, after what Ryder had told him during that brief dance on Beltane. But for Ryder to admit it so casually while Saffron felt like he was on the verge of freezing to death—was infuriating in a way.
“Is that where you learned to weave memory threads?” He decided to ask outright. Taran’s ears perked, and in the back of Saffron’s head, his voice warned him not to fall for Ryder’s charms. Saffron rolled his eyes, cursing Taran back. He wasn’t falling for anything. He had a right to know—considering the man’s fingers had once dug through his own mind, to take things Saffron didn’t even realize were missing until the end.
“If you want to ask me questions, your highness, I would prefer if you met my eyes.”
Saffron scowled, but he sat up. He turned on the bed, leaning back against the drafty wooden wall. Between him and the man in the chair sat Taran, hardly more than an intimidating shadow in the darkness. Ryder wasn’t much more, himself.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” Ryder said with ease. “And also where I learned some of my veil tricks, if you’re curious about that as well.”
“Are they the reason you’re doing all of this?”
“Doing all of what?”
“Taran—”
“I’m doing all of this for my own reasons, I can assure you,” he answered with a charming smile. “The oracles of Fjornar taught me what I know—but I think even they were surprised with what I did at the games.”
“Your witchhunter friends, too.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
Saffron pressed his lips together. He’d never been sure exactly how much crossover there was between modern witchhunters and the oracles of Fjornar, but assumed it to be at least some. Ryder’s words implying them to be one and the same, though, made Saffron heart twist in panic. Thinking of Cylvan back in Avren, where all of the oracles had gone to try and find Asche.
“Are all Fjornaran oracles also witchhunters?”
“No; but all witchhunters are from Fjornar.”
“That’s where they originated, when Queen Proserpina started training them to hunt down humans.”
“Ah—see, why do you keep wasting my time when you already know everything?”
“Were you trained as a witchhunter, too?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“Then how do you know so much about them?”
“Well—they raised me. One big happy family.”
Saffron swallowed the lump in his throat. “So you were an orphan?”
“Of sorts.”
“Just fucking tell me.”
“My stepfather sent me there.”
That admittance paused Saffron’s insatiable frustration. He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly in a moment of genuine curiosity.
“You just said you were an orphan.”
“I said I was something like an orphan.”
“… Why did your stepfather send you there, to be raised by oracles? Did he want you to train as one?”
“Not particularly,” Ryder sighed, but never took his eyes from Saffron. Like it was a thrill, even for him, for Saffron to be so interested. To hold Saffron’s attention so doubtlessly again, after losing his trust at the games. “After he killed my father, my mother wanted nothing to do with me. I don’t think he really cared what they decided to do with me.”
Saffron’s breath caught. “Your stepfather killed your father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Who knows,” Ryder smirked. “I’m the only one who knows he did. Even mother never found out, I don’t think. I wonder if she would have cared, anyway—she hated him as much as my stepfather did. Perhaps that was his work too, though.”
“Why not kill you too?”
“I don’t know that either,” Ryder answered. His eyes flickered warily to Taran for a moment, then back to Saffron. “I never got the chance to ask him.”
Saffron shifted where he sat.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you asked.”
Saffron rolled his eyes, and Ryder chuckled.
“You’ve never asked, before.”
“I’m certain I did.”
“Well—maybe I’m just in a good mood tonight. You know seeing a dragon so close is said to bless you with long life? Maybe that’s why we survived that fall together. I’d gladly do it again for another night alone with you.”
Saffron scowled, shifting how he sat, averting his eyes toward the shuttered windows that rattled on their old hinges. He hadn’t taken any time to think for himself about that dragon they saw up on the ridge. Its black scales, the frightening size of its wings and snout. It could have swallowed Saffron whole if it wished, and only gagged a little at the size of him on the way down. Shaking his head, he forced himself back into the moment.
“What were you doing on the road by yourself like that?” Saffron went on, before deciding he already knew. “Heading to your next location , I suppose.”
“That’s right. Horse got spooked by the storm, threw me off. How lucky, for the crown’s traveling party to pass by.”
“You had no chance of ever getting a horse from Maeve dé Bhaldraithe.”
“Oh, is that her name? A sídhe lady, then.”
Saffron clenched his teeth—why did that simple comment finally make him snap? He jumped to his feet, moving on instinct and attempting to kick the man in the chest—but Ryder just grabbed his foot mid-air, twisting it and sending Saffron tumbling to the floor. Taran leapt forward and snapped his teeth at Ryder again, as Ryder also got back to his feet—and Ryder just put his hands up, slowly returning to the chair.
