5. The Tea
5
THE TEA
T hey went straight to the palace. Still in their school uniforms, with Maeve riding alongside Saffron and Boann, and Sionnach clinging to Saffron’s waist from behind in their shared saddle. Thankfully, Avren’s streets were still relatively quiet—all the way until they approached the palace, where Saffron barely reeled back on Boann’s reins just before crashing into a small crowd gathering to pound on the gatehouse doors. Shouting. Demanding the kings come and address them, to address what was already written and published in the paper even so early in the morning.
Saffron realized too late that at least half of them held parchment and pens in their hands—and they were the first to turn at the sound of Boann’s hooves racing up the road. Gossip writers, who, the moment they laid eyes on Saffron—turned and shouted his name. Rushing to where he barely managed to keep Boann calm in all the growing chaos.
“Lord Saffron! Have you seen the news?”
“You were there during the games—do you think it was the same human rebels who tore open Erelaine?”
“Have you heard of the arid circles found all around Avren? Do you think they’re related?”
“Are they trying to send a message? Do you have anything to say to the human witches behind this?”
“L-let me pass!” Saffron attempted, having to wrap Boann’s reins around his fists as the horse reeled in discomfort.
“Will Prince Cylvan be sending any aid to Erelaine?”
“Do you have anything to say about Daurae Asche? Do you have any message for the humans who are doing this?”
“I said?—!”
The gatehouse doors suddenly banged, opening as everyone turned to look. Saffron didn’t recognize the guard who appeared, but they lifted an arm and waved him to come. Two others rushed out, then Saoirse emerged on the back of her horse, wearing full plate armor as if prepared for war. The moment she spotted Saffron and Maeve already there, she shouted for the crowd to part, loud enough that even her own horse reeled back in agitation.
Bodies separated just enough for them to pass through, and Saffron rammed his heels into Boann’s ribs the moment he could clear through. Hands clawed at his clothes, smacking against Boann, even pulling at Sionnach’s legs as Saffron forced his way through. A hundred crying voices demanding answers all at once, when they weren’t calling out everything they wished for him to pass on to the kings. Sentiments of both fear and anger—sentiments of bloodthirsty, and cries for them to repent to The Morrígan for what had apparently occurred at her Erelainian temple. Sionnach just clung to Saffron’s waist as they passed through the horse, face pressed into his back as if terrified of being torn off and eaten alive.
Saoirse turned her horse the moment Saffron was within reach, and he followed with Maeve on his heels. Galloping across the long bridge, Boann snorted and whipped her head from the effort, but never slowed as Saffron urged her to keep pace with Saoirse ahead. The second gatehouse opened just as they approached, slowing to a breathless lope while passing through.
Right on the other side, Cylvan was just reaching the bottom of the stone steps, rushing to throw his arms around Saffron the instant Saffron kicked his foot over the saddle. Saffron clung to him in return, sensing Cylvan’s mounting trepidation by how tightly his prince’s arms locked around his body, how his heart pounded hard enough for Saffron to feel it in his own chest.
“It’s alright,” Saffron told him breathlessly. “You’re safe, it’s alright. We’re all here.”
Cylvan clung to him a moment longer, before finally pulling away. He placed a firm arm around Saffron’s waist, and they hurried across the courtyard with the others on their heels toward the stairs.
Inside the palace wasn’t any calmer than the bustling crowd outside the gates—as servants of every background and status raced back and forth, barking commands at one another when they weren’t tripping over each other’s feet. Most kept out of Saoirse’s way as the guard hurried Cylvan, Saffron, and the others through the hallways—but Saffron couldn’t help noticing every human they passed, specifically. All of them, looking far more pale, far more frightened and apprehensive, than their fey counterparts.
King Ailir stood with King Tross in one of the upper floor libraries, an arm holding his harmonious partner behind the back as they gazed out the tall window together. From that vantage point, the bridge over the valley was visible, as well as the growing crowd at the first gatehouse. Saffron knew more folk had gathered without having to see for himself. It was evident enough on the kings’ faces. He just kept a grip on Cylvan’s hand as they entered in tense silence.
