35. The Letter
35
THE LETTER
S affron had only ever slept in the guest beds of Luvon’s estate a handful of times as a beantighe, even his favorite one. It felt strange, like he didn’t belong on that perfectly soft mattress between so many thick layers of fur and wool, breathing in the warm air of the crackling fire that never died thanks to charmed birch wood in the hearth. Feeling like he didn’t belong, but at the same time—he slept like the dead. As if the familiar taste of frostapple wine, the smell of burning birch logs on the fire, the whistling of winter wind on the other side of the window, the feeling of woven-wool and fur-lined blankets, all combined into the same magical effect as what Baba Yaga did to charm her sleeping teas.
The following morning, it was surreal to wake to the sound of beantighes knocking on doors and ringing the waking bell, inviting all the mag Shamhradhaín guests down for breakfast. Saffron stumbled from the nest of blankets where Sionnach remained nestled somewhere inside, though soon followed behind him with their hair a mess and eyes groggy with hungover exhaustion from the wine-fueled entertainment of the night before.
Breakfast was a spread of grilled white fish on toast, soft-boiled eggs, egg and bacon ragout, apple pancakes, and all the champagne and frostfruit juice they could drink. Most of the others opted out of alcohol so early in the morning, especially after how late they’d been up playing parlor games the night prior, but Saffron helped himself. Maybe people in the Winter Court drank more than all the others combined, in their efforts to keep warm in the bitter chill.
When a beantighe approached Saffron from behind to offer him two letters in their hand, he thought it was a mistake, motioning for them to take them to Luvon—but the beantighe just cleared their throat and quietly insisted. Taking them, Saffron saw the way his name was written on the front of the top envelope, knowing exactly who had sent it—and his heart fluttered. Unable to wait, he used the nearest clean butter knife to slice it open.
Are you still at Morrígan? I know I said I would not do this. Please come back to Avren soon.
Saffron’s insides twisted in regret—before the alcohol in his blood sparked, and frustration mixed with it. Unsure exactly how to describe the unique emotion swirling in his chest—worried for his prince and missing him; still sore about how they’d parted ways. Even after declaring to all of his friends that Saffron had no intention of leaving Cylvan for good anytime soon—there was still so much of their argument that stung.
Excusing himself, he hurried from the dining room into Luvon’s study nearby. Grabbing the nearest quill, he wrote a response directly beneath Cylvan’s request:
I am not ready to return to Avren yet, but I am glad you arrived safely. I hope you are able to rest.
He folded it up exactly the same. He crossed out his name on the front, and wrote Cylvan’s beneath it. Seeking out the beantighe who’d delivered it to him, Saffron asked them to send his reply as soon as the messenger bird had some time to rest. The beantighe just looked at him with eyebrows raised, like no one in that house had ever sent a response to anything within minutes of receiving it. Regret further mixed with frustrations in Saffron’s chest—but he pushed it down, especially when he was reminded, there had been a second letter handed to him at the table. Forgotten in the rush of emotions.
Returning to Luvon’s study, he spotted the extra letter where it’d slipped to the floor, picking it up with an eyebrow raised in question by his name written on the front of a black envelope, in silver ink.
“Oh,” Taran whispered suddenly, and Saffron knew in an instant, long before he saw the wax seal pressed into the back. The same motif that had followed them from city to city, from Avren, to Erelaine, and beyond. The mac Delbaith wolf.
Lord Saffron mag Shamhradhain,
Prince Cylvan informed me you are spending some quality time with Master mag Shamhradhain; I would be honored if you would join me for a fete at my family estate, tomorrow night. I’m sure you would love an opportunity to become acquainted with members of the Winter Court’s high society, during your continued stay in Alfidel.
Lady Anysta mac Delbaith.
Saffron’s insides clenched, before letting loose again.
Cylvan hadn’t told Anysta a thing—the prince did not even know Saffron had left Beantighe Village. It meant Anysta had eyes in even more places than Saffron ever thought—or, perhaps less maliciously, had simply pieced her own conclusion together once news of Cylvan’s sole return to Avren spread through gossip channels.
Had they not just had the conversation about the mac Delbaith estate the night prior, in regard to possible hiding places for the queen’s tapestry, he might have even eagerly refused such an invitation—but instead, he just gazed down at the fine handwritten letters.
“The queen’s memory tapestry is not being held anywhere in my family home,” Taran reiterated yet again. Saffron still couldn’t tell if it stemmed from a sense of self-consciousness, or defensiveness, or a genuine wish for Saffron to not waste everyone’s time—but Saffron still was not convinced.
