33. The Cold
33
THE COLD
S affron never fully drifted off—a part of him wasn’t sure he knew how to anymore, at least not without Baba Yaga’s tea—but he still sank just enough beneath the surface of drowsiness that when the sound of the wind shifted, he was the last one to notice.
Taran lifted his head. Ryder lifted his head, then turned to gaze toward the door with the broken latch that rattled and whistle against the wind. Only when the shift in direction was followed by a ground-shaking thump of something heavy colliding with the earth, did Saffron bolt upright, too.
Heart pounding in his ears, Ryder asked what it was, but Saffron shushed him. Thud, thud, thud, thud, the ground trembled with every rhythmic fall to the ground, crunching snow beneath something broad and weighty . It paired with heavy, but steady breaths, and all Saffron could picture was a bear, or a moose—until an impossibly dark shadow slowly blocked the gap in the door, followed by the whistling sound of an ear-piercing hiss. The moment he realized, it was already too late.
Long claws pierced the cabin’s sagging rooftop, hooking into the wood and slowly tearing the ceiling away like the peel of a frostorange.
Snow and whipping wind crashed instant, hard and fast enough that Saffron had to throw his hands up to cover his face. On instinct, he lunged for his cloak still draped over the back of the chair, catching it just before the torrent carried it off into the pre-dawn sky. Still dark, except the slightest shift of light from the distant sun through thick clouds—which was more than enough to see exactly what tore the roof away. The black-scaled dragon, with indigo-blue eyes that searched inside once enough of the rafters and roof had been sheared away.
“Jesus Christ!” Ryder shouted before Saffron had the chance—and the dragon snorted in what could only be described as disgust . It then reached inside to scoop Ryder into one sharp hand, before flinging him over its shoulder. Into the air, before he vanished into the distant snow with a far-off grunt. Saffron had no time to react, to even scream, as his instincts shouted at him to run —but it was Taran’s snarling command of the same that finally moved his body.
Shoving the table out of the way of the door, it whipped open in an instant, nearly smashing Saffron in the face from the wind. Even if it had, he wouldn’t have felt it—he just barreled out into the storm, choked by the cloak around his throat and running in the first direction available to him. Not sure exactly which way Ryder was tossed, still with his arms tied behind his back; not sure which way the dragon had come from, or which way the cliffside was, or if he was headed for another—all he knew was, he wanted to get as far from the titanic beast as fast as he could, else he end up pitched into the snowy ether all the same. Else he end up a meal, or, perhaps most inconveniently—as its sacrifice, its mate, whatever it wanted to do with him.
Saffron ran into the whipping wind, pulling his cloak close and cursing the bright red color of the fabric against the white snow. He went straight for the naked trees, hardly more than dark, spindly branches with all their leaves long whipped away, knowing they would at least mask his movements better than wandering out in the open.
A dragon—a godforsaken dragon! Finding them not once—but twice! Searching for them! Cylvan wouldn’t let Saffron live it down once he found out. Saffron had never doubted they were real—but at the same time, always assumed them to be long gone. That first random encounter on the road should have been the end of it, considering how they were said to be such solitary beasts—but that one seemed intent on making a meal of him.
A rumbling of wind whooshed overhead again, and Saffron ducked in a panic, bracing for claws or teeth to grab him, or giant back feet to flatten him. When nothing did, he caught his breath, and pressed on further. Deeper, into the snowy landscape. Into the white nothingness, where he would either find Ryder, find another cabin, find a town, find the dragon, or—he wasn’t sure what else. Any other idea filled him with cold, aching dread. All he could think was—he hoped to live long enough to tell Cylvan what he’d seen.
Morning came and went, as far as Saffron could tell by the smallest shift in overhead light. His hands, his feet had long gone numb, but that wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to. He’d wandered too far plenty of times during the harsh winters at Luvon’s Estate. He wasn’t nervous, yet.
But then morning slipped into afternoon, then evening—and as the landscape never changed with the setting sun, Saffron felt his first rush of panic. He did his best to keep it out of his mind, just focusing on himself; on his feet, on Taran walking ahead of him as a lead through the abyss. Having to constantly remind himself to keep his cloak pulled close.
The sun set—and soon Saffron was too frigid to feel anything but the frost collecting on his hair, making his teeth chatter.
