Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood Book 2), page 15
In that moment, despite his experience navigating the ghosts of Danann House—Saffron didn’t know what to do at the sight of one so visible, right in front of him. He only watched it pace for a long time, back and forth, back and forth, before they suddenly faded back into the shadows.
He almost called out, anxiety subsiding and making way for curiosity—but a wave of inexplicable grief suddenly clutched his heart, his lungs, flooding his eyes with tears before he realized what was happening. Grief with no origin, grief as ghostly as the figure pacing back and forth. Grief given to him by someone unseen, shared for him to know.
Wiping his wet cheeks, Saffron approached where he’d seen them. The air was cold in their wake, and Saffron hovered his hand through the cloud, searching until his fingers kissed the wooden door in the wall. It rattled with the contact, a faint scent of smoke emerging from the wood—and then, through the crack along the floor, a dim orange glow grew and highlighted the toes of his boots.
He took a step back, blinking a few times in case he only imagined it, but it was just bright enough to cast a shadow from his legs. Sunbeam must have come down to find him from another way, perhaps a hidden set of stairs. He almost called out, but stopped when voices emerged like bubbling sap through the wood, first.
Frantic, frenzied voices. Hissing at one another to be quiet, turn out that light, check the barricade on the door. Saffron held his breath when the light at his feet snuffed. Taking another step back, he almost turned and ran, only pausing when someone asked, “How did a fey get past the iron gate?”
“I’m…” Saffron spoke in uncertainty. The moment it left his tongue, silence rushed in as if air swept from the room. He swallowed back the nervous lump in his throat, knowing curiosity would be the death of him in the end. “I’m not a fey. I’m—I’m human. Who are you?”
A long moment passed, before the slightest whisper emerged through the wood.
“Prove yourself.”
Saffron straightened. “What?”
“Prove yourself human. Who guards the underworld?”
“I…” Saffron trailed off. That could have been anyone, according to all the myths he’d ever read. Danu, Ériu, Arawn, Beli, Macha, Badb…? Though technically many fey didn’t use the word underworld, they referred to the afterlife as “the mounds,” or a plethora of other things depending on the region or the myth…
But Saffron reconsidered the question. Prove yourself human. Why would they ask something a high fey could answer easily? It reminded him of what Sunbeam said about arid magic—why would human spells use fey language?
“Um…”
Would it matter which myth he answered with, so long as it was a human one?
“… Cerberus? The three-headed dog. Um, from Greek mythology, specifically…” Saffron’s uncertainty grew the longer no one responded—until the latch clicked, and the door creaked inward.
Saffron hesitated before extending a hand, expecting to find a group of sentries huddled on the other side—but there was only darkness.
“Hello?” He called, voice cascading down a staircase spiraling into the depths beneath the library. Back in the mind to turn and walk away, he spotted a gallery of half-used candles on a little stone inlet, first.
Reaching for one, it ignited the second his fingers touched. He dropped it with a yelp of surprise, heart thudding in rhythm with every clunk of the stick tumbling down the stairs into the darkness. When it finally bounced out of range, he gulped, but risked another. Despite being prepared that time, he still jumped when it flickered to life just like the first.
“What the fuck…” He whispered, examining the rest of the sticks on the stone lip. Picking up an extra, that time the spark made his heart flutter in intrigue. He grabbed a third for good luck, bundling them in his hand with enough light to see exactly how they worked.
Carved at the bottom, around the circumference, feda hatchmarks were engraved in the wax. It was arid magic.
More questions concerning the fate of Morrígan’s west campus pricked at every inch of him, gazing down the winding stairs. Biting his lip, he offered a quiet prayer to Ériu, and took the first step.