“I’ve had enough of you!” Saffron shouted, untangling himself from his cloak. “God— damn you! Fuck! I should just fucking kill you right now, after everything you’ve done! After everything you’ve taken from me—and yet you still have time to be so goddamned— sarcastic! So fucking arrogant!”
“Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
“Because you took them!” Saffron cried. He pushed past Taran, shoving Ryder back. The chair tilted onto its back feet, but the man righted himself again before he could fall backward. “Because you took my friends from me—and I have to get them back! All while you’re being so goddamned reckless! Putting so many other people in danger!”
“And here I thought I was being so careful with my latest antics.”
“You—!” Saffron barely resisted throttling him. “Tearing open the veil—! Even if it doesn’t swallow anyone up, it—!! The veil told me itself, if you keep shredding it like this, it’s only going to end up worse for everyone! For the high fey, and for humans, both!”
“What does it matter to me if a few more high fey are left ashen?” Ryder asked calmly, leaning back in his chair.
“It’s not just—! Humans might lose their aridity too!”
“Humans only devised aridity to protect themselves from opulent fey.”
Saffron gaped at him. “What in god’s—What are you even saying? That’s not even close to true—The Dagda, they?—”
“And how would you know, beantighe?” Ryder asked, smooth and infuriating. “Did your prince tell you that?”
Saffron wanted to hit him—to hit him hard enough to actually kill him, that time. It was a wonder he remained on his feet, fists held at his sides and clenched tight. Perhaps only because he knew someone like Ryder Kyteler would not die so easily, no matter how infuriated Saffron was.
“Beantighes are suffering more because of how careless you’re being,” he said angrily. “They’re being forced to clean up after your messes! They’re being threatened in the gossip papers, they’re being abused by their patron fey because people are scared?—!”
“More motivation for them to come join my red coven then, hm?”
Saffron couldn’t stop it—his hand lashed out, slapping Ryder across the face. Ryder stared at the floor for a long moment in silence, in disbelief, before slowly turning his attention forward again.
“I see you… have strong feelings about that.”
“Ugh!” Saffron snarled. Tangling his fingers in his hair and pacing back, then turning on heel again.
“Why didn’t you destroy the Tapestry Hall after performing that spell? Like all the others that came after. With a veil spell. Or all the other false ones you planted around Avren.”
“I did not plant all those other ones without help—or do you really think I can be in so many places at once?” Ryder smirked. “A handful of defecting beantighes helped me out, actually, in exchange for helping them through the veil. I hoped to throw the fey, their oracles, off my scent—but clearly not you. I never once thought I would be able to throw you off, Saffron. You’re too smart. Have you figured out what I’m looking for, yet? It should be obvious by now.”
Saffron almost responded, demanding Ryder answer his question first—but forced himself to pause. Just for a breath, to catch it, to think about his priorities. Especially with someone so insufferable and prone to word-games.
“It’s for finding lost things, isn’t it?” he conceded, choosing his words carefully. Not wanting to imply he knew more than he did; let alone exactly how much Adelard was able to share with him. He’s trying to contact the dead.
Ryder hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the table like, despite Saffron’s effort, he knew better. Like he could tell when Saffron was lying; like he really did hold Saffron to a higher standard than that. Saffron bit his lip, but added a bit more: “You’re looking for a memory tapestry. One you first thought would be in the Tapestry Hall, but wasn’t.”
“Have you figured out who exactly it is I’m looking for?”
Saffron bit his lip, and Ryder cooed after it took him longer than a moment to respond.
“Come on, your highness—you’ve figured out where I’ll be going next, but you haven’t thought any deeper than that? Maybe you’re not as impressive?—”
“It’s someone to do with the war,” Saffron blurted, unable to help himself. Ryder cocked an eyebrow, before smirking again.
“Very good, Saffron, but that doesn’t answer my question. You’re making it far more complicated than it really is. Don’t make me tell you, that’s no fun.”
Saffron’s mind whirled, forcing himself to think more simply—and the answer slammed against him like an avalanche. Visions of blonde hair and straddling the lap of a high fey who resembled Taran; The Morrígan’s temple with a notorious history; the queen’s coronation route.
“Queen—” Saffron choked, the word vomiting out of him at the exact moment he made the connection. “You really are trying to find—Queen Proserpina’s memory tapestry?”
