2. The Horn
2
THE HORN
S itting across from one another in Morrígan’s Grand Library, when Prince Cylvan first told Saffron about ashen states caused by violent manipulations of the veil, Saffron had pictured it to be much different.
He imagined flowers wilting. The color of the grass fading, pixies losing their sparkle, even the sky turning ruddy. He wondered if the inherent beauty of the high fey made ashen would dim somewhat, even pondering if that was how humans first came to be. Before he ever learned about Baba Yaga’s teacup circles; those small epithets Cylvan, at the time, only had the courage to call ‘folk magic’ .
But Avren’s trees remained verdant and vibrant, with leaves fluttering in the summer wind as they always did. The flowers in Mairwen’s gardens remained bright and fragrant, even if fewer people passed by to appreciate them during daylight hours. Perhaps the plants even appreciated the break in ogling; from what Saffron scribbled in his sketchbook, they might have even spread their petals wider to soak up as much sun as possible. No longer afraid of being plucked and given to someone as a romantic gesture, then left on one of the benches to wilt.
Or, more contemptuously—as if the constant cloud of opulence over the city, before then, had kept their blooms from fully unfurling. As if, with it gone, they felt the same sudden, unexpected, overwhelming blanket of relief Saffron did once the initial hysteria gave way. That cloud of opulence, dissolving into the sky and allowing the sun to beam through, just for him. The relief of a rowan witch unencumbered by opulence he didn’t realize had been weighing on his chest in all the time since making his oath. Finally allowed a chance to breathe in fully—only to realize, in a new fit of anxiety, he didn’t actually know how.
With so many students fleeing Mairwen, it meant Saffron had the library all to himself more often than not; it meant he could wander the school gardens, the archer field, the paths between buildings in peace. Sionnach joined him more often than not; they were the reason Saffron even left his room more often than not. They were the reason he remembered to eat, to bathe, to step out into the sun and breathe in every once in a while.
The air that morning was crisp and fresh as ever, as Saffron inhaled a deep offering and hurried from Muirín dorm. He passed other students milling about on campus, only a scant few remaining as most had returned home to wait-out the school’s temporary hold on classes. To wait-out such a sudden, detrimental change to their daily routines. Suddenly forced to bathe as often as humans did, without charmed stones or cloths or palm-sized gold eggs to rub over their skin to perfume them. Forced to write their own letters by hand, without magic quills to dictate every word spoken aloud. They had to stir their own coffee, and wipe their own shoes, and use actual keys to open the doors to their rooms because access tokens didn’t always work anymore. Perhaps it was no wonder so many fled the moment they were permitted. Meanwhile, Saffron was writing long dossiers in his head about how high fey, apart from the sidhe, had long forgotten how to perform any sort of magic that didn’t involve making themselves beautiful. More than once he asked Sionnach if it would be more scandalous to publish it under a human or fey pen name. Sionnach always just grimaced at the idea, though they also always scribbled down at least a few of the things Saffron rambled on about while lying on his back in the grass.
That morning, Maeve waited for Saffron at the campus stables, looking more intimidating than ever in her all-black ensemble that matched the color of Saffron’s. As was expected of all citizens in Avren during that time of grieving, both for the loss of those at the games and the loss of their inherent magic. The fey lady was paused mid-task in untangling the reins of her horse, gazing off into the trees lining the other side of the barriers, and Saffron paused as he approached. Smiling to himself as a cluster of sparkling pixies buzzed around a knot in one of the trees like swarming bees, he knew right away.
“Did they steal anything from you?” He asked, closing the distance between them. Anyone else would have jumped, but Maeve turned calmly as ever. She wore a face similar to the one Cylvan always did when confronted by the glittering pests. A slightly wrinkled nose, corners of her mouth downturned just enough to show her displeasure.
“I think one of them was in my glove. It bit me when I pulled it on.”
Extending her hand to show, Saffron nodded. Pixies bites always swelled up in an instant, red skin surrounding a tiny, pearlescent spot where teeth had sunk.
“That’s a pixie bite, for sure. It was probably just surprised.”
“It tried to steal one of my rings right after.”
“Did you give it to them?”
“Of course not,” she scoffed, before sweeping her long braid over one shoulder and shaking her head. “Come on, let’s get going before the streets get too crowded.”