Besides—the way he saw it, even if the queen’s tapestry, itself, was not located somewhere in the belly of the mac Delbaith estate—that didn’t mean there weren’t other secrets he was interested to learn. Considering their relation to King Clymeus; Anysta’s status as a Dagdan priestess, where she’d surely spent some time of her own studying in Fjornar. Saffron didn’t know for sure, he didn’t know enough about the sect of worship—only that it left plenty of opportunity for things that might interest him.
He took up his quill, penning a response.
Dear Lady Anysta,
I am flattered to be invited. I will be sure to attend.
Until then,
Lord Saffron.
“Surely you don’t intend on going alone, at least,” Taran grumbled next, stirring as if preparing everything he wished to argue if Saffron were to confirm it. But even Saffron wasn’t that reckless—not to mention, a fete at the mac Delbaith estate wouldn’t be nearly as fun without his friends to join him. Whether or not Anysta expected them.
Luvon was not thrilled at the thought of Saffron attending a mac Delbaith fete—but once his horror wore off, a mischievous grin took him over, and suddenly he was whispering to himself, planning exactly what Saffron would wear the following night. Within a few hours, and a handful of birds sent and returned, he even had a guest list compiled of all the others who would be attending. No one of particular note, according to him—only that, a handful of them specifically mentioned their eagerness to ‘greet the mac Delbaith’s special guest.’ Saffron’s first instinct was to assume that was in reference to himself, somehow—but by Luvon’s details, it was clear the dinner party had already been planned as early the night before Saffron met with Anysta. Someone else was on her roster—and his thoughts spun endlessly in consideration.
His was not the only one, as Taran stirred endlessly in the back of Saffron’s mind. Endlessly muttering to himself and circling round and round, resulting in Saffron constantly confusing the wolf’s whispers with overhearing voices in Luvon’s house. Until Saffron himself paced back and forth past the tall windows of the library, while Sionnach sat in one of Luvon’s chairs with a book, Copper and Naoill played a game of cards, and Maeve appreciated the golden-blade rapier displayed over the fireplace.
When Saffron finally couldn’t take Taran’s agitation any longer, he slammed his hands to his head as if it would knock the wolf off his feet, before exclaiming he would be outside if anyone needed him. Sionnach snapped their book shut and followed, which meant Copper followed, then Naoill, and even Maeve who threw her head back with a sigh and trudged along behind.
“Icarus, come,” Saffron said, once draped in his thick cloak and wearing his boots, standing in Luvon’s snowy back garden, tucked in the trees where no peeking beantighes would be able to see. The beast emerged in an instant, and only then did Saffron realize it was many of his friends’ first time seeing the wolf that was once a fey lord.
“Oh, Lord Taran, aren’t you handsome!” Naoill said first, sounding almost exactly like Cylvan and earning a curled lip from Taran who just swung his giant head away.
“He’s driving me mad,” Saffron said. “He’s more agitated than anyone else at the thought of going home—Taran, why don’t you go for a run in the woods and give me a damn break from all your pacing?”
“You’d be more agitated if you had any idea what you’re getting yourself into,” Taran grumbled in response, pawing at the earth in a mix of annoyance and embarrassment. Especially with everyone watching him like that, the fur on the back of his spine prickled in self-consciousness.
“I never expected him to be so… big,” Sionnach whispered, shuffling a little closer but never fully emerging from behind Saffron’s back. Intimidated by the massive black wolf that, at full height, could press his snout into Saffron’s sternum. Saffron glanced over his shoulder at them, just as Copper made a noise, then scoffed, crossing his arms.
“He’s not that big,” he muttered. “Big doesn’t mean anything, anyway, where it matters…”
“Like I haven’t already run circles around you once, fox,” Taran growled back. Copper’s nose wrinkled, his next response to unclip his cloak and begin stripping off his clothes. Saffron couldn’t help but laugh, throwing out his arms to catch his friend’s discarded pants until Copper was fully naked in the snow. He shifted into his fox form, landing on all four feet before bounding back up again to leap at the wolf. Taran let out a sharp bark of surprise, stumbling backward before catching his footing and snapping his teeth in warning, only for Copper to release a shrill laugh as he hopped back, side to side, then pounced again to bite at Taran’s tail.
That was the end of Taran’s stoicism, as he lunged back, then took chase as Copper darted away. They disappeared into the trees in a volley of upturned snow and topsoil, the sound of yipping and breaking branches following quickly behind.
“No different from when they were kids, hm, Maeve?” Naoill chuckled, crossing their arms as they gazed toward Maeve who pinched the bridge of her nose.
“A lot less fur and teeth, back then.”
“I don’t know about less teeth.”
“Cylvan was the only one who ever bit first.”
Naoill threw their head back with a laugh, and Saffron couldn’t resist grinning the same.
“Did you all spend a lot of time in the Winter Court together?” he asked, and Maeve sighed again like an exhausted mother.
