34. The Guard
34
THE GUARD
L uvon had Saffron wrapped so tightly, in so many blankets, it left him paralyzed in front of the fireplace in his patron master’s study. Luvon’s daughter, Agnea, wrote the words Saffron dictated in a letter he wished to send to Sionnach, refusing to close his eyes and sleep, to eat, to tell Luvon anything about how he ended up there until a bird was already on its way to his friend who was likely losing their mind with worry.
When Luvon asked if Saffron wanted to send anything to Cylvan as well, Saffron just groaned—and shook his head. It earned him a curious look from both his patron master and his patron’s daughter, like they both wished to ask why not. Neither did. Agnea just continued writing what Saffron asked, while Luvon perched on the arm of her chair at the desk.
Sionnach—I’m safe. I’ve made it to Luvon mag Shamhradhaín’s estate in Amber Valley. If you continue following the mountain pass, you will find the sign on the road. Luvon will send someone to meet you. I will explain everything as soon as you get here. Please be safe and don’t rush. Do not worry. That uninvited guest who met us on the road is still somewhere in the mountains. I left his ass there to freeze (if he isn’t already dragon food! P.S. WOW!) I’ll tell you everything soon.
—Saffron
Sionnach would know Saffron hadn’t written it, himself, by Agnea’s swirling cursive handwriting and the perfect spelling of every word, but they would recognize Saffron’s voice behind it. That was relief enough for Saffron to finally close his eyes and sink into the pile of blankets crushing him, the moment he watched as Luvon’s bird flapped off through the window. Just before he drifted entirely, Luvon tucked the messenger token into Saffron’s bundle, and Saffron managed a weary thank you just before sinking into the heavy darkness behind his eyes.
He did not sleep deeply, or for any length, constantly jolting awake whenever he thought he heard horses coming up the snowy drive, or voices in the hallway. Each time, he checked the messenger token that kept getting lost in his pile of blankets, until finally, the third time, the gem on the front had changed color to indicate the letter had been successfully delivered.
He sighed, smiling to himself and slumping back into the blankets in relief. That meant Sionnach and the others were also still safe, wherever they were. Safe enough to accept the message and indicate as much. If the snow storm didn’t keep them stuck on the road, even at their slowest pace, they would make it to Amber Valley by morning. Thank god.
A gust of wind strong enough to rattle the glass in the windows brought Saffron out of another restless haze. He nearly squirreled right back down into the blankets to ignore it—but the rattling of the window continued, until something in the back of his mind questioned if it was more than just the wind. Lifting his head from the warm pocket he’d made, he turned to look—gasping aloud at the sight of Fiachra flapping her wings and clawing at the window in agitation.
Throwing the blankets off, he nearly tripped over himself while hurrying to the window to yank it open, allowing the bird to crash into his chest. She squirmed and squalored, attempting to right herself in his arms, before biting endlessly at his chin and hands as if to scold him. With his opposite hand, Saffron managed to shove the window back closed again—only to notice through the thick haze of the storm, a dark silhouette parked on the cobblestone drive.
He turned on heel, hurrying barefoot from Luvon’s study into the corridor outside, heart pounding as he recognized the sound of the front doors opening. Then—Sionnach’s voice, shrill and trembling as they greeted the servant at the door, within a breath of asking Saffron’s name before Saffron called out to them first.
Sionnach turned to look just as Saffron raced down the stairs, face flushed and hair wind-whipped from the storm. Their body slumped instantly in relief, running to hug him with a praise to the gods.
“I was so worried, gods, gods above, all of them—! I thought we’d lost you for good, when even Aodhán couldn’t find you—!” They squeaked suddenly, pulling back with brown eyes wide as tea saucers. “Oh my gods, Saffron, you’ll never believe—Aodhán?—”
Before they could continue, Luvon swept through he front doors and erupted into a cry of fury, waving his cane over his head.
“What have you done this time, you beast! I can hear it clearly, the grinding of your damned claws on my drive! You’ve cracked them again, haven’t you! No, don’t bother trying to stick them back in! Those damn talons don’t have the dexteri—I said STOP IT!”
Sionnach released another high-pitched sound, clinging to Saffron’s hand and hurrying him toward the doors. Saffron stumbled after them, flinching against the sharp winter wind blasting through the entryway and bringing flurries of snow with it. He expected to find Copper and Maeve on the other side with the horses, both looking as windswept and miserably chilled as Sionnach was—but what waited for him, instead, summoned a shriek from the back of his throat.