Saoirse entered the room last, where she closed the door and remained in front of it. Lady éoine, King Tross’ sister and the mother of Cylvan’s half-siblings, sat in a chair in the center of the room with an infant bundled in her arms. Two more guards hovered out of the way, but always within reach of the kings at the window. A final stranger Saffron didn’t know sat in their own chair at the back of the room, shoulder-length hair dark and wavy like Cylvan’s, though it was the cutting edge of their eyes that resembled the prince most. The stranger teased the the tip of a dagger against a finger while looking intently at him, and Saffron quickly averted his eyes again.
“We are still waiting to hear more from Erelaine’s city oracles,” King Ailir finally broke the silence, turning to address the gathered group as Tross remained facing the window. Ailir never took his hand from his partner’s, and Saffron realized Tross’ grasp trembled slightly. “Once we have a better idea of what exactly happened there, we will be able to decide how to proceed in sending aid to the people. Particularly—should there be lives lost.”
He didn’t have to utter it for Saffron to hear what the king meant to add—Lives lost, again. His heart pounded. He clutched Cylvan’s hand so tightly, the prince’s nails burrowed into the side of his palm.
And then—King Ailir looked at Saffron. Not with the same cold intensity as the stranger seated at the back of the room, but such a gaze was still enough to reduce any man or fey to stone when on the receiving end of it. Saffron was no exception, stiffening beneath those eyes like bright gold coins.
“Saffron,” he said, pausing for a moment to press his lips together before parting again with a soft sound. “Do you know why they would have done this again?”
“No!” Saffron exclaimed right away, before forcing himself to pull the emotions back. Everyone in the room jumped with his sudden cry, and embarrassment toiled in his stomach. “I mean—No, I don’t, I… I was thinking about it the whole way here, wondering if it had anything to do with the circles reported in Avren yesterday, but… It’s hard to say, who… or why…”
“Could it have been someone else, then? Someone other than Ryder Kyteler,” Ailir asked. Saffron didn’t know how to answer that time either, lips parted like he wished a confident response would come. When none did, the shame grew heavier in his chest. All he could do was shake his head in uncertainty.
“Your majesty—do you think it has any connection to the arid circles left around the city?” Maeve asked next, reiterating Saffron’s point as everyone turned to look at her.
“We are wondering that as well,” Ailir said calmly, before his eyes traveled back to Saffron. “Considering what has been reported, we must consider it related.”
“The oracles from Fjornar haven’t had a chance to arrive yet,” Cylvan said, almost like an argument, though it lacked his full confidence. “We still don’t know anything about the attempted arid magic, and Saffron assured me himself the circles around Avren are nothing to worry about. There’s no reason to believe?—”
“Perhaps,” Ailir interrupted, in agreement but voice firm. His golden eyes reached for Cylvan, and even the prince straightened up slightly beneath them. “But it is foolish to pretend like they were still anything other than human magic, whether worrisome or not. Just like it will be foolish to believe this attack on Erelaine is in no way related to what befell Avren a week ago.”
Cylvan stiffened slightly. Saffron quietly squeezed his hand again.
“Whether or not they are related, it may still be a few days before the Fjornaran oracles arrive,” Ailir went on. His eyes returned to Saffron once more. “For now, we will focus on what we are able to do with certainty. We must do what we can to ease the worries of the people—and see if there is any way to anticipate additional veil events that may come.”
“More…” Sionnach whispered, and Saffron’s stomach sank in turn.
“For now, we will send half of our royal oracles to Erelaine to help assess—” Ailir continued, but Cylvan interrupted him.
“No!” He exclaimed, earning a sharp look from the king. But Cylvan didn’t back down that time—in fact, he released Saffron’s hand, stepping forward. His breaths came quickly, voice strained as he visibly panicked for exactly what he wished to say. “If we send them away now, who will look for Asche until those from Fjornar arrive? We can’t pull any of them away from their work. Not now.”