Saffron eagerly agreed, seeking out the dark bay horse in her stall. Boann rattled the gate with her chest as he approached, as eager as Saffron was to get a break from Mairwen’s banality. He pet her over the white star on her forehead in greeting, before grabbing the lightweight day-saddle from the cubby assigned to him, throwing it over her back with a grunt and tightening the belts around her belly as she skirted her feet back and forth slightly in anticipation. When a stable beantighe suddenly hurried over, breathlessly apologizing for not being there to do it for him, Saffron just smiled and assured them it was no bother.
“I’ve already had to learn to pull on my own tunic, what’s any different about this?” He said like a cool, charming fey lord. The beantighe just smiled awkwardly, like they weren’t sure they were allowed to laugh. Saffron just reiterated it was fine, nodding for them to return to what else they were doing. God knew they had a thousand other chores to finish with hardly anyone left to help out.
As they went, Saffron couldn’t help but wonder why that beantighe, specifically, hadn’t gone with them. Neither wishing they had, or glad they’d stayed. Only—curious.
One week had passed since the Midsummer Games; since the ashen state fell upon Avren, and gossip writers from across Alfidel swarmed the city for every opportunity to publish whatever they thought would stoke the biggest, most explosive response. Never mind that most high fey chose to remain indoors ever since; never mind that, perhaps for the first time in Avren’s history, human beantighes hurried up and down the streets in greater numbers than high fey did, running errands for their patrons who were too afraid to go on their own.
And all the same—every morning, there were new calls for missing beantighes in the same gossip pamphlets delivered to high fey doors at the same time before sunrise. None of them ever realizing that, perhaps sending their servants out on their own, to pass by others on the street, allowing them to chat and vent with no one to watch, only made it easier for Ryder’s witches to extend a crimson card from beneath a cloak. Printed words on the front inviting them to bigger and better things, than rushing to pick up breakfast for their terrorized patron families. Wouldn’t they rather be the ones stoking terror, instead?
There was a reason Saffron remained on Mairwen’s campus more often than not, when he wasn’t visiting the palace. There was a reason he always passed through the streets of Avren with his hood pulled up, never meeting eyes with the people he passed. Never accepting any offered gossip leaflets, or even acknowledging when someone recognized him as a friend of Cylvan’s and attempted to stuff letters for the kings into his hands.
The kings wouldn’t read them. The kings were too busy writing correspondence to everyone else in Alfidel, and beyond. As the Danae of Alvenya demanded to know if Alfidel’s red witches would soon spread overseas, to wreak havoc on their shores. As sidhe families within Alfidel demanded to know what Ailir and Tross intended to do, to ensure what happened at the Midsummer Games never happened again—when they weren’t pressuring them to pass new laws that severely punished any beantighes found attempting to flee to the other side. Demanding arrests, demanding well-publicized court hearings for abandonment of their beantighe-duties. Demanding a better way to track their humans wherever they went, until eventually—perhaps inevitably —the mac Delbaith name began appearing in gossip pamphlets, beneath bold headlines advertising the miracles of their opulent silver. Unaffected by the ashen state, but the ancient rite of their blessed abilities. Always printed right alongside long opinion columns calling for formalized witchhunter training to be reinstated in Alfidel. Desperate to cut the red witches off at the root. Desperate to keep their houses fully staffed, so they still had someone to heat their baths and wash their clothes.
The kings were able to keep those demands specifically at bay—but even Saffron knew, it was only a matter of time. As more and more noble families, courtiers, even sídhe families would continue to grow frustrated and restless.
Meanwhile—it was only a matter of time before Ryder decided it was time to cause another scene. Which would only put remaining beantighes at a higher risk. Which would only drive them more willingly into his arms.
It was only a matter of time—and the constant, looming uncertainty was the reason Saffron never slept anymore.
The streets of Avren were quiet again that morning, with only the occasional beantighe hurrying by. Always throwing Saffron little looks that made his heart thump, like he thought they might stop and say something to him. Still not entirely sure exactly how many knew who he really was, the extent of what Ryder had revealed to his witches, who might then whisper rumors to beantighes still unsure about defecting. But they never did, especially so early in the morning. Too busy rushing to pick up their patron fey’s breakfast, while it was still hot. With no charms to keep trays steaming all the way back home, they had no choice but to nearly sprint in both directions.
