Page 14

14

THE GARDENER

B reakfast was served on the train before they would disembark for lunch at the station, and Saffron was more than aware of the continued looks and whispers carrying over from the night prior. He just ate his meal in silence, as normally as he could manage, while the others bantered around him. Copper especially let his voice boom out, as if emboldened by being back in his home court. Sionnach, on the other hand, seemed smaller than normal, movements stiff and nervous like they were only just realizing what it meant that the prince’s traveling party would be visiting their hometown. At the same time Saffron did, Copper seemed to notice, opening his mouth with clear intent to verbally harass them—but a sharp look from Saffron shut him down in an instant, and he went back to teasing Maeve for the way she wore her hair, instead.

While watching the landscape pass in the quiet car, Saffron quickly lost interest in his book as Summer Court greenery gradually gave way to the golden blanket of the Fall. On its surface, The Fall Court even reminded Saffron of the Winter Court more than he expected; while the Winter Court had its four seasons just like all the others, there was always a perpetual chill or layer of snow and ice depending on where one visited, even during the hottest days of the summer.

The Summer Court was similar, where it never got particularly cold even in the deepest months of winter. The Spring Court experienced a little bit of every season, perhaps because it was nestled comfortably between the two extremes, and Saffron had expected the Fall Court to be the same—but as they crossed the valley that separated the Summer from Fall, Saffron realized the trees of that golden forest were nothing like any of its three seasonal cousins.

The Fall Court, as its name implied, and as Copper once described, flourished in a near-constant state of golden leaves and honeyed, dappled morning sunlight. Copper clearly noticed the awe on Saffron’s expression as he gazed out the window, explaining that the only time leaves actually died and fell, then regrew green, was during a brief period at the end of of Alfidel’s winter, and beginning of spring. And even then, that greenery rarely lasted longer than a few weeks before it shifted back to its warm oranges and yellows and burnt reds. When Saffron asked how that was possible, when the trees that passed them weren’t otherwise any different from the ones that grew in the Spring Court’s Agate Wood, Copper just smirked like he was thrilled to answer.

“Y’know the Autumn Court is the oldest one of all?” he asked. “The forests were here even before the oldest mountains in the Winter Court. They were planted by the Aos Sídhe themselves, when they first emerged from the mounds. That’s why the Autumn Court’s also called the Court of First Opulence. Some believe even The Dagda’s mounds are supposed to be in there.”

“If you’re a tourist, maybe,” Cylvan scoffed from where he sat, looking less than happy that Copper was monopolizing all of Saffron’s attention.

“He’s not entirely wrong,” Sionnach interjected, before shifting uncomfortably in their seat when everyone turned to look at them. “I mean—it’s no secret the forests of the Autumn Court have more natural magic than anywhere else.”

They way they slipped into that vernacular—calling it the Autumn Court rather than the Fall Court, as most from the Fall Court did—Saffron realized there was a sense of pride even Sionnach held for the place they came from. He couldn’t help it, stepping back to lean against the arm of the chair where they sat.

“What do you mean by natural magic?”

“Well—the veil is thinner, here,” Sionnach explained, adjusting the reading glasses they wore. “The Queen spent more time in the Autumn Court closing tears than anywhere else in Alfidel. That, and because it’s the biggest court compared to all the others, means you’re more likely to cross paths with wild things that otherwise live isolated from high fey society.”

Saffron’s heart danced excitedly.

“Like what?”

“We may catch ourselves another show of nymphs, beantighe,” Cylvan teased under his breath, laughing when Saffron’s head snapped around to him.

“R-really? Nymphs!”

“And satyrs, of course, proven by the one sitting right in front of you.”

“Of course!” Saffron exclaimed.

“Don’t forget unseelie shapeshifters and the like, too,” Copper added with a sly smile. “Plenty of wild fey who would love to steal your voice or your toes, Saffron.”

“You certainly will not be wandering out into the wilderness all alone like you used to at Morrígan, that’s for sure,” Cylvan added flatly. “I’ll tie you to my waist if I have to.”

“That’s unfair,” Saffron whined. “Tie Copper to your waist. He gets into way more trouble than I do.”