The spiral carried him further than he knew possible, until he could see his breath in the low candlelight. He thought about the underworld as he went, preparing to cross the vicious three-headed dog at the bottom. Did any stories ever explain how to get past the beast in one piece? Or was he descending into that other Greek place that wasn’t quite the underworld, but where mediocre people like him went, instead? He couldn’t recall its specific name, something like “fields of ass…”
Saffron recognized the moment his foot hit the bottom, echoing in every direction like a dry-fired bowstring. Lifting his candle bouquet in a feeble attempt to gather his bearings, he found only polished stone along the floor, wide columns interspersed with groin vaults blooming out from their heads like flower petals interweaving with one another. It resembled the stone crypts of Luvon’s winery, and Saffron tried to nestle into that relief. He’d spent plenty of time in that similar stone dungeon back in the Winter Court, checking bottles for cracks and swollen corks like a clurichaun, himself. Luvon’s cellars were not nearly as expansive as those where Saffron stood, though.
Still, he couldn’t help but shiver at how quiet it was. Empty. Lifeless. Despite all those voices behind the door, despite responding to them directly…
Spotting a sconce on the wall, Saffron stood on his toes to light the wide pillar candle pasted to the stone lip with its own melted wax. While it didn’t illuminate much more in front of him, at least he could wander a little further without having to worry about losing track of his way out.
“Hello?” He attempted again, coughing into the crook of his arm as dusty air stuck to the inside of his throat.
No one answered, and he was forced to walk a little farther. And farther, and farther, constantly checking over his shoulder to ensure he remained within sight of the sconce he left burning. When he found another one on the way, he paused and lit that one, too.
A little farther. A little farther. The darkness, the cold, the pure silence remained, except for his own controlled breaths and echoing footsteps. In the light of his candles, more and more dust kicked up the further he traveled.
His footprints remained the only ones to be seen. The fragile coating on the floor sat undisturbed like freshly fallen snow in every other direction.
When something new finally appeared in the reach of his candle, he gasped and jumped, heart nearly launching out of his ass as he thought he’d walked straight into a catacomb—but then realized what he thought were coffins were actually lines of shelving. They mimicked the layout of the empty library overhead, and Saffron approached in silence.
Expecting to find more empty shadows, his candlelight instead caught words printed on spines, and he nearly shrieked. Rushing forward, he wiped a hand down the first row within reach. It didn’t matter that more thick dust turned into clay in his chest, his mouth dangled open as he saw every word.
History of Educational Statutes in Alfidel and Through the Veil.
An Introduction to Oralcry and Courts of Expectation.
Open Veils: Dangerous Tears or Natural Occurrences?
Down the line, he read every title until they all jumbled together, then looped back around to absorb all of those on the neighboring shelf. He paused just long enough to shine light on a placard at the end, wiping away more dust for clarity.
🝩 HIS;01, Original School Documentation and Establishment Information.
Gazing up the length of the room to the neighboring shelves, he addressed the placard on the end of the next one. Then the one on the opposite side of the aisle.
🝰 HIS;06, History of Morning, Day, Evening, and Night Courts Since the First Discovery of Veil Intermittence.
🜚 HIS;02, History of Aos Sídhe Family and Opulent Lineage…
His mouth practically watered, grabbing the first book he could, surprised at the sound of a metal chain dragging on the shelf and leashing the book to its place. Only allowed enough room to pull it out, Saffron didn’t care, overwhelmed with the thrill of just holding something so ancient.
The book groaned, spine cracking for the first time in what Saffron could only guess had been centuries, though his excitement fizzled the moment he realized he didn’t know the language written inside. Still, he flipped through what he had, before returning it to the shelf and grabbing the next. Then the next, and the next, and the next, until his neck hurt from hunching.
It wasn’t until he was three more sections down the shelves that he finally found pages scrawled in familiar, though admittedly outdated, Alvish, tugging on the chain and having to resist the urge to snap it.