It was—the dragon. The same one from the road. The one that tore the roof from the hunter’s cottage, where it reached in a claw and scooped Ryder out, throwing him into the white abyss. That same, black-scaled dragon stood with its head lowered in Luvon’s drive, looking smug as Luvon smacked it on the nose and declared all the ways it would be paying him back for the damage.
“That’s—!“ Saffron resisted screaming—but even over Luvon’s griping shouts and the moaning wind, the beast heard his voice. Its jewel-toned, amethyst eyes flashed to where he stood in the doorway, before lifting its giant head to regard him fully. Saffron stiffened, grabbing a handful of Sionnach’s sleeve as his own frightened squeak escaped him.
“That’s…” Sionnach rasped, like even they couldn’t believe what they were about to say. “That’s Gentle Aodhán.”
“Aod—!” Saffron wheezed, snapping toward Sionnach, then back toward the dragon, who extended its long neck into the covered entryway. It summoned more furious shouting from Luvon, who pounded fists against the creature’s neck in protest, but the dragon just peered Saffron up and down, the heat from its skin emanating like smoldering embers after a wildfire. The breaths exhaled from its nose were as hot as steam, reeking of sulphur and the smell of burning trees.
“Get that snout out of my doorway, you brute! I will not have you stinking up my entry hall with your breath, Naoill, or may Cailleach pluck your scales for teeth!”
“Naoill!” Saffron’s voice cracked. The earth tilted beneath him. “No, Luvon, that’s?—!”
But a low, rumbling sound emerged from the dragon’s throat, and Saffron realized—it was chuckling. He clamped his mouth back shut again, thoughts racing in disbelief. In confusion, as he was certain—someone would have told him. If they had really been traveling with Cylvan’s progenitor mother the entire time—surely, surely, someone would have told him! But then he thought of how much Aodhán and Cylvan resembled one another—more than just physically. The scoffing, the sighing, the attitude. But Aodhán didn’t have horns, Aodhán and Cylvan never exchanged any pleasantries that might hint?—
Unless, perhaps even Cylvan never knew it was his mother the entire time.
“Really?” Saffron asked hoarsely. The dragon’s head lowered to the floor again, eyes narrowed in delight like he was reacting exactly how they hoped when he finally learned the truth.
Biting his lip, Saffron slowly extended a hand to press it against the smooth, polished scales of the dragon’s snout, before jumping back again when it exhaled a wave of fire-hot breath over him.
Luvon finally got the dragon’s attention back, thwacking them with his cane before yanking on one of Naoill’s horns as big as he was. He flailed his legs when the dragon raised its head, lifting Luvon right along with it. The beast let out another chuckling breath, before in a wave of sweltering air, scales and claws and wings vanished. They melted into the shape of a person standing naked in the entryway.
They resembled Aodhán still in their actual appearance—or, more accurately, Aodhán’s glamour had simply resembled them more than Saffron expected—though Gentle Naoill dé Fianna had black hair longer than Cylvan’s, hanging straight and draping over their chest and back, ends nearly tickling the tops of their thighs. They donned the same curling black horns as their children, the same impish grin, with bright amethyst eyes and ears slightly longer and more sharply-pointed than most high fey Saffron knew. As if they were a little wilder than those who lived in Avren, for more than just their dragon-shifting.
They had strong, angular features like their oldest son, but a slightly narrower frame like Asche, though every inch of them shifted with obviously trained strength. Saffron assumed the strong cuts of muscle in their shoulders and back, especially, were from the wings they used to fly.
“I did not mean to scare you so badly in the mountains, witch,” Naoill said with a sly smile, approaching to curl a finger under Saffron’s chin. They were easily as tall as Cylvan, and having to look up to meet their eyes made Saffron’s heart race. “I never intended to eat you, either—though after all the time we’ve spent together, I think I understand why my son certainly does.”
Saffron’s cheeks went hot, quickly averting his eyes to where even Sionnach stood in shock alongside him. Naoill proceeded to smile and purr and tease Sionnach a bit, too, rendering Sionnach paralyzed in embarrassment.
Before Saffron could ask any of the growing questions on his tongue, Luvon shuffled all of them fully inside, asking the nearest servant to bring Gentle Naoill something to wear. As if he already knew how naked the fey gentle was after shifting back, a common occurrence for Naoill to never mention it, themself. Saffron couldn’t help but wonder how many times before they had wandered Luvon’s house fully nude before someone finally mentioned it, Luvon never having had a second thought.