“We’ll get in trouble together,” Copper promised. “There are plenty of things I can show you in the woods that I know you’ll love, Saff. No rope can stop me.”

“I’ll kill you,” Cylvan growled. “Don’t you dare.”

Copper and Saffron exchanged a look, making Cylvan bark at them to ‘ stop that!’.

Arriving at the train platform, Saffron and Copper continued dramatically whispering to one another, casting fleeting glances over their shoulders to Cylvan who walked behind them, only for Cylvan to puff up even bigger in annoyance. On the verge of grabbing Copper’s glamoured tail and ripping it off, or maybe swinging Saffron into his arms and forcing through the ashen state in his body to throw them both up into the sky. Saffron shouldn’t have enjoyed teasing him so much—but it was hard to resist.

Stepping off the train, the platform was more crowded than Saffron anticipated, though perhaps he should have known, considering it was as far as the rails went into the supposed ancient-magic woods of the Fall Court. Before he could help it, the pressing crowd separated him from Copper, and then the others, though he could see them over the heads of the passing pedestrians.

He worked his way off to the side, first, so he could gather his bearings. Barely pressing himself against the exterior of the station office, he took in a breath before a hand landed on his shoulder, spinning him around.

He expected to find Saoirse, or Cylvan, or someone else there to take him back to the group—but instead it was a stunningly dressed fey lady, thick makeup on her eyes and golden hair twisted into a tall up-do that nearly brushed the bottom of the hanging station-sign. Behind her, a few other members of the crowd shoved through to reach where she stood, and for a second Saffron thought she’d mistaken him for someone else—until he saw the pad of parchment in her hand. The quill she had to hold physically, as she had no opulence to charm it to transcribe automatically. A writer from Avren, obviously. Who had followed them all the way that far.

Saffron’s heart sank, but the beantighe in him surged to the surface in tandem, a defense mechanism he would never quite shake. He offered her a polite smile, shaking his head and putting a hand up to imply he didn’t wish to speak with her. Despite the effort—he turned to find a few more gossip writers clustering at his back. Surrounding him like a pack of wild dogs.

“Ah—” he attempted, but the first fey lady interrupted him.

“I don’t mean to keep you for long, Lord Saffron, especially after such a commotion on the journey here. I only wanted to ask—what exactly are your thoughts on how the witchhunters are handling the scourge of red-witch rebels? You seemed so passionate about their work last night, not to mention about ensuring the protection of patron fey over their beantighes.”

“Huh?” Saffron blurted before he could stop himself, turning back to her with slightly-furrowed brows. Somewhere over the commotion of the crowd, someone called out his name.

“You showed those on the train some surprising deference—and it’s not the first time you’ve extended such grace to beantighes you perceived as being mistreated, is it? You once assaulted a fey lady courtier at one of Prince Cylvan’s courting galas, did you not? What will you do if word spreads amongst beantighes that you will show them sympathy in their times of need?”

“What?” Saffron asked again, sharper than he meant to. Growing annoyance pinched at the back of his throat, and despite how hard he tried to swallow it back, the frustration and exhaustion combined into a response. “Well—I think—I think perhaps it should be more telling that no other patron fey spoke up in favor of their own servants, who they’re responsible for—” By some miracle, he cut the words off as all around, pens scribbled on paper. The rational part of his brain begged him to just shut up, to shove his way out of the circling vultures as soon as he could, but they must have sensed his urge with how tightly they formed ranks and entrapped him.

“You were there at the summer games, when those human witches attacked,” a high-pitched voice came from someone else behind him. “Doesn’t it worry you how it might look for humans to see you as a friend?”

“Yes—didn’t it frighten you to witness what power humans have over the veil? How can you still choose to show them deference?”

“Aren’t you worried how your actions might reflect on Prince Cylvan? Even as he is working so hard to sow calm both in Avren and, most recently, Erelaine.”

“You’ve grown rather close to him in recent weeks, haven’t you? How do you feel about his recent midnight affair with Lady mac Delbaith?”

“Do you discuss Alfidel’s treatment of beantighes with him often? Have you heard how some people call him a ‘seelie prince’?”