“What do you suggest instead, Cylvan?” Ailir asked. A pointed question, one brimming with implications, as if he really insisted ‘do not defy my command unless you have a better one.’ And Cylvan—didn’t. His mouth opened, then closed, pressing into a hard line as Saffron could see the growing dread behind his prince’s expression. Desperation mixing with uncertainty, mixing with shame for having nothing else to propose.
“I’ll go,” Saffron said without thinking. Desperate to ease Cylvan’s burden. To be of use to him—however possible. “I’m not as experienced as an oracle, obviously, but—I can read arid circles. I can tell you what’s there, and if Ryder was involved.”
The air in the room tightened in an instant. A step ahead, Cylvan had turned to stare at him. Still pale, apprehensive, with nerves muddying the color of his eyes. Saffron looked right back at him, lips parting in the briefest moment of hesitation, before hurriedly insisting before Cylvan could refuse. “It’s just—if Ryder Kyteler is behind this veil event, too, I want to see it with my own eyes. If anyone can figure out, first, if it really was him, then why he did it, or if he plans to do more—I can. He might even still be in Erelaine—and if so, I might even be able to find him before?—”
“Or draw him out—!” Cylvan exclaimed. “Or drive him to something worse?—!”
“Or stop him from doing anything worse!” Saffron argued back, instinctively squeezing his hand—but it was not longer held within Cylvan’s. Unable to help feeling like he’d lost anchor in a rough storm. “Whether he did this to hurt more people, or cause another big scene, or even just to get our attention—even if he only did it to draw me out of Avren—it doesn’t matter. Ryder Kyteler is—he’s my fault! His actions are my fault, he’s my problem! He’s also…” Saffron’s throat flexed, heart swelling in his chest and nearly choking him. “He’s also the only person I know who can manipulate the veil like that.”
The atmosphere encircling him tightened further, making it even harder to breathe. Still, Saffron flared his nostrils, forcing air into his lungs. He straightened up, extending his hand in an effort to claim Cylvan’s back again—and to his relief, Cylvan wordlessly offered his back. Anchored once again to his raven, his prince, whose eyes danced in bright apprehension.
“If we can find him before he runs, again—that might even be our best chance at forcing him to tell us where Asche is. Even to take us to them,” Saffron continued, calmer that time, though with his voice no less heavy with emotion. “To Letty and Hollow and Nimue, too. Because even if the oracles here are able to find a way through—there’s no promise they’ll know what to do after that. No one knows for certain, except Ryder. I —” His voice cracked. The rest of the room fell away into a humming blur, and Saffron saw only his anguishing prince in front of him. “I don’t have anything else, Cylvan… I haven’t been able to figure out anything else…”
The silence rang loud, bouncing off the ceiling, the books on the shelves, echoing back and striking him like the ocean striking weathered cliffs.
“Saffron is right.”
All heads turned, though King Tross still hadn’t pulled away from the window. Saffron watched his reflection in the glass, eyes keeping on the gathering crowd at the far gates. “I think we ought to listen to what he has to say, as the one who knows the man behind this better than anyone else.”
“I’m not about to put Saffron directly into Ryder Kyteler’s reach—” Cylvan started, but King Tross finally turned, interrupting him.
“There are many things I wish I could suggest otherwise, Cylvan, I can assure you,” he interjected. Saffron had never heard such firm coldness in his voice. “There are many things I wish to say about Saffron’s flippancy when it came to navigating that man’s intentions, as well—but I do not think it will do any of us much good, at this point.”
Saffron bowed his head, flushing with shame. Tross continued: “In fact, the only good to possibly come out of his show of glaring ignorance is that Ryder Kyteler may still believe it. He may still believe Saffron to be as nescient as when they spent all their time together in the Finnian Ruins?—”
“How do you know—” Cylvan attempted, but Tross cut him off.
“I do not need to know the details of their day-to-day to imagine exactly how every conversation went,” Tross snapped. “I also know Saffron. I know how he was raised, where he came from, and the environment he was thrust into at Mairwen—things I thought you would have been more aware of, yourself, Cylvan. You both carry pieces of responsibility for the situation we’ve found ourselves in, even if there is nothing in the world you could have done to stop it.”
“How dare you—” Cylvan flared.