He didn’t realize he’d collapsed to one knee at first, until he tried to take another step forward and his boots dragged through hip-deep snow beneath him. Frost gathered thickly on his eyelashes, though he didn’t notice that at first, either; there was only snow. Whiteness. His eyes burned when he closed them for too long, and something about it only made him colder. He kept wasting his breath on his hands, fighting to keep them warm by clutching the fabric of his cloak, though even the thick underlayer of the covering had grown wet and cold. Ahead of him, Taran’s dark form was the only thing he could focus on, so starkly black against the white earth. Even passing through the trees, the beast was hard to lose, as wind whipped the sides of trees and left snow like white icing on a log cake. But even with that constant proof of his continued walking—even Taran couldn’t seem to find their way out of the storm.
Maybe Saffron should have let the dragon take him. At least the dragon’s roost would have been warm. Its cave would have been fire-lit and its belly would have swirled with hot flames that Saffron could cling to. Was it really so bad to be nested as a dragon’s mate when it was so bitterly cold outside?
When his knees finally buckled beneath him in exhaustion, he fell face-first into the snow, cloak instantly caught by the wind and bundling over him. His shoulder bag spilled over the snow, immediately vanishing into the powdery blanket of frost and blown over by the wind, summoning what might be his last cry of desperation as his sketchbook, the pouch of fairy fruits, his chain of rings, Cylvan’s knife, and other belongings disappeared into the whiteness. If he’d had the strength, he might have burst into tears that very moment, but instead just collapsed back into the snow and curled up in on himself in defeat.
“Come on, get up,” Taran ghosted in his mind, followed by a dark snout prodding at the side of his face. Saffron didn’t have the strength to push him away, arms already locked in place with frozen fingers tucked into his chest. His body didn’t have enough heat left over to keep them from freezing through much longer.
“I—I c-can’t,” he managed to chatter, though it came out more like a withered sob. “God, it—it’s so c-cold.”
“You’re willing to die like this?”
“Oh, fuck—fuck off-f,” Saffron whimpered. Every time he opened his mouth to speak, biting cold air rushed over his tongue, down his throat, infiltrating his chest and sucking the heat from him even faster.
“Come on, beantighe. The most powerful witch in centuries and you can’t even hobble your way through a snowstorm?”
“What’s that got to d-do with—with being a witch, you mutt?” He chattered, before groaning and dragging himself forward to where a imprint in the snow indicated one of his lost items. Plunging his purple hand into the depths, he dug around for the pouch of fairy fruits. Taran’s words echoed in the back of his mind, while the wind blew strong enough to whip the tassels cinching the bag shut. Saffron’s trembling hand tightened on it, before closing his eyes and stiffly pulling the bag into his body. Realizing—perhaps there was at least one other way out.
“T-Taran,” he rasped. “Will—will you—find my th-things. In—in the snow. My sketchb-book, Cylvan’s kn-knife, my ch-ch-charcoals… any—anything else that f-fell out of my bag…”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Taran muttered, but turned to trail his nose through the deep snow despite the tone in his voice.
Saffron took another moment to catch his breath, to search his body for any strength that remained, before forcing himself to sit up with a pathetic, frozen sound. His cloak had already frozen to the earth, peeling up behind him like stiff wallpaper from plaster.
He managed to untie the knot on the bag, not caring to tap only a few into his palm at once and instead dumping the contents straight into his mouth. A few bounced out the sides, disappearing into the snow, but most of the bigger morsels made it to his tongue. Bright and fruity, they warmed his mouth in an instant, and even more all the way down.
One by one, Taran returned his things clamped between teeth, snout and paws thick with matted snow. Saffron’s sketchbook came first, perhaps because it was easiest to sniff out. As Taran returned to uncover the rest of Saffron’s trinkets, Saffron went to work fighting the wind to flip the pages of his sketchbook to where he’d drawn veil circles and accompanying notes in the past.
The berries took longer than normal to infect his frozen blood, but he felt every moment of the ice crystals in his veins slowly thawing as the sparkling magic infiltrated them. Crawling slowly from his stomach into his chest, his hips, down his arms until he could even, barely, feel the texture of the paper beneath his fingers. Until he could turn the pages one at a time.
On the page of veil circles and instructions scribbled down the side, Saffron did his best to skim what he could, before deciding. Two knocks; two knocks for passage .