Saffron shook his head, blocking out the wave of questions suddenly drowning him. Even Taran growled something in the back of his mind, but Saffron pushed the words away in a panic before he could hear them. To his right, he recognized the sound of Saoirse forcefully parting the crowd in order to reach him, to rescue him.

“Lord Saffron, what are your thoughts on the human rebels and their infiltration of beantighe dormitories? Where do you think they’ve all gone after the events of the Midsummer Games?”

“Is it true the palace has only a dozen servants left?”

“You were at the games the day it happened, right there in the middle of the field—can you tell us exactly what you saw? What did that human man say just before stealing those innocent fey through the veil?”

“Do you think humans are justified in wreaking havoc on the veil as a form of rebellion?”

“Don’t you have any words to condemn their actions? How do you feel after seeing a human manipulate the veil like that?”

“I think—!” Saffron snapped, just moments before Saoirse could reach him. “I think—! Perhaps all of Alfidel should reflect on why humans felt the need to go to such lengths! And whether or not that has anything to do with why the veil responded to a human witch but no high fey in such a long time!”

Saoirse’s gloved hand on Saffron’s wrist was instantly tight , turning and pulling him into her armored back as her voice boomed out and commanded every high fey circling him to step away. Saffron pressed himself back against the train station, staring at his warped reflection in the silver armor and hating the face that stared back at him—nostrils flared, brows furrowed, lips pressed together like he was either on the verge of bursting into tears or ripping a hole in the veil, himself. The whole time as Saoirse barked at the crowd to back off, then pulled Saffron swiftly through the bodies—Saffron just recalled his own demeanor. His face, that wasn’t his. Glamoured and unnaturally beautiful—and wasted on someone as stupid as him.

With the influx of travelers arriving by train, they wouldn’t have access to a carriage until the next town on such short notice. Saffron wouldn’t have wanted to sit in one, anyway. He wanted the fresh air. He wanted to stew in frustration and self-loathing in the privacy of his own saddle, as guilt and nausea roiled like a storm in his gut. Replaying his words over and over again, and dreading how they would certainly be used against him as soon as the next morning.

He hoped Saoirse didn’t tell Cylvan too much. He hoped she hadn’t overheard what Saffron had accidentally blurted in his rush of overwhelm. He would deal with the consequences of his foolishness when the time came. He would apologize to Cylvan for being so goddamned stupid and reckless and—selfish.

Almost grateful for how equally irritable and anxious Boann was when Saffron finally heaved himself up into the saddle, it meant he could distract himself with patting the side of the horse’s neck, speaking gentle compliments to soothe her nerves as the others chattered amongst themselves while making their way down the packed dirt road.

Cylvan and Copper teased Sionnach for the type of stirrup they used to accommodate their hooves, while Sionnach attempted to fight back by commenting on how worn out Copper’s saddle was. Copper and Cylvan went on to entertain themselves by trying to kick the other out of their saddle any chance they got. All while Saffron just lingered near the back, riding alongside Maeve, who was silent and stoic as ever on her tall white horse as perfectly proportioned as she was. Only when Copper actually managed to dislodge Cylvan and send him tumbling to the road with a heavy thud did she crack a smile, shaking her head, then accidentally meeting Saffron’s eyes. Saffron quickly turned away, not realizing he was looking. She sidled a little closer.

“You’re quiet,” she commented, but added nothing else. Saffron didn’t know whether it was actually meant to be a conversation starter, or just an out-loud observation. He watched Cylvan scramble back onto his horse and chase Copper up the road while formulating a response.

“Have you ever visited this part of the Fall Court?” he asked, giving up on addressing her initial sentiment.

“Of course. My family has a holiday estate just a few hours west of here.”

“Of course they do,” Saffron sighed. “I think the Tuatha dé Danann do too.”

“We used to spend time visiting the dé Bricríu estate nearby as well, back when the three of us were much younger. Taran even joined us often too, for a while. Until Cylvan made fun of Copper’s ears at the dinner table, one night, and Renard said he was never welcome back again.”

“Ohhh,” Saffron grimaced. “How old were you?”