The only other sign of life amongst beantighes scurrying like fieldmice—were the occasional city riders who cantered by where Saffron and Maeve passed. Always offering them the smallest nod of greeting, but nothing more. Clearly hurried in their own morning tasks; more than Saffron had ever seen before at once, as well, though perhaps only because the street was otherwise so vacant. Passing each other on the street, only occasionally pausing to exchange a few quick words. Sometimes halted when a messenger bird swept in behind them, and they took the note to read right away, before turning and racing in the opposite direction. Saffron tried not to think about it; perhaps high fey had simply given up on slow beantighes on foot, resorting instead to personal riders to ensure their meals were delivered hot.
That day’s gossip has already been posted on every bulletin board they passed on the road, swollen to the brim with fluttering leaflets printed by at least two dozen different presses, while a gossip crier announced the day’s most scandalous headlines. By then, they may have had more money than was stored in the palace treasury, by how much each press was willing to bid to be the one shouted up and down the street.
KINGS LIFT STATE OF EMERGENCY IN AVREN TO A STATE OF WARNING; REQUEST ALL SUSPICIONS TO BE REPORTED TO THE PALACE BY ROBIN OR PERSONAL BIRD…
MAC DELBAITHS MAKE GENEROUS OFFER OF OPULENT FAMILY SILVER TO THOSE AFFECTED BY AVREN’S ASHEN STATE; Civilians Can Make Requests Through Family Or City Oracles…
LOVING PARTNER OF LADY LOST IN MIDSUMMER EVENT BEGS HUMAN REBELS TO FIND MERCY IN THEIR HEARTS, ELSE THEY SHOULD ANTICIPATE HARSH PUNISHMENT ON THOSE BEANTIGHES LEFT BEHIND…
PRINCE CYLVAN REQUESTS ALL INFORMATION AVAILABLE ON MISSING BEANTIGHES; Comments Can Be Submitted Via Messenger Robin To The Palace. Some Wonder His Intentions, As Old Rumors Of His Seelie Nature Come Back To Light…
Saffron tightened his hands on his reigns. He didn’t allow his eyes to linger too long, just like every other time. He was too easy a victim to every single bold headline, exactly the type of pedestrian gossip pamphlets hoped to grab the attention of. Even if he despised each and every word—instinctively, he felt compelled to know exactly what was being written, even if it made no difference. Even if Cylvan told him there was no point, to just ignore them, it would save Saffron an infinite amount of grief if he would just let them fade into the background. He did his best—but still, his eyes trailed.
DID PRINCE CYLVAN THROW AWAY DAURAE ASCHE IN FEAR FOR HIS THRONE? Knowing How Little The People Of Alfidel Think Of Him, And How They Adore The Younger Gentle—Some Ask, Did Prince Cylvan Intentionally Sell The Daurae To Human Rebels…?
That morning, at the very least, there wasn’t so much vitriol directed at Cylvan. The prince had told him, essentially promised him that efforts would soon shift, and the harsh things they wrote about him would soften; especially as he spent most of his time out of the public eye, hidden away in the palace, eventually the people would lose interest in favor of something else a little more visibly tempting. Saffron was glad to see it slowly shifting that way—while also infuriated that Cylvan was so familiar with the patterns of gossip that he could even promise such things without a doubt.
Maeve glanced over her shoulder to him, as if she could sense how Saffron’s anger grew in his chest. But if there was anything Saffron knew how to do—it was keeping stark emotions off his face. He’d spent his entire life beneath a veil pretending to feel nothing for anything that ignited flames in his blood.
Not unlike the rest of the city, the palace had gained a sense of solemn soundlessness, though it was far more tangible in those grand hallways than on the streets. Even as they approached the gatehouse, Saffron felt it pressing on him, for more reason than just the black flags dangling from the peaks of the gatehouse towers; the aromatic scent of constant garlands of burnt pine signifying a loss in the royal family, a passive prayer that the smoke would bring the missing back home.
Only the occasional rider or guard passed them on the bridge, all offering Saffron and Maeve a polite nod—except one, that came racing with hooves slamming on the stone, echoing off the valley walls below. Saffron nearly leapt from his skin as they flew past him, even Maeve straightening up on instant alert. Saffron normally wouldn’t have thought anything of it, once his heart started beating again—but that time, noticed the rider was one of the same sort that had passed them so many times in the street. Whatever was so urgent wasn’t for them—and Saffron forced himself to breathe again.
The remainder of the crossing was silent, though something rumbled in the back of Saffron’s mind the moment they approached the second gatehouse. He turned at first, thinking it another horse racing up behind them, but then the sound emerged again, and he realized it was only Taran.