“Cylvan,” Saffron whispered, pulling Cylvan back. “Don’t. He’s right.”
King Tross’ nostrils flared, before closing his eyes. He released a long exhale, with it seeming to expel most of the tension locking his body upright. His tight posture slacked, shoulders falling, even the wildfire burning in his eyes pulling back when he opened them again. They returned to Saffron, that time heavy with sleepless nights and the weariness only a king could carry.
“I think King Tross has a fair point,” Ailir said next, his tone remaining as calm as the start. “I also agree with Saffron. I think it may be wise for you both to travel to Erelaine to assess the damage, and determine what aid they require from Avren. At the very least, it would reflect kindly on your image, Cylvan. As Alfidel’s future king.”
Cylvan stood stiffly, wooden, head bowed slightly.
“Yes, father,” he finally uttered, but the words were empty.
“I’ll begin preparations for Prince Cylvan and Lord Saffron to leave as soon as possible—” Saoirse said from the door.
“Me as well,” Sionnach interrupted, though their voice squeaked slightly with nerves. “I’ll accompany them as well.”
“Me, too,” Maeve sighed, but slumped into one of the cushioned chairs as she did. “Might as well.”
“I’ll have a carriage prepared, then,” Saoirse corrected. “As well as horses.”
Saoirse motioned to the other two guards in the room, who bowed to the kings before excusing themselves. The stranger sitting at the far side also rose to their feet, sheathing their dagger and following Saoirse out. Saffron turned to Sionnach, who immediately stepped forward upon meeting his eyes.
“Would you go back to my dorm and get a few things for me?” he asked wearily. “If you can find Copper, he should let you in. I’ll need my shoulder bag and sketchbook, specifically. They should be on my desk. Fiachra, too, you can find her travel carrier?—”
“You should go with them,” Cylvan attempted, but King Tross cleared his throat.
“I would like to speak to Saffron alone, if I may.”
They all stared at him for a moment, before eyes flickered back to Saffron, who had gone still as stone. Sionnach was the first to speak again, reassuring Saffron they would bring everything they could think he might need. Excusing themself, Maeve followed behind, but Cylvan remained. Perhaps having no choice, as Saffron’s hand was locked around his.
“Father—” He attempted, but Tross raised a hand, and Cylvan went quiet again.
“I won’t cause your beloved any harm, Cylvan, I can assure you,” he said, finally offering a tired smile. “I only wish to speak to him alone, before you all depart.”
Cylvan glanced to Saffron, but Saffron remained petrified where he stood. When he did manage to give Cylvan a look back, it was to wordlessly beg for rescue, even if Cylvan knew better than to argue any further. He lifted Saffron’s hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it.
“I’ll make sure everything is prepared for us to leave before noon,” he said. “Don’t rush, púca. I’ll see you again soon.”
“Alright,” Saffron managed, hardly more than a nervous rasp. Cylvan hesitated a second longer, throwing Tross a look like he hoped the king would change his mind, but Tross just lifted a hand to wave Cylvan away.
Cylvan obeyed, closing the library door behind him and leaving Saffron alone with the Harmonious King of Alfidel.
A part of Saffron truly did believe Tross didn’t intend him any harm, though his certainty wavered slightly as the room emptied. Especially as the king said nothing else at first. Even as he went to the wall by the door and tugged on a little rope that rang a bell somewhere in the belly of the palace.
“Some tea, Saffron?” he asked upon returning to the couch in the center of the room and taking a seat. When he patted the cushion in invitation, Saffron had no choice but to join him, though he silently gave a little prayer to ériu as he did.
“That’s a fine cloak, you know.” The king said casually, and Saffron only then realized he still wore the covering over his school uniform. Something about it was immediately embarrassing, though he couldn’t explain why. “I believe an excursion such as this one will require something a little more… fitting, however. I’ll have something ready before you leave. A whole wardrobe, even. Finally, a chance to dress someone in a little color. The constant black of Avren’s grieving period is so depressing, isn’t it? As if the gods care what color our clothes are in such a time…”
Saffron barely heard it, too busy stripping the cloak off and tossing it over the back of the couch, just as the main doors opened and two beantighes with a tea cart rattled their way inside.