“Hmm… I think we were just a few months from our last year of primary school.”

“So young!” Saffron laughed, surprising even himself. “I guess it doesn’t surprise me, considering all the other stories I’ve heard about Cylvan as a child.”

“I spent a few weeks with Lady étaín a few years ago as well,” Maeve mused, a weak smile on her face. At the mention of the name, Sionnach threw a curious glance over their shoulder. “Sionnach’s mother, that is.”

“You—really?” Saffron asked, clicking his reins to keep up with the long strides of Maeve’s horse. “What for?”

“Advice,” Maeve answered simply. “There was a time I second-guessed turning down the opportunity to become Cylvan’s harmonious queen. étaín mac Carce was the only high lady I knew who had experienced something similar…”

“What?” Saffron nearly choked, but Maeve burst out laughing when, ahead on the road, Copper’s horse skid out from under him and sent him reeling into the trees. Cylvan absolutely howled with laughter, grabbing the newly-abandoned horse by the reins and just barely keeping it out of Copper’s reach once the fox-fey scrambled back to his feet and took chase. Saffron couldn’t stop himself from laughing, too, as Cylvan’s own amusement rang out loud and bright for the whole forest to hear.

Saffron didn’t know what to expect of Sionnach’s home, except that it was a bit of a ride away from the nearest town. The full distance, though, he never imagined, as hours passed from the last face they saw, the road growing more and more unused and overgrown until even Saoirse grew visible restless like she thought they were being lead into a trap. But Saffron, even if he was the only one, trusted that Sionnach wouldn’t be the one to have intentions like those, and did his best to distract by pointing out plants he recognized, or chatting lightheartedly about the wild fey he used to see and sketch in the Agate Wood. Every time Sionnach grinned and shared a similar anecdote, and then Copper tried to one-up with his own, time passed a little more without anyone in the party fully snapping and asking where in god’s name they were going.

Sionnach said they would know they were close when they could smell the flowers—and Saffron didn’t give them enough credit, until the wave of thick florals crashed into him like the sweetest wave he could imagine. He practically lifted from the seat of his saddle with how delightful the scent was, prodding Boann forward a little faster in anticipation.

The house itself, two stories tall and, while once easily as grand as Luvon’s townhouse, the age of it simplified much of the adornments of the facade, with cracking plaster and a few missing shingles on the roof replaced with stones or carpets of grass. Even so, any flaws were near impossible to see through the ocean of flowers in a lovingly-curated garden, overflowing with blooms Saffron knew and others he’d never seen before.

To the side of the house, a vegetable garden was visible past the aromatic blooms, with fruit trees planted around the back corner in a variety of kinds, as even wild berries and planted grapes grew side by side along the fenceposts.

Cylvan must have noticed the pure thrill on Saffron’s expression, because he made a little sound before commenting: “Seems Lady étaín took some inspiration from the palace gardens for her own…”

“This is mostly my father’s work,” Sionnach corrected, clicking their reins to continue toward an opening in the fence. Saffron eagerly followed, mouth hanging open slightly in appreciation as they made their way up the lengthy drive that cut right up the center of the bountiful life. Bees buzzed between the flowers, bumping into one another drunk on pollen; pixies glittered amongst the fluffiest bundles, giggling like they could feel every time Saffron’s eyes skimmed over them. He wondered if there were any flower sprites sleeping in the rosebuds or iris pockets, too, just like he knew from Morrígan.

On the path, songbirds pecked at seeds scattered on the dirt, barely flapping out of the way so they wouldn’t be flattened beneath the arriving horses. Fiachra peered at them and shifted on her feet on Saffron’s shoulder, curious but apprehensive, only opening her wings to get a closer look once Saffron nudged the back of her talons in encouragement. It wasn’t long before she was sweeping after a cloud of sparkling, chittering pixies, and Saffron grimaced, hoping the rowan magic he gave her was enough protection from even the hungriest of sprites that might notice how pretty her feathers and eyes were.