“Something on your mind?” Saffron asked in a whisper. Maeve barely glanced over her shoulder, like she wasn’t sure she heard it or not. Saffron pretended to be far too busy gazing over the side of the bridge to have said anything. Not that it mattered, as Taran didn’t respond. Saffron let it go, knowing it to be a lost cause to try and force the beast to speak—but once they crossed into the cobblestone courtyard at the opposite end of the bridge, Saffron understood.
Parked off to the side, emblazoned with the family crest of a silver-foiled wolf, a carriage of the mac Delbaith family sat. Saffron reeled back on his reins on instinct, a rush of panic flooding his body and freezing his skin, not helped by the additional rumbling and pacing of the wolfish presence in his mind. Whether or not Taran’s reaction fed into his own, making it worse, or perhaps even keeping him calmer than he would have been otherwise—the thought of any member of the mac Delbaith family stepping foot within reach of Cylvan had his heart pounding harder than racing hooves on the stone bridge.
Perhaps he should not have been so surprised, considering the headlines that very morning mentioning the continued offerings of mac Delbaith silver—but until that point, it had only been rumors. It had only been gossip, discussing if the cursed objects would be useful in staying the slow bleeding of beantighes from Avren. Surely the kings weren’t actually considering…?
“Don’t overreact yet,” Taran grumbled in warning. “Opulent silver is a common offering in times of ashen states, to high fey more than beantighes. Don’t cause a scene. It will only embarrass you.”
Saffron’s hands on Boann’s reigns were so tight they nearly compacted into stone.
But why would they have come here? He mentally asked, even knowing it sounded stupid. Like a child asking something obvious, because he simply didn’t want to accept the truth—that there were political, diplomatic benefits to the kings making nice with the mac Delbaiths, and vice versa. Like vultures over a massacre, like wolves over a lamb, the mac Delbaiths had likely been licking their lips all week, waiting for just the right amount of time to pass before paying a visit to Avren. As if waiting, specifically, for the first organic mention to appear in the gossip leaflets, before deciding to make their move. Even Taran just grunted in response, like he couldn’t deny the possibility.
“Tacky,” Maeve muttered like she could read Saffron’s mind, instantly popping the swelling panic in his body. Not so much surprised she would agree with his feelings—but that she agreed so much to be willing to risk the wrong person overhearing. Saffron just bit his lip, unsure if it was to hide a smile or to keep his own string of insults at bay, focusing on taking Boann to the stables so they could actually make their way inside. The beantighe working them did not appear to be wearing any controlling silver, at the very least. Saffron tried to take it as a good sign.
Leaving the horses, Maeve followed Saffron up a back stairway to avoid any unwelcome, observing eyes, especially those belonging to descendants of the wolf king. Saffron even opted to show Maeve through a beantighe passage behind one of the walls, then through another side corridor. The fey lady just appeared silently intrigued while never arguing, though she had to constantly adjust the sword on her hip so it didn’t scrape along the narrow walls. As they went, Saffron blabbered on about how those passageways had been shared with him by Asche, who had every nook and cranny of the palace memorized as a means of escaping parties they had no interest in.
Cylvan was not in his room, nor in any of the libraries where he normally liked to hide; he wasn’t eating a meal in the dining hall, nor in the upper greenhouse where he practiced his violin when lost in thought. Saffron even searched the outer gardens from a high balcony, then each and every private sitting room he could think of; the prince’s personal study, then the king’s personal study, then even risked a glance into King Tross’ workroom to ask if he knew where the dark raven was hiding.
King Tross had cordoned himself off in his workroom since the first night after the games, rarely emerging even to make nice with the palace’s constant stream of visitors, both personal and political. Never once did he appear bothered when Saffron poked his head into the room, at least, a few times even holding him hostage to show off some of his work or insisting he try a few things on. That time, though, even the king appeared apprehensive, which did nothing to ease Saffron’s growing nerves.
“I believe Cylvan is currently with Lady Anysta in the family infirmary,” the king said, confirming Saffron’s suspicions, then adding: “Ah—I see that look on your face. Remember, diplomacy, dear Saffron.” Even he emphasized the word through a tight jaw, sarcasm as thick as the sincerity of the recommendation.
Saffron pressed his lips into a pout, but swallowed back the rude words he wished to share about the palace’s newest visitor. Something told him King Tross would have loved to gossip about that specific guest more than anyone, but Saffron resisted the urge. He might be there all day otherwise if he broke the seal of Tross’ politeness.