“In all this time, you and I have never sat down for a private chat, have we?” Tross went on as the beantighes finished placing the table in front of them then saw themselves out. King Tross casually crossed one leg over the other, allowing the fine fabric of his skirt to drape at the long slit and reveal the dark skin of his leg underneath. As he reached to take the teapot and pour a cup for Saffron, Saffron lurched forward, moving faster so he could do the honor. God—for King Tross to pour him a cup of tea, Saffron really might have a deathwish.
“You’ve been nothing but welcoming and cordial to me from the start,” Saffron said, choosing his words carefully. “Never once did I feel like your grace wasn’t extended to me, even if we’ve never had a private chat.”
“Hmm,” Tross said with a considerate smile, sipping at his cup after Saffron handed one to him. “I’m curious whether that perfect of a response comes from being a beantighe, or being Master Luvon’s beantighe.”
Saffron flushed red, avoiding the king’s eyes while claiming his own cup and saucer.
“I wasn’t trying to give the perfect response,” he said meekly. “I’m being honest. Although—if anything, it was Madame Catrín who would have taught me how to respond properly to such things.”
“Madame Catrín and Master Luvon make quite the indomitable pair, don’t they?”
Saffron didn’t know what indomitable meant, but he still nodded. King Tross helped himself to one of the macaron cookies on the tray, enjoying himself a moment and leaving Saffron to sit in apprehensive, tortured silence.
“I have had many conversations about you with your patron master, you know,” he said, that mischievous smile returning to his face. Saffron nearly grimaced, the mental image of King Tross and Luvon gossiping about him over wine making his stomach flutter in embarrassment. “Even long before you ever became Cylvan’s chosen king. Who would have thought my own dear friend’s favorite beantighe would woo my darling, brooding son. If I wasn’t so sure of Luvon’s disbelief, I would have thought you and him planned it as some sort of coup.”
Saffron’s hand jolted as he stammered out reassurances that that had never, ever been the case, and Tross only laughed again.
“I know, child, you can catch your breath. Luvon isn’t the type to ever wish to be king, anyway. I’m not sure how thrilled he is for you to be in this position, either, though not because he thinks you incompetent—rather, I think he worries Cylvan isn’t good enough a partner for you.”
Saffron let out a stiff exhale, but chuckled at the end. “I’m aware. Though I wonder how a prince could possibly not be impressive enough for a patron-child. A changeling baby, marrying the crown prince…”
“It’s like something from a myth,” Tross said. Saffron’s heart flipped, unsure if the king really meant it—or only said so because he knew of Saffron’s favorite books.
“To be quite honest, ever since I heard the long story of how you both really met—the honest story, which took two bottles of wine to wring out of my son,” the king continued. “I believed you would make for a fair Harmonious King. Especially that little trick of yours when you first met. In the forest clearing, I think it was, with the pixies at the hollow. You made Cylvan cut his hair.”
Saffron’s ears rang. He wasn’t sure he was still seated. He must have been floating along the ceiling, especially with the gutted wheeze that puttered out of him.
“Oh,” he croaked. “Y-yes, I did…”
“Cylvan says they sleep in piles.” Tross continued, sipping his tea, then raising an eyebrow when Saffron didn’t respond. “The pixies, I mean.”
“O-oh, yes!” Saffron replied. Mind continuing to spin as he couldn’t seem to grapple with how casual all the chatter was turning out to be, all things considered, after such a heavy morning. Perhaps that was exactly what made King Tross so dangerous, after all. Saffron continued to brace for a trap to spring at any moment. “Erm—except the ones meant to stand guard at the front of the hollow. But most times I found them fast asleep with the others.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone to successfully find pixies sleeping—let alone keep their eyes afterward,” Tross smiled, turning the stem of his cup around on the saucer until it hummed. “One semester at Ambegun, there was a pixie infestation in one of the dorms. At least three students lost an eye, though they were later found hanging from a tree on the edge of campus. One of them was successfully popped back in, but the other two were frozen solid. I’m sure you know how Winter Court pixies are far more ruthless than Spring or Summer ones—they love to steal fleshy bits from their prey and hang them to freeze from branches.”