Saffron asked how far behind Maeve and Copper were, and Luvon’s eyes lit up at the thought of dinner plans as Naoill answered they were moving swiftly up the road with Luvon’s messenger. Saffron found comfort in that thought, relaxing a little more with the reassurance—though all thoughts of his friends were then quickly swallowed back up by everything he wished to know of the dragon-fey in front of him.
“Why were you wearing a glamour?” he asked, following as Luvon motioned them to join him in the sitting room for some hot tea by the fire. “Did Cylvan know it was you? He told me his mother returned to the Winter Court after visiting Avren?—”
“Well, I did return to the Winter Court, didn’t I?” Naoill asked with a smirk over their shoulder. Saffron’s heart thumped at the sight, reminded so much of Cylvan—though even if he wasn’t, he would have been floored by how handsome and beautiful and thrillingly intimidating the fey gentle was just in their smile. “Just not when Cylvan thought.”
“Why?” Was all Saffron could manage, wishing he could be a little more clear with his feelings on it. But even he wasn’t sure. “Were you ever planning on telling him?”
“I’m sure Saoirse has informed him by now,” they answered simply.
“Saoirse knew?” Sionnach was the one to balk.
“Of course,” Naoill smiled at them, next, and even they weren’t immune to their icy charm. “As Saffron said, I was meant to return to the Winter Court after visiting Cylvan and the kings in Avren—never expecting another veil event to coincide with my departure. While Cylvan thought I’d already left, I tagged along with the rest of you. Curious to know…” their eyes floated back to Saffron, gazing at him a long moment. “Exactly who had sacrificed my youngest through the veil, and why my oldest insisted I couldn’t eat them in retribution.”
“Oh,” Saffron wheezed. His feet came to a sudden halt beneath him, but Luvon was right there, sweeping him forward again as if even he knew Naoill would never do such a thing. He couldn’t see the sharp-toothed grin on Naoill’s face as they said it, though.
“Don’t worry, witch,” they continued teasingly. “You’ve proven yourself to me. I understand much better now, everything that happened—and why my son was so viciously protective of you when I first threatened. I have no interest in eating you any longer. At least—not in retribution.”
“Oh,” Saffron rasped again. Luvon chuckled, squeezing him, before shushing their conversation until the tea was prepared and the fire was stoked, as he wished to be fully comfortable to hear it all.
As a robe was brought to Naoill to cover their nakedness, Saffron offered to find something warm for Sionnach to change into, not to mention a pair of shoes for his own bare feet. Taking his friend’s hand, he hurried Sionnach up the stairs, where the satyr secretly told him everything once out of earshot of Saffron’s gossip-loving patron master.
“What did Copper and Maeve think?” Saffron asked regarding Aodhán’s reveal—actually giddy at the thought of being there when they eventually learned Aodhán’s true true identity as Cylvan’s mother, once they arrived in Amber Valley.
“Copper was completely surprised—then horribly jealous that Aodhán invited me to ride on their back to get here. Instead of him.”
“And what was that like?” Saffron asked with wide eyes. He had to resist asking, ‘ do you think they’d give me a ride on their back, too, if I asked?’
“Cold. Windy. Terribly miserable, I must admit,” Sionnach answered right away, like they could read Saffron’s thoughts. “I’m sure the old dragon-riders were much better dressed than I was. Even Fiachra wasn’t too thrilled, though she did stay nicely tucked in my cloak the whole way.”
Sionnach reached out to pet the fluff of the bird’s breast at the thought, and Fiachra affectionately nibbled on their fingers before chittering lightly. The owl could barely keep her eyes open as she perched on the back of the couch by the fire, exhausted by all the excitement. Still, as Saffron and Sionnach made their way from the study, she opened her wings and swooped out after them.
Returning to the parlor, the rest of the afternoon was spent gossiping—that time, mostly about Saffron. Mostly about Cylvan. To Saffron’s horror, Luvon had collected every single gossip column that mentioned either of them in the previous weeks, having already laid them all out in chronological order on the coffee table with Naoill’s help by the time Saffron and Sionnach returned. He asked Saffron to go through every single one, individually, to give him the context. The fey lord didn’t need to take notes as every detail was relayed to him, even when Saffron explained why one random column waxed on and on about how surprising it was for Copper dé Bricríu to be spotted travelling with the prince’s party; or why Anysta mac Delbaith kept being teased as Cylvan’s secret lover. All the while, Saffron could practically see the quill scribbling letters to King Tross behind his patron’s ghostly-white eyes.
