38. The Passage
38
THE PASSAGE
N ot again—I won’t let Ryder Kyteler escape from me again .
Saffron’s thoughts raced like ribbons in a whipping wind, in and out of his mind, not knowing which Taran heard and which he couldn’t have possibly caught. Thinking only one thing—Ryder was already fleeing. He was on his way to Fjornar, if not already there. Perhaps through a veneer, or hopping through the veil—but Saffron was not going to let him go. Not again. Not again .
“There are tunnels beneath the estate,” Taran informed in Saffron’s mind as they ran down the length of the corridor, adrenaline alone allowing Saffron to keep any pace with the beast. “ Old ones, barely used—but they lead into Fjornar .”
I should have known , Saffron thought back. Take me there.
Ahead, Taran rounded a corner, only for his claws to tear against the marble floor as he came to a sudden halt and spun back, slamming into Saffron and shoving him in the other direction. Saffron barely had a chance to see why, spotting a cluster of family guards and a witchhunter at the end of the hallway.
When his chest ached, that old wound over his heart throbbing, Saffron clung to a handful of Taran’s fur in an attempt to keep pace—but when even that wasn’t enough, clutching at his chest and gasping through the pain, Taran finally came to a halt, buckling forward into Saffron’s momentum, effectively tripping him into falling over the wolf’s back. Grappling for two handfuls of fur as the wolf immediately took off running again, Saffron clung to him in disbelief, before rasping out a little laugh, and a ‘ thank you .’
Taran only grunted in response, tensing every muscle as his speed steadily increased further, moving faster than the a whistle through the winding hallways. Leaping down flights of stairs and through doorways, he finally leapt through a narrow window to slam all four feet in the snowy back-garden before turning and tearing off again toward a secluded section of the yard. Just like in the house, Taran moved with all the familiarity of someone who’d grown up in that place—and Saffron couldn’t help but tighten his hands in the wolf’s fur. Though whether out of compassion, or merely a sense to keep upright, he didn’t know. He would let Taran decide.
Embraced on both sides by snowy pine trees as they raced ahead, Saffron shivered against the brisk wind whipping past him from the animal’s speed, keeping himself low and his face pressed into the fur of Taran’s back.
“There ,” Taran announced as they raced through the snow, summoning Saffron to lift his head again. He spotted a small collection of stone cenotaphs clustered on the other side of a modest lichgate, the clearing surrounded by snowy-laden trees all around. At the furthest end, beneath the thickest row of trees, a stone doorway with steps leading into the earth. The entrance to catacomb, or perhaps a family ossuary—Saffron knew he was about to find out. But that wasn’t what made his stomach leap. Hurried footprints crossed through the snow ahead of them, the silver bars over the front of the entryway thrown open and creaking in the winter wind.
Taran leapt through the entrance, grinding against the stone wall that immediately curved downward on the other side, though he moved with clear familiarity of that place as nuanced as in his childhood home. All the way to the bottom, where darkness swallowed them in an instant, and Taran finally came to a halt. He lifted his head to search for anyone else who may be lurking in the shadows, only the sound of his heavy breaths and Saffron’s pounding heart evident in the darkness.
When no one jumped out at them, Saffron sat up slightly, finally allowing himself to breathe as hard as the beast did beneath him.
“Ryder isn’t here,” Taran said, like a reassurance. Saffron nodded, carefully sliding a leg over Taran’s side to return his feet to the floor. “Not anymore, at least.”
“Can you find me a torch? Or a candle?” Saffron asked. Taran lifted his head to sniff, before shuffling toward one of the walls. His fingers left trails through the frost on the walls as he searched, finally discovering a small shelf that clattered with thick altar candles. Claiming one for himself, Saffron slipped the wand from his sleeve an used the tip to carve the same arid spell into the wax that he’d once seen on the candles in the Kyteler Ruins. As soon as he placed the final mark, a perpetual flame spawned to life on the wick, instantly illuminating and warming his hand. Standing closer than he expected, Taran had watched him the entire time, and even he wouldn’t be able to deny the curiosity that reflected in his red eyes once the light came to life.
With the candle raised to observe the antechamber, Saffron kept his opposite hand on Taran’s back, gripping the wolf’s fur in order to steady himself. And then—in order to ground himself, when he realized what, exactly, he was looking at.
Indeed a family ossuary, a tomb of bones burnt on Winter Court pyres, bones gathered into morbid bouquets of femurs and ribs and pinned with pouches labeled fingers and teeth , wrapped in a garland of their own vertebrae on twine. Saffron grimaced at first, glancing at Taran, then back to the gruesome display, only softening to his own curiosity when he noticed how every bone shimmered with the slightest sheen of silver. Stepping in for a closer look at the nearest stack, he read the name and label carved into the deceased’s skull. A pattern that continued on every forehead that came after.