“Oh, yes,” Saffron grimaced. “Not to mention impossible to see in the true season, when they all turn white as the snow. When I was a child, a small pack of them even stole one of my loose teeth while I was sleeping. Right out of my mouth.”
Tross made a face of interest, before furrowing his brows. “I always forget human childrens’ teeth fall out… Is it true some patron families keep them? For all of their beantighes? Perhaps for charms, or tracking spells… I wonder if Daurae Asche has ever thought of that…” he hummed, turning the cup on the saucer again. “High fey babies just slowly grind down the sharp points they’re born with.”
Saffron choked. “Excuse me?”
“Have you never seen the mouth of a young high fey?” The king smiled, showing all of his own white teeth. That morning, as if on purpose, his canines were capped with sharp golden points that would certainly, definitely, break skin if he tried. “Every tooth is sharp as a knife. Carryover from our wild ancestry. Did you not notice the shape of Asche’s? They still have the smallest bite to them.”
“That’s…” Saffron almost called it a lie, stopping himself short of accusing the king of being capable of such a thing. He’d never looked particularly close at Asche’s teeth, either, though picturing them with slightly-pointed fangs rang true. Recalling how Luvon’s girls used to leave bite-marks on Saffron’s arms as a toddler suddenly made sense, too. “Prince Cylvan must have been a menace. Even more than I’ve heard, at least.”
“Oh, for many reasons, as you already know,” Tross grinned. “But his menacing nature has… diminished somewhat, since he met you. It’s never fully gone, of course, but it does seem like he tries his best to hide his sharp teeth whenever you’re nearby. I did always hope Cylvan would find someone with a little more lust for life than Lord Taran, at least, to show him not everything had to be so miserable all the time,” Tross mused freely, unfurling a napkin as he claimed one of the finger-sandwiches lined up on the tray. “You may have come with your own hurdles for him to jump, but at least you have a sense of humor.”
If Taran hadn’t been paying attention through Saffron’s ears up until that moment, he certainly was the moment his name was mentioned. Saffron subconsciously rubbed his thumb over the scar on his arm beneath his sleeve.
“Did you… not like Lord Taran, your majesty?” he asked, much more willing to discuss that branch of conversation over the aforementioned hurdles he himself came with.
“I cared plenty for Lord Taran,” Tross said, though his smile was flat with the insistence. “Lord Taran and Cylvan were close friends since they were young—but as they grew, and the unfounded rumors circulating my son grew along with them, the mac Delbaith Family started planting seeds of their own into that poor boy.” He spoke so casually, Saffron almost didn’t realize exactly what he was saying. To King Tross, those words were hardly more than gossip to share with new ears; to Saffron, they were the slightest peeks into Taran’s past, normally withheld from him as much as the wolf-lord possibly could. All the while, Taran himself remained silent in the back of Saffron’s mind, though Saffron could still sense him lingering. Perhaps because he was apprehensive to hear what the king would reveal—or, perhaps more innocently, there was a part of him that wished to know what King Tross actually thought of him, all along.
“What sorts of seeds?” Saffron dared to ask. Tross’ mouth quirked at the corner as he sipped at his tea, as if glad Saffron asked.
“Telling him he would be the only one who could stop a Night Court, of course.” Tross’s bright eyes lifted from the rim of his teacup, striking Saffron so suddenly with the gaze that even Taran shied away. “But, seeing as you spent all that time in Danann House under that deal you made with him, in order to protect my son—I’m curious what you’ve come to think of him, yourself, Saffron.”
Saffron bit his lip. He sipped at his tea, watching his reflection ripple in the surface of the dark drink before absentmindedly rubbing his hand against his scarred forearm again. The wolf attached to his soul stirred again, as if perking up. As if—a part of him, while he would never admit it—was curious to know, as well.