“Mostly during holidays; it wasn’t unusual for Copper to be passed off to Naoill rather than spending it at home with his family, and the kings always brought Cylvan to the Winter Court for Yule. My family has a house up here as well, so my parents would drag us along to join them. And Taran’s family already lived here, so you can imagine it was easy for us all to be tossed into the same room during fetes.” She glanced briefly at Sionnach. “Sionnach too, occasionally. Though they mostly just clung to Lady étaín’s hand or hid behind her skirt all night long.”
“I never knew what the rest of you would do to me,” Sionnach said with a weary laugh, shaking their head.
“Copper spent Yules with you?” Saffron asked Naoill, who nodded.
“Sometimes. I knew his mother during our school years, and before she left, she… asked me to keep an eye on him.”
Saffron wanted to ask what that meant, especially since it was the first time he’d ever heard mention of Copper’s mother—but the sound of snarling and shrill fox-laughter from the snowy wood distracted him.
“Meanwhile, Taran’s father hardly let him out of sight for longer than an hour at a time,” Maeve went on thoughtfully, a pinch of sadness tingeing the words as she gazed into the woods like Saffron did. “I wonder… if a part of him prefers the way he is now. None of those people even know he’s alive anymore. They can’t bother him, like they used to…”
Saffron’s heart squeezed. He followed her eyes into the trees, where only the noises of the playing beasts and the occasional shadow or flash of bright orange showed where they tumbled over one another. He’d never thought of that—but was struck with a sudden, unexpected wash of protectiveness. Over the same beast he once hated, a beast he once would have wished death upon at the first chance he got.
But while Taran had done many horrible, terrible things—not unlike like the veil being torn open to serve those who had the right keys, Taran mac Delbaith had been torn open and forced to accept magic he never wanted; magic that would be turned loose against his friends and anyone else who got in the way of what the mac Delbaiths wanted. Through the removal of his own body, his bones, to be replaced with those of a stranger. And just like Saffron couldn’t blame the veil for causing so much harm when it was torn against its will—for the first time, he thought he couldn’t fully blame Taran for all the wrongs he’d done, either.
“Well,” he whispered, responding to Maeve’s comment. “He belongs to me, now. No one will be bothering him again anytime soon, as far as I’m concerned.”
Maeve watched him for a moment, before the corner of her mouth lifted into a tiny smile.
“Considering the mood he’s in—I think he knows that, too.”
Saffron almost asked what she meant, considering Taran was never in a mood other than bitey and hostile —but then came the sound of Copper’s beastly trilling and more breaking branches, the barking and snarling of a wolf, heavy bodies chasing and ramming into one another. Never once was there any cry of pain. There was no wet sound of teeth sinking into flesh. There was only the wild playfulness of two beasts chasing one another between the trees, and that told Saffron exactly what he needed to know.
Cylvan’s bird Balor arrived again on the tail of the following sunrise, that time tapping his beak directly against the glass of the window and drawing Saffron from sleep. Arriving just as the sun did, a sign that Cylvan had sent his response in the earliest hours of the morning.
Fiachra flapped to the windowsill, angrily tapping back at the raven, squaloring at him in a way that crossed language barriers as the blackbird just croaked right back and flared his wings. Fiachra flared hers in return, until they both showed off their very impressive wingspans. Relentlessly clacking their beaks and causing enough of a ruckus that Saffron finally kicked his thick blankets away to break it up. He held Fiachra under his arm like a clamoring farm hen and opened the window for Balor to hop inside, where the bird shook off the snow collecting in his dark feathers.
Saffron pulled Cylvan’s note from the envelope, but a second piece of parchment slipped out and to the floor with it. Stooping to grab it, he read the headline before ever seeing what Cylvan wrote—and his heart stopped.
VEIL EVENT REPORTED IN FALL COURT AROUND TIME OF PRINCE CYLVAN’S VISIT; Folks Beginning To Wonder If The Dagda Is Trying To Speak Through The Veil. High Councillor Demands Precipitous Court Of Expectations While Fjornaran Oracles Remain In Avren…
“What?” Saffron rasped in surprise, hurrying to open Cylvan’s letter with shaking hands.
Please come. I need you, Saffron.
Saffron sank back onto the edge of the bed, staring at Cylvan’s words as his heart pounded in his ears. But—a Court of Expectations, the ceremony to determine whether the next ruler would have a Morning, Day, Evening, or Night Court, was only ever meant to happen once the coming ruler had chosen a Harmonious Partner. Only once they were preparing to be crowned. Not so far away. Not while the current kings were still in such good health, and may still have another hundred years of their reign to go. Was it a threat on King Ailir’s life? Or were the people really just so terrified of all the things Ryder had done—and blaming Cylvan for it, still?