“Good boy.”
“Why?” Saffron croaked. Unable to believe it. Having been so certain in his conversation with Adelard that such an idea was simply too—outrageous, even for Ryder Kyteler. “What could you possibly want with…?”
Ryder chuckled. “I’ll tell you, but only if you help me warm up a little.”
“Oh—fuck off,” Saffron snapped. But Ryder got to his feet, even as Taran’s ears flattened again in threat. Saffron could still only see the man’s silhouette as he paced the edge of the room, finally coming to a halt by a row of hooks on the wall by the door. When he turned back and took a few steps toward Saffron, Saffron snorted at the sight of rope looped in his hand.
“Are you serious?”
“If it makes you feel better. C’mon, Saff, I’m shivering my ass off here. I know you are too. I can hear your teeth chattering every time you speak.”
Saffron clamped his mouth shut again, before scoffing. He approached, snatching the rope from Ryder’s hand. The man said nothing, just turned and bent his arms behind his back for Saffron to bind. And Saffron did—gladly, willingly, tying the rope as tight as Baba Yaga would truss a wild turkey on Mabon. Ryder huffed and grunted a few times from the roughness of it, but said nothing, never attempted to fight back.
Once Saffron was done, he grabbed Ryder’s bound arms and yanked him back, summoning a sharp laugh as Ryder stumbled and landed on the bed.
“Easy, your highness—don’t you have a fiancé?”
“Another word and I’ll throw you out into the snow.”
Ryder considered that, closing his mouth but continuing to smile. Saffron pointed at the wall in instruction, and Ryder did as he was told, lying back on the bed and turning to face it. Only when his eyes were finally moved away could Saffron breathe again, giving Taran an uneasy look before approaching the bed, crawling onto the lumpy mattress and silently pressing himself into Ryder’s back.
The man was not nearly as warm as he tried to claim, but god help him, anything was better than shivering until his fingers snapped off. Saffron was even desperate enough to shove the bottom of Ryder’s shirt up a few inches, just enough to press his hands directly against the man’s skin, making him writhe and laugh in discomfort. Saffron just bit back another threat for him to be quiet.
“Now answer me,” he grumbled once they both settled down. “What do you want with the queen’s memory tapestry? Are you even good enough with memory threads to be able to read it?” Playing dumb on purpose, despite everything Adelard had explained about woven vessels churning in the back of his mind. Not wanting to give Ryder any ideas to mislead him, to lie and trick with his silver tongue.
“Even if I’m not,” Ryder breathed, “I know people who are.”
“Answer my real question.”
Ryder’s body bounced slightly as he chuckled.
“Her majesty destroyed all of her journals and missives just before Verity Holt brought her down. Surely even you know that much, with how often you stick your nose in places it doesn’t belong.”
“Watch it.”
“Is it so outrageous to simply—want to know? To want to know why she did what she did, what made her finally snap. Her first lover was a human, after all; she even lived amongst humans for many years, never thinking she would end up queen. So what changed her mind?”
Saffron stared at the broadness of Ryder’s back, how the fabric of his shirt strained slightly every time the man took a breath.
“What good would it do?” Saffron asked quietly. Ryder lifted his head like he hadn’t heard, but Saffron went on without repeating himself. “How is that supposed to help you help the humans trying to find better lives? Just make your own choices.”
“There may be things in her memories that can help me help the humans trying to find better lives,” Ryder argued flatly. “I only have to find them, first. I know there’s good reason why they were hidden away so well, but—I’m going to find them, no matter how many tries it takes. I know they’ll respond to my call soon enough.”
“Maybe you need to try a different spell,” Saffron muttered. “Seeing as this one isn’t giving you anything worthwhile to go off.”
“And what makes you think I’m not getting anything worthwhile?” Ryder asked. Saffron almost rolled his eyes, to reiterate how every vision he’d personally received had only reflected memories of the location where the spell was performed, rather than where the tapestry itself was—but something told him to pause, first. To notice how Ryder’s muscles tightened slightly as he said it; to recognize the slightest twinge of defensiveness in the man’s voice.
Was the spell—not showing Ryder the same visions it showed Saffron?
He held his breath. Even Taran perked behind them, ears twitching like he shared Saffron’s sudden intrigue.