“There are many things I despise about Taran mac Delbaith,” he said with all honesty, knowing it wouldn’t come as any shock to the wolf in his head. King Tross nearly responded, but Saffron continued, first. “But... But I’ve learned a lot since my time in Danann House. About him, and about Cylvan, and about what it means to be… a person raised with such harsh expectations placed on them. You said yourself, Taran’s indoctrination started when he was only a child, which is no different from Cylvan in so many ways. So… I guess I could say I ‘understand’ why he did the awful things he did, but not in any way of extending forgiveness. Not yet.”
Not yet . He didn’t know why that final sentiment escaped him, but the words lingered between himself and the king.
Tross’ eyes sparkled, staring at Saffron, unblinking, like he wanted nothing more in the entire world than for him to say more. But Saffron knew better than to share too much with a king prone to gossip, especially when it was his own words being shared.
“That is very harmonious of you,” Tross finally conceded, giving Saffron a satisfied smile before plucking another pastry from one of the tiered plates and slathering it in jam and honey. “Not that I ever doubted you—a beantighe is a perfect fit for a harmonious king, when one considers it past the initial shock.”
His eyes flickered upward to meet Saffron’s again. The way the sun shone through them reminded Saffron of King Ailir; reminded him of Asche. Cutting and warm and searching all at once. Perhaps the Daurae got their insatiable curiosity from King Tross.
“If I may be honest with you, Saffron,” the king went on with a sense of finality. “While I once worried Lord Taran lacked the capacity to comfort my son in his darkest moments… a part of me worries you will lack the same in quarrel.” He let those words hang between them, until they sank and rooted in Saffron’s bones. “I know how deeply you care for the prince—for my son. But I think it has blinded you both to what waits on the horizon. A Night Court that has haunted him since the day he was born. An era that will be difficult to navigate, only made more treacherous now with what occurred at the Midsummer Games.
“It is still long before Cylvan takes the throne, Danu bless it be, yet his reputation already carries the blame. He will have his own decisions to make, and they will come quickly—Decisions for the better of the people, though with a human harmonious partner, high fey will no doubt wonder which people. An ancient game of survival that I am far too familiar with, as King Ailir’s Harmonious King, having had to watch the one I love retract his claws time and time again in favor of keeping the peace amongst courtiers far older than he. I worry, when the time comes that you two truly clash in what you think is best for Alfidel—true harmony will be hard-sought, if you are not able to see past your feelings for Cylvan, and stand up against him for the things you believe to be right, and vice-versa.
“Considering the hand Cylvan has been dealt since the day he was born, and the fate he is destined to receive, knowing my son better than most—I can tell you right now, when backed into a corner, Cylvan’s instinct will be to survive rather than to fight. Especially if the people he cares about, and the people who care about him—as few as there are—are threatened. He will bow first, and consider his ethical responsibility second. Do you understand?”
Saffron stared at him. His stomach turned, spilling the tea and sweet pastries and bites of fruit he’d swallowed over one another, until there was only nausea.
“If there is one word of advice I can give to you now, Saffron, it is this: Use this journey to Erelaine as a chance to witness what, exactly, you have in store for yourself as the harmonious king to a coming storm. Decide if it is a storm you are truly prepared to weather—or a storm you are prepared to clash against, as the only way to balance the wind and rain.
“I know you care deeply for Prince Cylvan. He cares deeply for you as well. But that love you hold for one another will either be a strength, or a curse. You will have to be prepared to make your decisions not only for yourself—but for the sake of all the people who may suffer if you choose wrong. Including Cylvan, whether he will recognize it or not. Should affection cloud your judgement, allowing Cylvan to choose survival over the good of those who need him—Alfidel may, with certainty, suffer beneath the very Night Court swiftly arriving over the horizon. But in ways none of us could ever imagine.”
“I—” Saffron spoke without thinking, not knowing what he wished to say. His mind was blank, feeling only the nervous pound of his heart in his chest. He’d always known being a harmonious, human king in a Night Court would not be easy—but Tross’ words of warning filled him with ice. Flooded him inch over inch, until his hand twitched on his lap as if instinctively searching for warmth. But Cylvan wasn’t there; Cylvan wasn’t right within reach. Saffron would have to internalize that warning, and every eternal, potential consequence—accepting that it was for him and him alone.