Reaching the end of the path, Saffron was distracted by the thick blanket of flowering vines along the brick exterior of the house when the front door flew open, and a melodic voice called out loud enough for all of them to hear. It exclaimed Sionnach’s name, and Saffron barely turned in time to see a cornsilk-haired fey lady rushing from the house with arms extended to wrap around Sionnach, shaking them back and forth with enough enthusiasm their hooves clacked against one another.

“Mama…!” Sionnach attempted, face going red in embarrassment as their mother pulled away. She grinned, stunning in its sunny beauty, squeezing Sionnach’s face in her hands before planting a thousand kisses all over them. Only when Saffron’s feet met the earth did she finally turn to address the remainder of the travel party, and her gaze was striking enough that Saffron jumped when she looked to him, first.

étaín mac Carce, the high-fey side of Sionnach’s parents, was as beautiful as any other Saffron had ever known—but in a way he hadn’t seen before. She wore no makeup, her hair was pulled back in a messy-but-controlled knot on the back of her head, there was even a little dirt on the side of her face. She wore a simple dress beneath an embroidered pinafore, and stood there in the drive completely barefoot. Wild and beautiful and not at all what Saffron expected when he thought of a high fey lady—not to mention, his friend who was so careful to always look their best no matter the circumstances.

“You must be Saffron,” she said, turning her hugging arms on him next. Sionnach whined for her to wait, but Saffron welcomed the embrace in an instant, like something told him every ache and pain in his body would heal the moment she held him. He wasn’t entirely wrong. étaín was like walking sunshine, smelling of fresh-cut herbs and rising bread. He would have kept holding her if there weren’t half a dozen others watching.

When Cylvan approached, she offered him a bow that belonged directly in the center of court, a well-practiced movement, even if rarely used so far out in the woods. She smiled as bright as ever, even giving the prince a hug. Cylvan seemed surprised by it, but wrapped his arms around her in return, too.

“You look handsome as ever, Prince Cylvan,” she said, pulling back and fixing Cylvan’s braid knocked askew by their embrace. “I hope the journey wasn’t too long. We have plenty of food and beds for everyone, though I hope some of you won’t mind sharing.”

“I hope the sudden notice was no trouble,” Cylvan said with a polite smile, glancing over his shoulder at the strange collection of guests he’d brought along with him.

“None at all! Sionnach’s never brought friends to stay—especially so many of you all at once! Such a handsome gallery of faces—oh, and some familiar ones, as well!”

“Hello, Lady mac Carce,” even Copper greeted, approaching like a pet eager for a hug, too. étaín didn’t hesitate, though her arms barely met around Copper’s strong middle. Saffron saw the way his smile lit up as soon as she greeted him back, like a part of him wasn’t sure she would. “I hope my brothers haven’t been causing you too much trouble while we’ve been at school.”

“Your brothers are naturally gifted with the ability to cause trouble,” she answered. Saffron wanted to ask what that meant, but Maeve stepped up behind them, next, like they really were all in a queue to receive some much-needed affection from the barefooted sunshine in front of them.

“Lady étaín,” Maeve said, and étaín swept Maeve into a tight hug before touching her hair, the fancy buttons of her doublet, complimenting her all over like they were long-time school friends. For the first time since Saffron could remember, Maeve even smiled and complimented the lady back, though it was intermingled with teasing about how she looked about as wild as her husband. étaín just continued grinning, before clapping her hands together and motioning for them all to join her inside where she would brew some tea and make something to eat.

The inside of the house was only slightly more of what Saffron expected of a high fey’s living space; similar to the outside, the interior matched what he knew from Luvon’s various dwellings in many ways—the most prominent difference being the clear scarcity of beantighes milling about. There was no handful of human servants to mop the floors or polish the wooden furniture until it was glossy; to repair curling wallpaper that peeled from the ancient plaster beneath it. But even with such small imperfections scattered all over, the house was far from dirty, let alone even unkempt. In fact, it reminded Saffron more of Cottage Wicklow than any of Luvon’s townhouses, enough that he couldn’t stop grinning.

étaín showed where everyone was welcome to sit, but Saffron followed Sionnach toward the kitchen, where even the simplicity of the setup there made him practically giddy. He offered to help brew tea, and étaín thanked him, though gave a mischievous look that made him wonder how much she knew about his background. Just to be safe, he did his best to ask silly questions about tea-making like any other fey lord would, but perhaps offering to help at all already gave him away as having a secret.