Taran dropped the knife made from Cylvan’s obsidian horn, and Saffron clutched it to his chest with a shaking hand. With his other, he slipped the hematite wand from the cuff of his sleeve, blinking through the wind and appreciating the smooth canvas of snow in front of him.
“Will you c-come here, and b-block the wi-wind,” he asked, and Taran obeyed.
With the giant wolf protecting the patch of snow in front of him, Saffron stabbed the wand into the smooth whiteness, and drew his outer circle slowly. As close to perfect as he could manage, though his wobbling, discolored hand made the lines far from as pretty as the ones the veil itself had drawn around him in the ruins.
I don’t mind, a voice cooed, and Saffron whipped around in alarm, but found nothing behind him. Goosebumps trailed down his spine, and he closed his eyes to catch his breath.
“Please h-hear me,” he said out loud, voice shaking as much as his hand, terrified to even dare ask considering the last conversation he and the veil had had. Terrified it would whisk him away into nothingness, just to be done with him. “P-please help me go where I w-want to go. Please don’t tr-trick me. Please take me some-somewhere s-safe.”
So now you wish to trust me? Don’t I frighten you?
“Yes—so p-prove me wrong. Please. I want to—to tr-trust you. I want to be—allies.”
The presence considered that, circling him a moment longer.
Show me where you wish to go, then, it answered.
Saffron finished the outer circle, closing his eyes again to focus on the spelling of his destination, then how to transcribe it into Gaeilge. Amber Valley. Should he translate those words literally, or would Gaeilge spelling of the Alvish words suffice?
Knocking is about intention. I will know you.
Saffron swallowed back his nerves. He did his best, choosing the Gaeilge spelling of the Alvish words.
Where, in this place?
Saffron’s hand hovered weakly over the circle, still clutching the wand, on the verge of tears as the frustrated desperation hooked into him.
“I…” he trailed off. “L-Luvon’s Estate.”
Where, in this place? It repeated.
“I…” he muttered again. He wasn’t sure how to explain, or even how to picture it. What if the interior had changed since he’d last been there? What if the decor was different, what if they’d put on new wallpaper or changed the rugs? Would it matter if his memory wasn’t exact? What if Luvon had guests over, like he always did—what if Saffron suddenly appeared in the entryway in front of a dozen high fey drinking wine and eating dinner? What then? It would put Luvon in danger, wouldn’t it? He would have to speak for Saffron to explain it away, wouldn’t he?
Calm your mind, witch. Show me your intention. I will know you. You can trust me. As your ally.
Saffron squeezed his eyes closed. He shoved all of those thoughts away, instead searching for someplace else. It came to him effortlessly, as soon as he allowed it to. Luvon’s servants’ quarters, located behind the estate house. Alongside the front half of the vineyard. Built from the same wood as the main house, though the support beams, the windows, the doors were all original while the house’s interior and exterior had been updated.
Saffron imagined his old bed where he’d slept first as a child, and then for every year after. The one Luvon promised would always be there for him if he ever needed time away from Avren. From his high-fey life. He pictured the woven wool plaid blankets, the cozy linen sheets, the hand-sewn pillow under his head. He picture the fur-lined slippers he wore in the dormitory, because outdoor shoes weren’t allowed past the entryway. He pictured the fireplace on the wall, burning bright and hot, the vineyard dog sometimes curled up on the rug in front of it when she wasn’t sleeping in the parlor on the first floor.
Every detail of that place where he’d lived and slept since his earliest memories as a changeling child came to him more vividly and sharper than he knew possible, as if the veil’s fingers coaxed even the smallest details, textures, smells, colors, sensations from the deepest recesses of his memories, so minute that only the most skilled of threadweavers would ever be able to pull the fibers of.
Before he gave his mind any chance to be distracted, Saffron’s eyes snapped open. Pulling the sketchbook tight into his chest, he slammed his hand into the center of the circle, like he’d once watched Ryder do outside the palace dorms—and the frozen earth rushed to meet him.
He fell.
Past the snow and through the earth, igniting his blood with electric magic and fiery, sugary heat, whipping past his face and drawing all breath and thought and life from him. He fell and fell and fell through everything and nothing, faster than blinking and slower than incoming storm clouds—until an image split through the darkness, and he collided with it. Bouncing off and crashing to the floor with a grunt, then a groan.
The contents of his bag spilled across the same hardwood floor he once spread stolen books over—and he was home.