Wishing the King luck with the project spread over his desk, Saffron slipped back out where his face instantly twisted up in annoyance. If he wasn’t so focused on getting to the infirmary straight away, he might have told Maeve all about exactly how well he knew Anysta mac Delbaith, despite never being formally introduced. Despite never exchanging a single word with one another. But there might never be enough time in the world to explain how he once romped through Taran mac Delbaith’s memory threads in the first place.
Anysta mac Delbaith hadn’t changed at all from what Saffron remembered in said memories. That morning, her long, dark-brown hair was pulled back from her eyes with two clips, with tawny skin and eyes a pretty hazel-green that matched her brother’s. She and Taran might have even passed as twins, if Saffron didn’t know any better.
She wore the garb of a Dagdan priestess just like Saffron had first seen of her, hating how it reminded him so much of the vestments donned by witchhunters, though admittedly the same could be said for every high fey wearing black during the city’s mourning period. He still didn’t know anything about what it meant to be a Dagdan priestess, either, let alone where they practiced, what they practiced, or how—which only made his new, additional misguided sense of annoyance brew hotter at the thought of her standing there. Wearing those clothes, dedicated to some fey religion he personally wasn’t familiar with. Knowing only that the Dagda was the highest of all gods to both arid humans and opulent fey—even more aggravated to think someone like Anysta mac Delbaith had the arrogance to don the mantle of someone regarded so highly. Why hadn’t the Dagda struck her down yet? It would have saved them all a lot of trouble?—
“Focus,” Taran mumbled. Saffron inhaled sharply, but held it. Forcing himself back into his body. Back to where his foot stood planted in the infirmary entryway.
Still, despite his best efforts, the sight of the lady was enough to make Saffron’s blood bubble—only for furious panic to tip into near-boiling the moment he recognized exactly how close she stood to Cylvan on the edge of the bed in front of her. Cylvan, who had long already noticed Saffron enter, while Saffron stood there and attempted to set the fey lady on fire with his eyes. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t yet called out a greeting—like a part of him hoped Saffron might actually be able to do it.
Beneath Anysta’s deft fingers, the prince’s broken horn had been replaced with a silver replica; a perfectly matching prosthetic, down to even the carvings he’d once had. Even Taran in the back of Saffron’s mind reeled, and the sound of an agitated beast almost broke from Saffron’s mouth in tandem.
He mentally shoved Taran’s presence back. He shoved his own feelings back, scolding himself for being so emotional. As far as Anysta knew, they had never met. Technically, Saffron, the fey from Alvénya, had never even met Taran mac Delbaith. He didn’t know what opulent silver was, or what it was for. For him to know anything at all would be a dangerous bit of intrigue to lay at Anysta mac Delbaith’s feet, like a rabbit under the nose of a dog.
“Good morning, your highness,” Saffron managed instead of what he really wished to say, smiling politely as Lady Anysta glanced his way. Cylvan’s own expression flickered through a handful of emotions all at once, but most visibly—his own amusement tempered the moment Anysta turned to perceive Saffron fully. Watching her with a flash of his eyes, as if attempting to read her every movement, to observe every twitch of her face. Protective and possessive, in an instant. He really was no different from Saffron, after all.
“You must be Lord Saffron,” Anysta said, flashing Saffron a pretty smile while turning to properly offer him a low bow. She moved with a practiced grace, one that reminded Saffron of how Maeve did when on high alert on her horse, or with a hand resting on the hilt of her sword. It also reminded him too much of how Taran used to smile when being intentionally charming, hiding something, and smug at the thought of being the only one who knew—and Saffron’s hackles raised impossibly higher. “His highness said you might come by this morning. My work will be finished shortly, and I will be out of your way.”
“Your ‘work’? ” Saffron asked as innocently as he could manage, but failed right at the end when the slightest flicker of sarcasm edged in. A muscle in Cylvan’s jaw twitched, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or clear his throat in warning. “Oh! I was just reading in the gossip columns this morning about ‘mac Delbaith silver’—is that what you mean? I assumed by all the pamphlets it was more of a pretty toy than anything else.”