LADY KRYST MAC DELA, KNOWER OF LIES.
LORD SEABH MAC DELA, CALLER OF BEASTS.
LORD AINDREAS MAC DELA, WEAVER.
LADY SORCHA MAC DELA, ASHEN.
GENTLE MUIRE MAC DELA, KNOWER OF THE DEAD.
LADY ISBEIL MAC DELA, FINDER OF LOST THINGS.
LORD UALAN MAC DELA, ASHEN.
GENTLE MORA MAC DELA, HEALER OF WOUNDS…
“A funny take on headstones , huh?” Saffron asked with an amused little smile, risking the briefest touch over Mora mac Delbaith’s carving between her eye sockets. Taran looked at him for a long, silent moment, before rolling his eyes and turning away.
“These are… your family members,” Saffron went on after clearing his throat. “Their bones. And these describe their abilities in life, right?”
“And what their silver might be charmed with,” Taran muttered. “Gods, I hate this place. They used to lock me in here when I misbehaved.”
Saffron looked back at him in surprise, but Taran was already making his way forward, through the mouth of a never-ending ossuary corridor Saffron hadn’t noticed in such a thick darkness. Overhead, a carved wolf-bust loomed at the peak of the arched ceiling.
“This way, beantighe. The entrance to the tunnels is this way.”
“What does it mean when it just says ‘ashen’?” Saffron couldn’t help but ask, still following Taran’s lead. “I mean, other than the obvious, I guess.”
“They were born and died while Verity Holt’s ashen curse was in place. No oracles have observed what their inherent magic is, yet.”
“Why not?”
Taran sighed. “Who knows.”
“What if someone has some kind of extra unique inherent magic that could solve all our problems? But your oracles haven’t bothered observing them yet.”
“What if?”
Taran clearly didn’t wish to discuss it further, despite Saffron’s hunger for information. So Saffron just followed, keeping his questions to himself for the time being, though unable to resist shining the light of his candle over the infinite number of skulls they passed on the way. Column after column of at least a dozen bone-piles high, some reaching even taller than Saffron stood. Crowding the already narrow corridor on both sides, barely wide enough for Saffron to walk straight ahead and only receive the occasional brush of something on his cloak. Taran wasn’t so lucky, as his skin constantly twitched every time something kissed the finest tips of his coarse fur.
“Your…” Saffron started without thinking, before trailing off.
“It’s going to annoy me, isn’t it?” Taran asked, clearly referring to whatever Saffron had on his mind.
“Are your own bones here?” He asked, so softly the words had no chance to bounce off the narrow walls. “Your original bones. Before they were replaced.”
“Who knows.”
“You don’t know what they did with them?”
“Who knows.”
“I wonder what your inherent magic would have been.”
“Who knows.”
Saffron let his interest wane, tucking it away for another time. Sending Taran’s continued agitation, enough that it made his own skin itch. He went back to reading the names of the deceased piles of bones they passed, soon enough surprised when the mac Delbaith names soon gave way to other sídhe family names, or so he assumed, as he didn’t know the Old Alvish names for the others.
“Other families donate their loved ones to the mac Delbaiths?” He asked. “To make silver out of.”
“They used to,” Taran answered, clearly wishing to encourage that line of questioning rather than the other that were so personal. “Most of these bones are very old, even older than Queen Proserpina. King Elanyl prohibited the forging of opulent silver from non-mac Dela sídhe bones when he was in power.”
“But your sister has been hawking opulent silver all over Alfidel?—”
“Most common fey don’t know the truth about it, and never have; most ancient fey, including sídhe fey, pretend they don’t know, because the benefits outweigh the morbidity of it. The kings pretend they don’t notice. Or they like to assume the silver on the market was forged before the ban. They tell themselves such, at least.”
“Why?”
“To keep the peace. No differently than how they navigate the likes of Renard dé Bricríu. It’s not worth the potential fallout, should they step on the wrong toes. For King Ailir, especially, whose reign is already so tenuous.”
“Oh,” Saffron muttered. “I guess that makes sense.” There are an awful lot of things they pretend not to notice, for the sake of keeping the peace. But peace for whom, exactly? , he thought with a stubborn frown, intentionally knocking one precarious pile of bones to the floor with a deafening crash. Taran whipped his head around in surprise, but Saffron just shrugged like it was an accident.
Even as they continued ahead, Taran must have been able to sense the constant turning of Saffron’s thoughts, how they even festered into agitation of their own, because he soon sighed through his nose and offered: “There is some argument of the validity of this, but Ancient mac Delas were said to be the first to traditionally burn the deceased on pyres, here in the Winter Court—because it was the easiest way to clean the silver bones, once they realized there was opulence stored in them. The tradition then spread across the Winter Court, as you know now.”