Elder Futhark and the Well of Urd;
Theology and Magic, Intersections and Philosophy;
Sumerian Cuneiform: First Language, First Magic;
Language and the Veil: Ancient Systems For Maintaining Handshakes;
Creation Myths: What Do They Tell Us About Ancient Aridity?…
The last title caught his attention, and Saffron scurried to the end of the row, wiping down the section label. Unlike the others, it was fully handwritten.
🜜 HIS;016: History, Origins, Basics, & Mastery of Aridology; rescued from Morrígan Academy’s Kyteler School of Aridology (above). Section made taboo in Night of the Veiled Bitch, Spring, Wheel 2…
“Morrígan Academy’s… Kyteler School of Aridology… above,” Saffron whispered, lifting his eyes to see if there was anything else at the top of the sign, or perhaps written across the top edge of the shelf, but found nothing. He almost sighed in defeat and returned to the shelf—before stopping short. Staring at the ceiling again, it glowed dim in his candlelight.
Above. Rescued from… Morrígan Academy’s Kyteler School of Aridology… above.
“Oh… my god,” He croaked—and a disembodied breath blew out his candle.
Another wave of emotion crashed—another wave that didn’t belong to him. It pulled him down into the depths of its current, demanding to be felt. Knocked backward, Saffron smashed into the bookshelf, sending it tumbling with a deafening echo off the stone vaulting.
Hunching on the balls of his feet, he pinned hands against his ears as he was surrounded suddenly by screams, echoing off the walls but somehow existing only in his head. Grief that wasn’t his, but he still somehow knew. Grief born of those whose voices he heard, but never saw. Whose ghastly forms paced the bottom floor of the library. Whose skulls, vertebrae, fingers he’d smashed with inconsiderate steps. He knew without introduction—he felt every single ounce of grief as if he’d been there. They made sure of that. The human spirits trapped on that unhallowed ground, anchored to the soil by spilled blood and scattered bones. They forced him to watch. They begged for him to understand—
Rushing books by the armful. Dumping them in scattered piles wherever there was room. Racing back up the stairs, pushing past peers who did the same. As many as they could, while fire grew thicker and made it hard to breathe. He’s here. He’s right outside. Can’t you smell him? The king—the wolf king is right outside the gate. Hurry, we have to hurry, they can’t keep the veil open much longer—No. Close it. Don’t let the king through. He will kill every one of us, no matter which side we’re on—
Saffron tore out of the vision, falling backward with a gasp, a shuddering heave of his chest. Tears spilled over his eyes, heart racing as if he’d been one of those sprinting up and down the stairs. The king, the wolf king—
The ghosts, the bones—
A school of Aridology—
Hunching forward, Saffron crossed his arms over his face, but couldn’t scream.
Morrígan’s west campus—had been for humans.
18
THE BURIAL
Saffron didn’t have it in him to make conversation upon returning to the surface. To pretend like he hadn’t witnessed what he did. There was still too much to process, too much numbness in his bones to speak at all. He could barely sink back into the memory without his breath hitching, so he did what he could to just push them away for the time being.
Insisting on finding his way back to the road on his own, explaining he wanted to know how to get in and out without help, Saffron was grateful for Sunbeam’s dedication to the veil carving on the floor. Otherwise, she would have seen his wet cheeks with residual tears still spilling. She would have seen his dirty hands and dusty hair. She would have seen where he clawed at his neck when he couldn’t force the anguish to vocalize, feeling like the silver was choking him. No, Sunbeam didn’t need to see any of that. He just wished her luck, promising return again soon, before hurrying out the door into the rain.
He nearly lost his way after crossing through the fence, but then swore he spotted the shadow of the beannighe tromping through the undergrowth. Following, he never caught up, but did manage to find the road again. Silently thanking her, he kept his eyes down the rest of the way. He didn’t want to know if more ghosts roamed the fog, just clinging to his amethyst pendant the entire time in an attempt to scrape up any comfort he could.