He was in the middle of pretending like he didn’t know how to stoke a wood stove when the sound of clopping hooves on the floorboards entered the kitchen. Saffron barely glanced up, thinking it was only Sionnach walking around—instead finding himself face-to-face with a tall, broad-chested, broader-shouldered satyr who grinned ear to horned ear at the sight of Sionnach in the kitchen.

“Saw all the horses outside!” The satyr-man boomed, and even Sionnach jumped before whirling around and sighing. Saffron assumed the newcomer had to be their father by the features they shared—excluding the obvious—and he stood slowly, eyes wide in curiosity while definitely taking a little too long regarding every inch of him.

Devilishly handsome in a way high fey never could be. Rough and rugged like a wild thing, with hard-wrought muscle stretching across his tanned chest and bulking his arms. His face was the most fey-like thing about him, with bright green eyes and an even brighter smile, the mild points of his teeth making Saffron’s heart race in every way but intimidation.

His fur was a pretty dark reddish-brown, covering his muscular thighs and legs in a thick layer that made it impossible to see the skin underneath, despite wearing no pants for modesty. The fur coated his arms and shoulders as well as a majority of his back, though thinned to reveal his fey-esque chest and even a bellybutton at his navel, and a small peek at his spine and the strong muscles of his back. His tail was longer than Sionnach’s, as well as thicker and more intimidating with the weight it swung around, jingling with decorative rings at the end that matched gold shimmer around his hoofed ankles and wrists. His hair was long and curly, the same color as his fur, matching stubble hiding the bottom half of his face and neck. His ears were thicker and longer than Sionnach’s as well, and they flicked with every sound of movement from both inside the house and through the open door he’d just entered through. Two curling horns emerged from either side of his temples, looping a total of three times in a spiral, making Saffron wonder if Sionnach’s would curve around themselves that many times someday, too, as they grew older.

“Sorry, what?” Saffron blurted when he realized Sionnach and both parents were looking at him, as if waiting for him to say something. Carce just smiled—in a way that made Saffron’s insides shiver, unearthing many long-buried fantasies he used to indulge in while wandering the Agate Wood alone.

“I said you must be Saffron. Sionn has told us plenty about you in their letters home. You two have become fast friends, haven’t you?”

“Erm, yes, I guess we have,” Saffron smiled and nodded. “They made it easy, though. Sionnach’s the only reason I didn’t completely fail every one of my classes last semester. Though I didn’t exactly pass them, either.”

Carce grinned, nudging Sionnach with his elbow. “No judgement from me. Never had a day of ‘formal’ education in my life, and still turned out just fine, didn’t I?”

Sionnach mumbled something in embarrassment, shrugging away from their father’s playful prodding to return to helping their mother put together plates of finger-foods.

“Saffron was appreciating your garden when we rode up,” they went on, anyway. “Saffron, do you want him to show you around?”

“Oh!” Saffron and Carce both exclaimed, Saffron nearly leaping off his feet. “I would love that, if you have time!”

“I always have time to chatter on about my plants, c’mon,” Carce said, waving his hand for Saffron to join him back out the door. Saffron barely resisted sprinting.

“Sionnach’s letter said you were visiting because of something to do with what happened during the Midsummer Games, right?” Carce asked. Saffron tried not to think there was a reason he waited until they were speaking-distance from the house to do so. “Traveling with so many sídhe fey in close confines… sounds miserable, if I do say so.”

Saffron chuckled, watching how Carce’s feet left prints in the dirt, embossed with swirling leaf and filigree designs.

“It’s not so bad,” he answered. “Maeve never causes trouble unless it’s to get a rise out of Cylvan or Copper… and even they seem to behave better than normal when I’m there to scold them. Even Sionnach has gotten a little bolder with telling them off, when they deserve it.”

“You must be very convincing to be able to do so, especially with the Prince of Alfidel. Even more impressive as only a human, hm?”