“Your family must be the oldest ones from the Winter Court, then,” Saffron said.
“One of them. Gentle Naoill dé Fianna’s family line may be the only one to challenge the age of mine. Unsurprising, considering their lineage.”
“From dragons.”
“Yes. Though neither are nearly as old as the Tuatha dé Danann, who descend from the Dagda and Danu, themselves,” he let the idea settle, before his ears flicked like a part of him preferred the casual chatter to the unsettling silence. “The dé Fianna are the ones who argue themselves the first to burn the dead, by the way. Once again, considering a dragon’s propensity for… burning.”
“I think it’s fascinating,” Saffron said, earning a narrowed look from the wolf over his shoulder. “I mean—the theory of it all. Silver in your sídhe bones, being able to forge them into objects that could, again, theoretically, actually help people… If only they hadn’t fallen into the hands of people like your family.” He grimaced. Taran rolled his eyes. “It makes me wonder if rowan witch bones were discovered to become hematite by the same theory, or totally on accident. Maybe your family even took the idea from the first rowan witches, hm?”
“Unlikely. But an amusing thought.”
Saffron chuckled. He reached out to pat the back of Taran’s haunches, earning a smack of the wolf’s tail against his stomach.
“Maybe opulent silver isn’t inherently evil,” Saffron went on, observing another line of named skulls they passed. “Just like how hematite-bones aren’t inherently good , I suppose. If the sídhe fey—or rowan witch—consented in life to their bones being forged into useful tools, why not?”
“You sound like Magnin,” Taran said, sounding almost amused. “He used to wax poetic about the exact same thing.”
“I remember he forged my silver leg cast.” Saffron said.
“Yes. From the bones of my aunt, Lady Murva. I went and collected them from the pyre myself, while you were all in Connacht. Do you remember?”
“Oh, yes!” Saffron said, genuinely surprised. “I—I never made that connection. I guess I should thank you, for doing that?”
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for the sake of our deal.”
“Right,” Saffron chuckled. “Well, even so. It did help a lot.”
“Magnin is very talented. If you and Cylvan manage to survive to your coronation, you might consider requesting Magnin for your inner court.”
“Oh…” Saffron said with interest. “I hadn’t thought of that…”
Silence returned. Saffron nearly asked how much farther they would have to travel down the seemingly endless corridor of silver bones, the chill of the subterranean ossuary nearly reaching his own rowan-bones the longer it took them to go. He was just on the verge of his teeth chattering when Taran finally came to a halt, and Saffron lifted his candle to look where the wolf’s attention caught.
It was the painting of a snowy landscape, one Saffron recognized as the mountains overlooking Vjallrod. Near the bottom left, stark against the white-painted snow, a black wolf gazed at the viewer, eyes bright red and reflecting the light of Saffron’s candle as if inlaid with jewels.
“This is the passage into the tunnels. I don’t know how to get through, myself,” Taran admitted, ears flattened when Saffron gave him a look of confusion. “I only ever passed through here an handful of times, and when I was, it was always blindfolded with an oracle. They’d make me drink weaverthistle tea afterward, and I was only a child?—”
“I wasn’t judging you,” Saffron reassured, sensing another uptick in the beast’s anxiety as he justified himself. “The fact you brought me this far is more than I ever would have gotten on my own. I appreciate you.”
Taran mumbled something, pawing at the ground before pointing his nose back at the painting.
“Whatever the trick is, it’s something Ryder knew. Something he was capable of doing, himself, that didn’t require a lot of time or any special tools, seeing as he’s clearly already long gone inside…” Saffron recalled watching that needle skirt across Anysta’s map. Certain it had been following Ryder’s opulent cuffs, if they were also tracking Cylvan’s opulent horn in the same way.
Shaking his head to focus, he used the candle to search the frame around the painting, then the ground, the ceiling, the shelves of silver bones that continued in both directions.
“Do you remember anything at all from when they’d take you through here? Even blurry memories.”
“I do not.”
“That’s alright,” Saffron repeated, trailing off when he realized the wooden frame was carved with more than just floral elements—there were figures present.
Bands of trouping fairies crossed over the top amongst lush flowers and trees, the sun with bright rays extending across the length of it; down the sides, roots crawled downward and intertwined with bones, before upside-down trees grew in the opposite direction. Leading the eye to the bottom, where a secondary landscape was illustrated, as detailed and lovingly carved as the one on top, except illustrating a snowy horizon with white-capped mountains, snow-laden pine trees, and tousled, thorny blackberry bushes.