Saffron knew they’d left Kaelar beneath a rowan tree, and he headed for the nearest crimson blur. But upon approaching, he realized—that redness in the mist wasn’t rowan trees at all. The color did not stem from ironick berries, but rather, a shocking swathe of bright red strings tangled and woven throughout like bloody spiderwebs. Devouring branches and suffocating the leaves, a braided cradle of threads even reached across the overgrown road, knitting tree after tree together down the line and disappearing into the fog. Something about it summoned more hot tears to spill from his eyes, taking a few careful steps back before hurrying away as if he hadn’t noticed at all.
Kaelar was still facedown in the mud when Saffron finally found him. Saffron shook him awake, and the fey lord’s eyes groggily opened. Squinting in every direction, he jolted suddenly to his feet with a bark of warning, but Saffron just untied the reins of the horse and pulled it in the direction of the road. He ignored Kaelar’s demands the entire way, every shouted word muffled by dust and cotton still clogging his ears and mouth.
As they went, Kaelar’s fantasies spun circles. He blamed the horse for bucking him off, clearly hitting his head on a rock. From his perspective, Saffron even sat there and waited all afternoon for him to come around again. Or perhaps they’d been attacked, after all, and left for dead. Perhaps someone had poisoned him, and he’d only just come-to.
Saffron didn’t respond a single time, just nodding and avoiding eye contact.
But as they arrived at Danann House, something slammed against the back of Saffron’s head, and the ground rushed up to meet him. Saffron attempted to push himself up again—only to be grabbed by the back of the collar in Kaelar’s shaking hand.
“I don’t know what you did to me,” he said, voice cracking in paranoia. “But I’m going to figure it out.”
Saffron spit dirt from between his teeth, attempting to roll over and shove Kaelar away—but his head hit the hard ground, and his eyes went dark.
* * *
“Buried alive. Good luck, witch.”
Saffron came-to right as Kaelar dropped something closed over him. A key clicked in a lock, and Saffron instinctively slammed his hands out with a grunt, only to collide with something hard and flat above him.
He stared at the dark nothingness, fighting to piece together any recollection, any ounce of understanding of what was happening, seemingly cut off from the rest of the world without knowing how. His hands extended again in confusion, spreading over the solid mass overhead.
Buried...?
He inhaled sharply. Adrenaline surged through his heart. It reeled back on his muscles like cold elastic, and he rammed his shoulder into the hard lid once more. But the narrow space didn’t allow for enough room to make it meaningful, and he bounced back to the bottom of the cramped space. Throwing his hands out, he found walls on either side of him, tight enough that he couldn’t fully unbend his elbows. His legs were equally bundled up into one another, unable to stretch without colliding with another wall, either.
Buried alive—was Saffron in a coffin? Was in the the ground? He fought to maintain any composure possible, groping every inch of the interior once more before his fingers caught on something cold and metallic. A keyhole, in the center of the side panel.
Saffron was in a luggage trunk.
The relief of at least not being fully entombed beneath the earth lasted only a moment, especially once his limbs began to throb and ache from the tight, awkward angle he was pinned. His lungs went tight and itched as he inhaled dust from the trunk’s wallpaper interior, and he strained to twist onto his side to tear fingernails at every edge and crease he could grope, desperate for any kind of give he could bury fingers through to let himself out. The entire time, he cursed Kaelar with warts, boils, splitting skin, rotten teeth, holes in his lungs.
But the longer it took Saffron to search, the more aware he grew of how there was no laughter, no conversation, no footsteps at all on the other side of the darkness. His heart throbbed as one more horrific thought struck him.
If he didn’t escape before sunset, if he didn’t emerge and return to the land of the living and show Taran he’d come back to the house when he was supposed to—
What would happen to Hollow?
Saffron’s body surged, slamming against the lid again with wide eyes. His mouth dangled open in gagged alarm, inundated with the thought of what might happen if he didn’t get out in time. It took him in a chokehold, slithering down his throat to squeeze his lungs, his heart, pulling back on his spine.
What the fuck—was he supposed to do?