“My family works in opulent silver, yes,” Anysta answered with ease, ignoring Saffron’s comment at the end. Assuming he was only a simple countryfey from Alvénya, like everyone else. Of course he wouldn’t know any better. Cylvan had his lips pressed together again, at one point having to softly clear the amusement from his throat. Meanwhile, Anysta motioned to the cap replacing Cylvan’s missing horn. “Blessed objects imbued with natural opulence to fill gaps where ashen states leave high fey in need. Admittedly we are still trying to source something that can help mitigate Prince Cylvan’s missing sídhe gift, but in the meantime wished to provide something else to ease his hardship.”
“Ah,” Saffron smiled, speaking the first thing to come to mind that wasn’t ‘ get your hands off him before I bite them off’ : “What a relief. I’m glad. He was looking a little unbalanced, wasn’t he?”
Cylvan cast him a venomous smile that whispered ‘ I’m going to remember that.’
“Are there any opulent gaps I can ease for you while I’m here, Lord Saffron?” Anysta went on, and Saffron shook his head.
“None for me, as generous as that is,” he spread the polite tone on as thick as any other beantighe receiving an offer that made their stomach turn. “I’ve been ashen since the day I was born, and I have never wished otherwise, to be quite honest.”
Cylvan bit back another little smile while Anysta’s back remained turned. The fey lady responded with a musical little laugh. “Well, hardly more than a beantighe without any opulence to prove otherwise, aren’t you?” She said like it was a common joke, and Saffron barked an off-putting laugh in response.
“Seems Avren no longer has a shortage of beantighes, then, by that logic. Even Prince Cylvan ought to pick up a broom.”
“That’s enough,” Cylvan interrupted with an exasperated little smile, like he could sense Saffron’s self-control reaching a breaking point.
“If you ever change your mind, my lord, Prince Cylvan knows how to contact me,” Anysta said, offering a smile to Cylvan over her shoulder before bowing in finality. Saffron managed another stiff little laugh, though even the wolf in his head muttered for him to keep it together.
Anysta excused herself. The instant the sound of her heels disappeared down the corridor, Saffron rushed Cylvan with an arm extended, only to be swept up in Cylvan’s arms and kissed instead.
“You’re going to start a war between our families by Sunday,” he said, squeezing Saffron’s face as Saffron writhed and flailed his arms, attempting to snap the silver horn right back off his head. Before he could make any progress, Cylvan swept him off his feet to throw him on the bed behind him. Saffron hissed, attempting again to yank the silver away as Cylvan scolded him through a smile, playfully commanding him to behave and remember himself . Finally, he pinned Saffron’s arms down on the pillows, before leaning in for another kiss.
“Good morning,” he said, properly, as if trying to start over.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was going to be here?” Saffron asked, squirming beneath Cylvan’s grasp as Maeve just rolled her eyes and wandered over to the window. “I don’t like that you were all by yourself with her?—!”
“She surprised us,” Cylvan answered with a sigh. He lowered down, resting on a bent elbow and brushing fingers through Saffron’s hair with his opposite hand. Combing his bangs like he thought Saffron had used too much pomade to slick them down that morning. “And I can handle myself, púca. She wasn’t going to do anything to me on palace grounds. Not even the mac Delbaiths are so desperate.”
“I’ve seen how far their desperation can take them,” Saffron argued back. “It ended with one of them living in my head.” The entity in the back of his mind circled and growled at the mention, and Saffron imagined Taran’s paws carpeted in sharp thistles to silence him back down again. He wasn’t in the mood.
“I’m sure that wretched dog in your head was equally displeased at the sight of her,” Cylvan said, pressing a finger to Saffron’s forehead like he was knocking on the door of a squirrel’s winter hollow. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Lying to your favorite prince?” Cylvan asked with a threatening laugh, before baring his teeth and feigning a bite to the tip of Saffron’s nose. “I should have known. No human can resist their nature.”
“Seems the palace is seeing plenty of unexpected visitors today,” Maeve interjected, summoning both Cylvan and Saffron’s attention to where she gazed out the window. “Looks like one of the High Keepers just arrived by carriage. Tapestries, maybe?”
“A what?” Saffron asked as Cylvan immediately pulled away, practically leaping to his feet to rush to the window and see for himself. Saffron sat up on the bed behind them, about to repeat the question, but Cylvan returned to take his hand and pull him to his feet, first. Saying nothing else, just leading Saffron for the door, hurrying down the hallway as Maeve jogged to catch up behind them.
“Cylv—” Saffron attempted, but King Tross suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs they were headed for, looking apprehensive.
“Good,” he said at the sight of Cylvan already on his feet. “Come, now. Something’s happened.”