The attention to detail reminded him of something similar he’d once seen, in the bookshop in Connacht. That tall mirror that lead into Pimbry Scott’s secret room, once Saffron understood it to be representing the story of Narcissus and the pond. Even the door into the Kyteler School’s crypt could only be opened because he knew the word ‘ Cerberus’ to answer the riddle that unlocked it…
He searched up and down the frame one more time. A sunny, welcoming, warm landscape on top; a cold, but beautiful, northern landscape after passing downward through the earth. Was it the otherworld? Tír na nóg, the spirit world, beneath the mounds? Anysta was trained as a Dagdan priestess, the god associated most with the mounds. The painted wolf looking directly at the viewer from the painting told Saffron it had to be something related to King Clymeus, the wolf king, considering Fjornar was also home to the King’s Keep. What had Taran first told him about that place? In their shared dreams, before Saffron fully understood what they meant, who he was speaking to…
“Does it ever snow like this in the Mid Court? ”
“Not like this. Aryadna hated the cold in Fjornar, so her king built her a Keep in Avren. This is ? —”
“The King’s Keep…” Saffron reiterated out loud, letting the thoughts drape over him.
The wolf king; the cold, dark place of the Winter Court; Queen Proserpina, and her preferred warmth in Avren. Queen Proserpina, nicknamed such by the humans she hunted, named after Persephone; Persephone and her Hades; the warmth of the land of the living, and the cold darkness of the underworld where she was forced to reside for months out of the year…
Saffron’s mind spun. Was he overthinking it? Squeezing his eyes closed, he exhaled a long breath, fogging up the glow of his candle with the chill of his breath.
Something Ryder would know, half-human and half-fey. Something Ryder would be able to do in the moment, without special tools, and without requiring a lot of time. Something all half-human and half-fey oracles would be able to do. Something that would have been silent, if Taran as a child never overheard an audible charm to pass through.
Hades and Persephone; the land of the living, the land of the dead; the warmth of Avren in the Mid Court, and Fjornar in the Winter Court. The warmth of the sun, the chill of the moon. The light of the day, the dark of the night.
“Day court, Night court,” he whispered, dragging fingers down the side of the painting again.
Holding the candle and his wand in one hand, with the other, Saffron made the motion of beseeching a Day court. He formed a circle with his thumb and fingers, drawing a high arch over his head from shoulder to shoulder. When nothing happened, he frowned, trying again. Then he sarcastically beseeched a night court like Cylvan had once taught him, forming a crescent shape with his hand and doing the same motion.
“They—” Taran suddenly yipped, making Saffron jump and turn to him. He gazed at the painting for a long moment, then back to where Saffron still held the crescent-shape in one hand. “They held my hand the entire time we walked—except for one moment, while passing through the painting.”
Saffron considered that, then offered the candle and wand to the wolf. Taran wrinkled his nose, but gently separated his sharp teeth to clamp down on the wax and hematite rod, careful not to scorch his whiskers with the perpetual flame.
“Two hands, then,” Saffron said, as if alerting the painting to his next move. He formed a singular circle using both hands, and formed the arch. When nothing happened, he made two crescent moon shapes and did the same—though that was hardly any different than forming the single circle.
“Oh, damn you!” He hissed, stubbornly forming a crescent moon with one hand and a circle with the other, piecing them together and arching over his head—jumping when the faintest sound of shifting wood undoubtedly emerged from the painting. He did it again, still only earning that single scratch of a response—until he realized, he’d only performed half of the motion. From his left shoulder, he moved his hands in a full circle, to his opposite shoulder, then back around again over his chest—mouth hanging open in shocked satisfaction as the painting scratched against the stone wall, then bent inward.
“Well!” Saffron exclaimed with a grin. “I wonder what they’d think, knowing a silly little beantighe figured out their trick? Come on?—”
He extended the candle through the frame—only to jerk backward when something cold and sharp bit down on him. It yanked the candle clean from his hand—but the flame never clattered to the floor on the other side. There was only blackness, made heavier with the sudden lack of light.
“This isn’t just another tunnel to walk all the way to Fjornar,” Taran’s voice ghosted through the darkness. “It—swallows you.”
“It’s a veil passage,” Saffron whispered. His voice trembled slightly with understanding that struck him like a lightning bolt. If he’d known to look for it—he suddenly wondered if he’d find a veil circle carved into the ornate illustrations around the frame.
On instinct, he claimed a step back—but stopped himself from fleeing any further. Recalling what the veil had said to him in the Kyteler Ruins. Recalling what it had promised at the base of the Hoarcliff Pass, where he begged to be able to trust it. Where it encouraged him to draw his first veil circle—and passed him through safely. Landing him exactly where he wished to go.
“I trust you,” he whispered. To the veil, to Taran. Even though his voice cracked as he did. Even though his hand shook as he extended it one more time to skim the darkness he knew was right there on the wall behind the painting.
“I’m not afraid,” he whispered in finality—before stepping through, and allowing the passage to take him where it pleased.