Chapter 41 Sex, Saints, and Solitude
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Sex, Saints, and Solitude
Saffron wandered the streets of Atherin like a homeless velvine, searching for something, anything, to fill the void that had opened up inside her.
The night air was hard with winter chill as she meandered in the vague direction of Broad Row—perhaps a night of carnal pleasure might, at the very least, replenish her well.
Everything hurt. She’d imagined that her father’s words might fill the gnawing hole behind her ribs, might sate a craving she’d had since she was six years old, but instead it had only made her ache.
What did it say about her, that she could barely think about the enormous truths he had shared with her?
What did it say, that she didn’t care about her place in the grand war between Augurest and Timeweaver?
What did it say, that while she was willing to journey to Flarence in search of the Fifth Prophecy, the only thing she really hoped to find was a weaverwick she could finally use?
She would give anything, do anything, to see her father again. Her mother.
To run away into the warm, safe arms of the past.
The night rang out with the jubilant sounds of sex and revelry as she finally rounded the corner onto Broad Row. She craved release, craved escape, craved the simple intimacy Levan had not been willing to engage in.
His rejection stung more than she cared to admit—not just the blow to her pride, but an acute feeling of loss.
She wanted so badly to lie with him as she once had, feel the soft caress of his fingers lacing through her hair as she slept on his bare chest. She had told him almost everything, the great truth of her existence, the plundered depths of her pain, and it still had not been enough to win back his trust.
Then again, wasn’t Levan right to not trust her entirely?
The Steel King’s letter burned a hole in her cloak pocket.
Rinerva’s Rapture was in full swing by the time she arrived.
Dark violet awnings and climbing blackroses adorned the outside of the creamstone building, and a scantily dressed butler offered her a shot of blisquer upon arrival.
The rich aphrodisiac drink tasted of rose and lychee and creamy vanilla bean, and magic flowed into her arid well, viscous and bright.
She shrugged off her clothes in the cloakroom and sauntered into the main area of the pleasurehouse wearing naught but her black cloak, as was customary at Rinerva’s.
Her low, full breasts swung against the soft pale rolls of her belly, and she felt the stare of several mages as they lusted after her.
Fuller figures were very much preferred on the continent—a sign of an overflowing well, of power and of magic, of a rich and delicious life.
The floorplan of the pleasurehouse was shaped like the head of a flower, with a large circular room in the center in which to meet a potential partner (or seven), and dozens of petal-shaped bedrooms surrounding it, in which to disappear with said partner(s) if one was the sort of mage who preferred privacy.
Many did not, and countless mages were in various stages of coupling, backs pressed against marble pillars, wrists pinned above heads with palms and silk scarves, soft thighs scissored together, overlapping moans echoing around the domed ceiling.
The whole place smelled of sex and lychee.
Saffron pushed through the round room to the very center, where an oval bar served beverages from crystal-cut glasses. She ordered three more shots of blisquer and necked them fast enough for her vision to blur and warmth to spread down her gullet and into her belly.
Standing beside her at the marble-topped bar was a mage in a deep green Brewer’s cloak. A few inches shorter than her, as were most people, with a soft, swoopy crop of wavy blond hair. His body was thickset, roped with muscle and softened by a clear love of food.
He hooked a fluffy blond brow in Saffron’s direction, and she nodded.
His hands were firm, ravenous, as they roved over the peaks and valleys of her body. Their lips met and began moving immediately as one, an effortless dance of a kiss, teeth nibbling and tongues probing and shoulders dipping as they relaxed into it.
When he nodded in the direction of a rose-petal bedroom, she followed wordlessly. Usually she liked to lead, to take control, but tonight she was so exhausted and sad and lonely that she was happy to let someone else take the reins.
They found an empty private chamber containing a large round bed, a smattering of fur and satin blankets, and an open chest containing all manner of whips and chains, plugs and gags, riding crops and spiked belts and things so painful-looking Saffron cringed.
With a gentleness that surprised Saffron, the emerald-cloaked Brewer laid her down on the bed and parted her legs. He planted kisses along her lower belly, up and down her thighs, over her pubic bone, and then tentatively over the place where heat and wetness and want usually pooled.
But it wasn’t happening.
All Saffron could think was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Because he wasn’t Levan.
She tried to shake away the thoughts, to let the blisquer smooth her mind enough to let her body ease into it, but the longer it went on, the worse the feeling of wrongness became.
And when the perfectly pleasant and attentive Brewer moved to thrust inside her, a shameful sob ruptured her throat, and she shimmied up the bed until their flesh was no longer touching.
Tears spilled from her, and she wondered how long she’d been crying.
“I’m sorry,” she rasped, pulling a cream-colored fur blanket around her body. “It’s not you, it’s just…”
“I’m not the one you want.” He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. “I know the feeling. My long-time partner was killed by a Bloodmoon a few months ago. I thought I was ready, but…”
A terrible, shameful cold draped over Saffron. She fled the room, tugged on her clothes in the cloakroom, and hurtled out into the night.