When Saffron wasn’t explaining the gossip columns, he sat back and drank his tea as Luvon and Naoill chatted between one another, proving they too had an old friendship not unlike Luvon did with King Tross. Eventually, Sionnach was the one to ask, and Luvon confirmed that they’d studied at Ambegun there in the Winter Court, together.
No matter how many times Luvon and Naoill tried to coax information from Saffron about his time at the bottom of the Hoarcliff Pass, he didn’t want to share anything until Copper and Maeve were there to hear it, too. They would be involved with what he was thinking, next, after all.
He needed everyone who might travel with him further to hear it first from him—though he wasn’t sure how any of them were going to take the news. Copper, especially, Saffron worried about, after the way his friend reacted to the first time King Ailir asked if he would proclaim loyalty to Saffron as the future king. Saffron better understood why after visiting the Fall Court and witnessing Renard dé Bricríu for himself, but—he hated not knowing how Copper would respond to anything Saffron might ask going forward. He was almost afraid to. The smallest part of him almost wanted to ignore all of it, and just enjoy his time in Amber Valley, for who knew how long of a chance he would get?—
But then Maeve and Copper finally arrived in the front courtyard, and Saffron’s heart beat out his fears. He leapt to his feet, racing to throw his arms around Copper, who hugged him back hard enough to make his spine pop. Maeve didn’t hug back nearly as firmly, but even her embrace came with a reassured sigh, commenting how glad she was to find him alive and well.
Learning Aodhán’s true identity was what actually made the sídhe lady pop, practically shrieking before clamping a hand over her mouth in disbelief. Then—an undeniable sheen of adoration draped her expression, like knowing everything Naoill had seen of Cylvan’s behavior was akin to a spiritual experience. Something for Maeve to dwell on for years to come—and to humiliate Cylvan with for the rest of his life.
Rather than disturbing the comfortable, casual energy in the parlor by moving to dinner in the dining hall, Luvon had their plates prepared ahead of time and brought to them by the fire. Saffron, Sionnach, and Copper sat crossed-legged on the floor at the table while the others remained in their chairs and on the couch, enjoying the hot meal of roast beef and root vegetables, apple frostwine—which Luvon was thrilled to finally be able to serve without Cylvan there to worry about—and more sweet treats than any of them knew what to do with. Well—anyone but Naoill, who devoured plate after plate of the entree, the side dishes, clearly starving after shifting into such a great beast and then back again. It made Saffron wonder exactly how much they’d been holding back, all that time previous.
Saffron especially indulged in the apple wine, until his words slurred slightly, and the nerves in his gut were drowned beneath sparkling inebriation. When he finally had the confidence to do so, he wobbled to his feet, shuffling to stand in front of the fire and get everyone’s attention.
“Hello,” he announced. “I have something to say. I’m going to regale you with the story of how I fell off a cliff and was almost eaten by a dragon.”
Naoill grinned while the others laughed under their breaths—and Saffron began. He wove a wandering tale of survival and intrigue, too drunk to even lower his volume when he started talking about sharing a bed with Ryder, and the things Ryder said to him. No one else hushed him, though, too captivated by what he shared. Even as he talked about his miraculous escape through the veil, there was no pause for waiting questions, no hesitation to choose his words wisely. A part of him didn’t care if anyone else heard—it would only be Luvon’s beantighes, anyway. Maybe they had a right to know.
“So he really is seeking a memory tapestry,” Naoill spoke first once Saffron finished. “Like your professor said.”
Saffron nodded, taking a long, gulping drink from his wine glass. Luvon extended the bottle to pour more for him right away, like he wished to keep Saffron’s lips flapping loudly and liberally.
“What in gods’ name could he want with the Night Queen’s, though?” Luvon asked next. “Does it have something to do with his connection to the witchhunters?”
“Actually,” Saffron started, and Luvon looked toward him with bright, anticipatory eyes. “I have it on good authori—authorititty that the witchhunters are not happy wi—with Mr. Kyteler at the moment.”
“What good authority?” Maeve asked.
“My infallible gut instinct.”
“Saffron,” Sionnach chuckled.