Ryder was not a foolish man; he was stubborn, but he did not like to waste time. Especially his own. If he’d realized how useless the visions were from the start, he would not have continued with the same epithet over and over again, especially with the added trouble of traveling north. The fact he even knew that ancient spell to start with made Saffron think he’d have access to others that would work better in his favor—but then he recalled once more what the veil had once told him about that epithet, specifically. He thinks himself a ghost’s most precious thing.
Adelard had assumed Ryder was searching for a rowan witch’s memories, hoping they would respond to him as the new leader of a new human resistance. By that standard, there was no way for Saffron to know what exactly Ryder thought made him significant to Queen Proserpina’s memories, especially in that same context—but still, Saffron’s heart pinched, then thudded as he lifted his head an inch. Just enough to glance over his shoulder to where the dark wolf sat at the ready behind him. Close enough to feel the beast’s warm breath on the back of his neck.
Saffron might never know what sort of delusions motivated Ryder’s ego enough to make him think the queen’s tapestry would respond to him in that capacity—but he did know why she might call out to her wolf king’s silver remains, instead. The spell wasn’t calling out to Saffron because he was a rowan witch—it wasn’t even calling out to Saffron at all. It pleaded with King Clymeus’ bones, which belonged to Taran, which belonged to Saffron. So desperate to be found by him, crying so loudly her voice reverberated across all of Alfidel even when nowhere near the epithet beseeching her.
Ryder had no idea Saffron witnessed the visions at all. He might not even know there were visions to be had, with how his desperation clearly grew with every attempt to summon any response from the missing tapestry—and it struck Saffron like a punch to the chest.
“She learned so much about the veil from opening and closing tears as much as she did, you know.” Ryder went on after Saffron didn’t reply, as if he believed Saffron to be intrigued by his last attempt at mystery rather than swallowing back the rush of thoughts making it hard to make sense of anything. “Her work pushed the understanding of veil magic farther than even the most practiced rowan witches like you understood. We actually have her to thank for many?—”
“Her ‘work’?” Saffron sneered, snapping out of his fog in an instant. Incited by those words enough to burn every other distraction away. “You mean ripping the veil open and sewing it shut as she pleased, never caring what damage she did to it or the people living nearby.”
“Sometimes you have to understand history so you don’t repeat?—”
“I understand enough!” Saffron jolted upright, making Ryder turn to gaze up at him in the dark. “I lived it, damnit! I don’t need to know Queen Proserpina’s intentions to see exactly how, even with Verity and Virtue Holt kicking her off the throne—humans still never fully regained their autonomy. Not even with their magic, but just the ability to live! Because Queen Proserpina didn’t convince high fey to hate humans all by herself—they’ve always resented us. So that once humans fell even an inch on the hierarchy, high fey never gave them another chance to climb back up again. Even with Elanyl, Verity’s friend, in power.”
“Do you think if he’d lived a bit longer, he would have had the chance to change things back to good for humans?”
“I don’t know!” Saffron shouted, shoving Ryder on the shoulder. “Don’t patronize me, asshole.”
“Where do you think Virtue Holt has been in all this? Verity died, yes, but her brother? Why did he immediately refuse a position in the king’s court to vanish into obscurity?”
“How should I know that?”
“And Harper, Verity’s lover, why did she go back to the human world as soon as they were finished? When her condition would have been more easily treated here, with the fey.”
“Her ‘condition’?” Saffron asked, before screwing his face up and shaking his head. “You—! Harper Kyteler, you mean! The woman whose name you stole?—!”
“Who said I stole it? Maybe I’m her son.”
“Oh, sure, you resemble her exactly,” Saffron sneered, grabbing Ryder’s pale face with one hand and taking a handful of his blonde hair in the other. “A spitting image of dame Harper Kyteler. Do you actually think I’m stupid?”
“Not even a little bit.”
Saffron wanted to squeeze until he ripped the blonde hair from Ryder’s scalp, or broke his jaw beneath his grip; he wanted to sneer and reveal that, actually, he knew exactly who Harper’s real descendant was, as a matter of fact—but he kept his mouth shut. Ryder likely knew all of that, too—and maybe it was dangerous for Saffron to continuing sharing everything he’d learned. It might only put Sunbeam in more danger on the other side.
That was, assuming Saffron ever let Ryder go. Even once morning came and the storm petered off. But from the moment he bound the man’s hands as tightly as he could, Saffron had ideas of leashing him like a dog of his own and dragging him to the nearest town, where Aodhán or Maeve or someone could properly put him under arrest, to be taken back to Avren where he’d never be able to tear open the veil again—until Saffron forced him to.