The papers wrinkled in Saffron’s hands as fury and fear and worry saturated him. Wasn’t Cylvan dealing with enough, already? Hadn’t he already done enough for every damned soul in Alfidel?
Saffron leapt to his feet, prepared to pull on his shoes and start preparing to return—but he caught his reflection in the mirror, first. Since arriving in Amber Valley, he’d finally been eating well again. He’d finally claimed a few good nights’ rest, as Ryder hadn’t yet performed the summoning spell that always woke him to screams.
Saffron looked better, even almost looked back to normal, but—there was an emptiness in his eyes. Deep enough that he recognized it in himself—an emptiness he couldn’t explain, one he didn’t know how to fix. One he was certain wouldn’t fill again if he returned to Avren prematurely. He had to find Ryder one last time, first. He had to find the queen’s memory tapestry, first. He had to at least try searching one last place, the same place he was set to have dinner that very night.
Closing his eyes, Saffron inhaled a deep, uneven breath. Rather than rushing down the stairs to prepare to leave, he instead walked silently to the writing desk against the wall. That time, he used a brand new piece of paper, and properly addressed it.
Cylvan, I will leave first thing tomorrow morning. Everything will be alright. You are in my thoughts, always.
His hand hesitated a moment, nib dangling so close to the paper a rogue drop of ink kissed the surface, spreading like a dark web between the fibers. Saffron swallowed against the lump in his throat, slowly adding: I love you, and hating how his heart raced in the worst way. Like he wasn’t sure—that was still a thing that would bring Cylvan comfort.
An hour’s carriage ride from Amber Valley sat Vjallrod, the largest city in the Winter Court accessible by road. Built into the embrace of a half-moon cliffside, buildings and spires made of metal and stone reached up to meet the piercing peaks of the snow and ice-capped mountains behind them, marking the end of any hospitable plains for miles and miles past. Saffron knew that place well enough, at least along the route Luvon used to travel to sell his goods or meet with friends for a drink, but he’d never travelled into the city much deeper than the exterior rim where things weren’t so cramped, crowded, bustling in every direction with pedestrians and carriages.
Morrígan Academy dressed itself in humble iconography of the great queen; Avren deified Lugh; and Vjallrod, Luvon had once told him, paid tribute to Cailleach Bhéarra. The goddess of winter, bringer of frost and storms, decider of life and death in the darkest months of the year. She who determined when winter came, when it ended; a crone who rode across the sky during Samhain on the back of a dark wolf as large as a horse, when she wasn’t herding her prized deer across the countryside. But only on that frigid morning, as they approached the gates of the city, did Saffron realize why the goddess’ name was so familiar compared to all the previous times he’d visited and thought about it—it was similar to the Gaeilge word for veil .
The very same was illustrated by the crone carved from stone, standing protector over Vjallrod’s gates with a hand extended toward the road as if to strike down any who meant her people harm. Depicted with long, wild hair that spilled out from beneath the back of the veil she wore, her aged face showed weathering from the very storms she was said to bring, eyes closed with a third painted on her forehead to see without seeing.
Stuck in the stone pedestal by her feet was a staff as tall as she was, and behind her, stood the unsettling form of a wolf that resembled Saffron’s own a little too closely.
When he was younger, Saffron used to stand beneath that statue clutching the reins of Luvon’s horse while the man made conversation with other travelers on the road. He’d gaze up at her towering form and wonder why the high fey would ever worship someone who they depicted to be so frightening—only to later return to Morrígan after the holidays, to hold Baba Yaga close and kiss her aged cheeks even as she hollered at others walking into the house with muddy boots. Perhaps there was simply something comforting about being on the good side of an old witch.
The crone’s name wasn’t the only thing that rang with familiarity that time he visited, and Saffron’s grip on the wine glass in his hand tightened as they passed beneath the old woman’s gaze in the carriage. The veiled one; patron of wolves; she who decided the cycle of death and storms that brought it. Proserpina—Aryadna—the veiled queen, and Clymeus, the wolf king, had their fated first meeting there in Vjallrod, according to stories. The significance of what would come after was not lost on Saffron that evening, making it hard to meet the gaze of the eye painted on the statue’s forehead.
No matter—he wasn’t there for the old crone. He wasn’t there to pay respect to the queen, or the king, or anyone else for that matter. He was there to find Proserpina’s memory tapestry before Ryder did—whether or not Anysta mac Delbaith would be able to show him in the right direction. And even as Taran continued to insist there was no such thing in his family home—even he, eventually, admitted Saffron’s instinct was right. The mac Delbaith estate had secrets, as deep as the family’s own ran. And while Saffron might not find the tapestry, specifically—even Taran would admit, there were plenty of other things he could steal that could force even Anysta to bend a knee as he needed.