“No, no, I mean it,” Saffron said, waving his wine glass a little too enthusiastically. “I’ve thought it since they stopped the train on our way to Erelaine. I cannot remember any of ways I came to those conclusions, exactly—they’re buried beneath a bathtub full of apple wine at the mo—moment—but I can assure you, they are not happy with him. They also don’t know where the fuck he is either—so we have had that leg up on them all this time. We guessed it a while ago, on the train—oh, I said that already, didn’t I?”
“Sorry, who is ‘we’?” Luvon asked.
“The big dog in me.”
“… Ah. Lord Taran.”
“Yes. Like I said,” Saffron grinned.
“But if the witchhunters aren’t loyal to Ryder anymore, what else could he possibly do with the queen’s threads? He can’t read them himself, can he?” Sionnach asked.
“We don’t know if they’re unloyal ,” Copper interjected. “Maybe they’re just pissed off like the rest of us that he’s causing so much commotion. Witchhunters have never been ones for drawing lots of attention, unless it’s on purpose.”
“But there were witchhunters are the Midsummer Games, right Saffron?” Sionnach went on with pursed lips. “They knew what he was doing.”
“Maybe some of them,” Saffron said, waving his glass a little more. “Or maybe—none of them knew the extent of what Ryder was planning on doing, seeing as him opening the veil was his second plan if I didn’t let my dog loose on everyone there.” Saffron took a long drink at the reminder, wiping his mouth as Naoill graciously refilled his cup. “And—there are a lot of witchhunters, you know? Perhaps they don’t all love what Ryder’s doing. Especially considering—he’s not exactly using them for what they’re meant for, you know. Catching witches and—and et cetera.”
“So it’s safe to assume Ryder Kyteler has not yet found the queen’s memory threads, then,” Naoill brought the conversation back to the main point. “And by the way he was traveling north, we should assume he’ll continue his search here.”
“I think so,” Saffron grinned, pointing at them in confirmation. “Good. Beautiful and smart. I see where Cylvan g-gets it.”
Naoill smirked.
“Where do you think he might look next? Master Luvon, Gentle Naoill?” Sionnach asked. “What places are known to be significant to Queen Proserpina in the Winter Court?”
Luvon and Naoill looked at one another, grimacing.
“Plenty,” Luvon answered. “Seeing as King Clymeus was from the Winter Court, and Proserpina’s coronation route originated in Vjallrod; not to mention the Fjornaran Oralcry located a little ways out of the city, which is know for its connections to the veiled queen.”
“Her—her woven coven,” Saffron said, before furrowing his brows. “I mean—her cluster. Her woven clams.”
“Her cloister of woven vessels,” Naoill whispered in correction, quoting what Adelard had told them. Saffron pointed at them in agreement.“Perhaps the king’s church in Vjallrod? Though if they actually had such a thing, I doubt they would be able to keep it quiet… have you heard anything, Luvon? Considering you know all of the Winter Court’s dirtiest secrets.”
“No mention of any royal memory tapestries in the King’s Church, no,” Luvon said, sighing with a bone-deep disappointment as he did. “I imagine another potential location may very well be the mac Delbaith estate.”
“No,” Taran insisted in a growl, but Saffron audibly shushed him.
“Hold on, are we looking for Ryder or this memory tapestry now?” Copper asked, mouth full of meat as juice dripped down his chin. “‘Cause I can’t beat the snot out of a memory tapestry.”
“Both,” Saffron said. “Whichever comes first. If we find Ryder first—we can leave the tapestry wherever it is for now, to worry about later. If we find the tapestry first—we make sure Ryder doesn’t get it.”
And —Saffron halted the words from escaping his mouth before speaking them aloud— if we find the tapestry first, maybe we could even use it to leverage Ryder into giving my friends back.
“Well, nothing we can do about it tonight,” Luvon said as a contemplative silence festered over his parlor that was only ever meant to boom with laughter and amusement. He raised a glass to Saffron, cheering him without word, before throwing it back and clapping his hands together. “How about a game of blindman’s bluff, hm? Come on, everyone have a little more to drink. We’ll continue this sorry conversation in the morning.”
Saffron gulped back the rest of his wine. Gladly. He even had some more, laughing as Luvon picked Copper to wear the blindfold, and the rest of the players scattered around the room to be searched for. Each time he felt the pinch of Cylvan’s absence, Saffron drank more. Until he could hardly see straight, until he could hardly feel the twist of disappointment that he would, eventually, climb into bed alone to prepare for what would come next.
He hoped, at least, whatever he was doing in Avren—Cylvan was warm and safe, too.