Saffron came to an halt. Carce grinned over his shoulder in return, but it wasn’t malicious, let alone even mocking. His demeanor remained pleasant as ever.

“Don’t panic, Saffron, Sionnach hasn’t revealed a thing. Satyrs can see straight through fey glamour magic, especially when it’s made with a charm.”

“O-oh,” Saffron rasped, suddenly inundated with the mortifying thought of Sionnach seeing right through him from the first day they met. Surely they hadn’t, right? They would have said something sooner, wouldn’t they have? Carce must have noticed his panic, but said nothing—just continued smiling to himself.

“More satyrs than high fey for a long ways in every direction, here. And even more wild things than that.” He said, stopping to look Saffron fully up and down all over again. Flicking his ears and momentarily captivating Saffron with the color of his eyes, bright and green as the plants behind him. “Welcome to the Autumn Court, little witch. I’ll be sure to show you all the wonders we have to offer, maybe to even keep you here for ourselves, if you like, by the end of it all.”

Saffron’s face boiled. Carce definitely noticed, just smiling to himself again before turning to begin the tour of his garden.

Almost three hours passed by the time Saffron and Carce made it just around to the front of the house, halfway through every inch of the garden, chatting endlessly about the different kinds of buds, fruiting trees, rows of vegetables that had been planted there, even discussing the pixies and flower sprites that made homes in the flowers. Saffron meekly suggested using honeycomb to gain the allyship of the pixies against the sprites if Carce was worried about such things, and even blushed some when Carce grinned and thanked him for the advice. Even if it was obvious the satyr already knew such tricks.

They were crouched alongside a stunning hybrid of roses and tulips in the front yard when an exhausted Fiachra flapped over to perch on Saffron’s shoulder, initially nipping at Carce when he reached to pet her, before purring and chittering once he let her have a little taste of blood.

“Pretty thing,” he smiled. “Well loved, I can tell.”

“Thanks,” Saffron chuckled, reaching up to pet under the bird’s beak with a flush of pride.

“Was she a gift from the kings? Since their reigning symbol is the barn owl.”

“Erm, not exactly,” Saffron said with an awkward smile. He described the human rebels’ intentions behind using barn owls sacrificed and nailed to the palace gates as a way of sending warnings to the kings inside. He didn’t mention the specifics of how he rescued Fiachra, though a part of him wondered if Carce already had an idea the extent of his magic, considering he’d already casually referred to Saffron as witch. Carce never interrupted as Saffron spoke, absentmindedly pruning the bushel of flowers in front of them while nodding along in consideration.

“I knew something was amiss,” he finally muttered. “I could tell Sionnach wasn’t telling the whole truth in their letters home. Not to mention the shift in the air. Wild things acting strange, lately. Didn’t want to think it had anything to do with the veil, at first, but—perhaps even it knew what was coming long before being opened during the games. We felt the reverberations all the way here, hitting like a wind on the trees. Whole forest went silent in an instant, every bird and magic thing alike. Woke me from a rather pleasant nap, too.”

“That’s actually why we came,” Saffron said sheepishly. “There was a second veil even in Erelaine a few days ago?—”

“Felt that one too. And the one that occurred last night? Pretty close this time. That’s the real reason you’re here, isn’t it?”

Saffron stared at him a moment, mouth hanging open before Carce gently reached out to nudge it closed.

“Don’t fret, little witch,” he said in a low voice. “Satyrs are friends of the veil as much as you are. We’ll help you figure out what’s going on, however we can. In fact, I’ll take you to visit Síomha in the borough tonight. She’ll be able to answer any questions you might have.”

Saffron pressed his lips together. He nodded in gratitude, but still struggled to find the words to properly thank him. To say anything at all. Too wrapped up in the understanding that he had, indeed, dreamed of a third veil event the very night it happened.

Finding it difficult to swallow the understanding that Ryder attacking the temple of The Morrígan in Erelaine had not, in fact, been for the sole purpose of making Cylvan look bad, especially if that third event occurred so far out in the woods, not a single high fey knew any better. Having to accept, perhaps—there really was more at play, and Saffron had still only scratched the surface of what it would take to find Ryder Kyteler and put an end to him.