Saints, save her.
How far she had fallen, how far she would still fall before she met the ground.
Saffron walked for many hours, shame following her with every step, until her feet were chafed with blisters inside her boots, until she no longer felt the bitter cold. A few hours before dawn, when the city was finally settling into slumber, she found herself outside a Saints hall.
She hadn’t been inside one since she was six years old.
Her mother, who had been reasonably devout, insisted upon going every Plenting—the day dedicated to refilling the well—but after Mellora passed, Saffron had no desire to continue the practice.
Her uncles showed little interest in religion, and in truth, she didn’t miss the hollow act of rote worship.
The Saints hall on Bowes Street was like most others, carved from creamstone and shaped like a bell. A crimson-and-gold obelisk jutted through the center, narrowing into a sharp point, while the flared base of the building was surrounded by a curve of statues honoring each of the sixteen Saints.
To worship the Saints was to worship magic itself, as the Sixteen had famously come together thousands of years ago to create the world and all its forms of magic.
This had been widely disproven and contradicted by both archaeologists (who had used fossils to ascertain that the world had existed for millions of years, not thousands) and other famous Vallish legends and historical figures (such as Parlin the Great, who carved the first wand a millennium ago), but true Patrons did not seem especially troubled by these discrepancies.
They continued to worship out of a generalized fear that if they didn’t show enough faith, the Saints, and therefore magic, would turn against them.
Small matters of science and history were altogether irrelevant.
Saffron looked up at the obelisk to see a mourncrow perched on the very top.
A heaviness settled once more on her chest. To see a mourncrow in the wild meant that the beholder would dream of lost loved ones that evening. She hadn’t dreamed of her parents in a while, and welcomed the thought of spending time with them—real or otherwise.
She stepped inside, unsure exactly what she was looking for. Many spoke of the peace and purpose they found in religion. Perhaps it could be her salvation still.
The main hall was a cool, cavernous space.
The base of the crimson-and-gold obelisk was rooted in the center of the room, narrowing as it rose through a hole in the roof.
There was a clear circle of open space around the obelisk, so that rainwater might flow down the length of it and into a series of shallow marble basins at the bottom.
To drink from these basins was to become one with the Saints, or something equally implausible.
The white floor tiles were hand-painted in jewel tones with intricate depictions of the Saints and all their varying forms of magic. Notched into alcoves in the outer wall were chiseled stone statues of the Sixteen, each with another shallow marble basin in front of it to collect donations.
Saffron stopped by the statue of Aevari, the patron saint of Timeweaving.
Aevari held a stone hourglass in one hand and a pocketwatch in the other, eyes closed in reverence, robes twirling up and around their body as though falling through time and space itself.
There were signs of hastily repaired vandalism to the statue, some parts of the stone darker and cheaper than the rest, a smear of red paint poorly cleaned from a stone chest.
Standing before her patron saint, Saffron waited for a rush of emotion, for the feeling of a divine palm on her shoulder, for the sensation of clouds parting to reveal a long-lost sun, but there was nothing. She saw only a chiseled lump of rock.
And so, as she had from the pleasurehouse, she fled once more.
Her final destination, as the sun rose lavender over the horizon, was Clay’s Cloakery, its sage green door bolted and padlocked, dust sheets tossed hastily over mannequins.
The shopfront hadn’t changed in the weeks since she’d last visited.
Feeling dizzy from lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of pleasure, she pulled her wand from her cloak pocket and tapped the padlock.
“Good Glastyl.”
Glastyl was her uncle Mal’s favorite character from The Great Adventures of the Lost Dragonborn—an impish little sprite who followed Aymar around, offering up hostile quips and priceless advice in equal measure, much like Mal himself. He’d been using the name as a password for decades.
Inside the cloakery, the air was cool, a little stale, a little moth-eaten.
The countertop at the back held signs of a life abandoned in a hurry.
A full cup of ambertea, its surface filmy with dust. A pair of silk shears resting atop a half-cut bolt of fabric, a needle looped with whisperthread, a pincushion with no pins.
The sound of nothing at all—nothing but the dawndoves outside, heralding the start of a fair-weather day.
Saffron felt like the only person in the world.
In his letter, her father had written: Though it is never truly goodbye, my darling. I am there in every beat of your heart. I am you, and you are me. You will never be alone.
So why did it feel so agonizingly that she was?
That there was nobody left to love her?
There was a nook Saffron often hid inside as a child, a small crawlspace behind a freestanding mirror, a row of silk crates, and a trio of shapeshifting mannequins.
She used to lie there for hours, reading Lost Dragonborn from cover to cover yet again, letting the merry sounds of a working cloakery comfort her like a favorite blanket.
Now, a dozen and a half years later, she gathered up all the cloaks that smelled most like her uncles, arranged them in a tragic nest in the crawlspace, curled up on top of them, and fell promptly asleep.
She had seen a mourncrow perched atop the Saints hall, and so she would dream of her parents. For now, that would have to be enough.