6. The Crest
6
THE CREST
R estless after his conversation with King Tross, restless with the sudden change of plans for the day and the days that would follow, Saffron made his way through the palace hallways as quickly as he could without drawing too much attention to himself—though it wasn’t hard, with how people continued to rush by in every direction. Guards hurrying by in groups or alone; servants, human and fey, dashing away carrying armfuls of clothing or fabric, valuables, trunks of hidden goods as if ordered to take them into the palace vaults for safekeeping. Saffron would not be sick. He would not allow himself to be sick.
Escaping through one of the passages Asche once showed him, he escaped into the back gardens. He disappeared beneath the thick-flowering wisteria trees and willows, hiding from the coming rain beneath one tree easily older than he was within the dome of its weeping vines. Leaning against the trunk, he pressed a hand to his chest, fighting to catch his breath. Breathing in the smell of the blossoms, the fresh air, the creek that snaked down the center of the grounds, the distant scent of the ocean. His heart wouldn’t slow; it refused to allow him a moment of solace. He worried it would beat right through the cracked scar of his sternum.
When someone slipped a hand between the veil of willow branches and slipped in to join him, anyone else would have been startled by the tall and broad shadow—but Saffron sighed in instant relief, falling into Cylvan’s arms and holding him.
“You made it out in one piece,” Cylvan said, clearly only half joking. Saffron groaned, pressing his face into Cylvan’s chest and breathing him in. He wasn’t wearing his perfume that morning; he hadn’t had any chance to do his makeup or his hair, except to pull the long strands into a simple side ponytail. Even his clothes were simple, which felt wrong for him—but at least made it easier for Saffron to bury his face into his chest without the prodding of beads or sculpted buttons.
“Are you alright?” Saffron asked, finally pulling away just enough to look up at him. Cylvan let out a sigh of his own.
“King Ailir spoke to me while Tross spoke to you; and now I have to meet with both of them to discuss what I’ll say on the platform to the crowd,” Cylvan said. “What a morning it’s been…” he trailed off, combing a few stray hairs from Saffron’s forehead. Saffron sensed how his touch trembled slightly. He wanted to ask what Cylvan was thinking—but the prince shook his head, first, reaching into the inner pocket of his doublet.
“I was meaning to give this to you later, but now seems as good a time as any,” he said, presenting the gift wrapped in beautiful gold-embroidered fabric. Saffron glanced up at him in surprise, before carefully taking it. “I had to sneak it into my blouse from my room, between all the chaos. Had anyone found it on me before speaking in private to my father—gods, I do not want to think what sort of wild stories they would spin about my intentions.”
Untying the fabric knot, Saffron unwound the covering over the object, holding his breath when a sheathed knife half the length of his forearm was revealed. Intricately crafted with a black leather exterior, the shaft was inlaid with faceted rubies and beaded rowan leaves, making Saffron’s breath catch as he trailed his thumb over the polished gems.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. Cylvan smiled unevenly, placing his hand on Saffron’s to encourage him to pull the blade from its leather case. Saffron expected to find silver inside—but instead, a shining black blade emerged.
His eyes went wide in appreciation, fully grasping the weapon by the handle to pull it free for a better look. Noticing first how, even in that overcast light, the slightest amount of sun passed through the semi-opaque body when held up to the sky. ‘Like glass obsidian,’ he nearly exclaimed with a grin, but something else caught his eye first. Within the depths of the blade—subtle, swirling embellishments were visible, as if carved into the stone before being polished down into such a sharp edge. To anyone else, the designs would have been nothing more than a charming detail—but Saffron knew, the moment he saw them.
“This is—!” He choked, immediately clutching the blade flat to his chest. Staring at Cylvan in wordless disbelief, his heart pounded as he fully understood. “This is made from?—!”
“My lost horn, yes,” Cylvan smiled. His silver replacement shined in the low light as he did, as if taunting. “It was Saoirse’s idea, actually. The blacksmith did a stunning job, didn’t he? ‘Like nothing he’d ever made before,’ he said. Don’t let first impressions fool you, either—it should be strong and sharp as any other fey-forged steel.”
“It’s…” Saffron gazed down at the blade one more time, before gently tucking it into its sheathe. “God, I’ve already cried enough, haven’t I?”
Cylvan chuckled, as Saffron threw his arms around him once again.
“It’s beautiful, Cylvan,” he said upon returning back flat to his feet. “It’s—it’s the most unique thing I’ve ever seen. Just like you.”
“Use it liberally,” Cylvan said. “If ever there is a moment you need me, but I’m not there—you can still defend yourself, and I will take the blame.”
Saffron pulled him down into a kiss, holding Cylvan’s face in one hand, clutching the knife to his chest with the other.
“Everything is going to be alright,” he said. “I know it. We’ll have a safe trip, I know it, but...” He trailed off, closing his eyes and pressing their foreheads together. “Thank you. I’ll carry it with me everywhere.”
“Good,” Cylvan smiled. “A small reassurance, for me. Despite it all… I want nothing more but for you to remain safe, púca.”
His voice grew heavy with unspoken intensity, those words pleading far more than just what Saffron could use a blade against. Locking his arms around Saffron and pulling him tight, he pressed his nose into Saffron’s hair and breathed him in. Whispering about the smell of rain and willow and wisteria.
Saffron didn’t know what else to say; he didn’t know what else to do. He just held Cylvan back, hoping it was enough to reassure him. Everything will be alright .
Their moment together was brief, hardly more than a few minutes—but was just enough to reinvigorate Saffron with enough energy to finally make his way to the front courtyard, while Cylvan left for one final private meeting with both King Ailir and Tross, before they would depart.
Sneaking into the stables while everyone else was busy with tasks before their departure, he went searching for Boann, grabbing a brush from a shelf on the way in case anyone spotted him and asked what he was doing. The beast was clearly still agitated from the excitable morning as Saffron stepped into her stall, nudging her nose into his side as if to ask where he’d been. But Saffron just threw his head back with a groan, collapsing onto his haunches and burying his face into arms crossed over his knees. Forcing himself to breathe, balling his hands in and out of fists as his fingers tingled in anxiety. He clawed at his hair, tugging at the roots until his scalp burned, as if he could pluck out every worry like oracles plucked out memory threads. If he just pulled hard enough, he would unravel and weave his own memory tapestry, but only of things he didn’t wish to keep for himself. Someone else could find use for them.
All he’d wanted—was one peaceful, romantic summer with his prince. And even that had been too much to ask.
Boann’s teeth found his fingers in his hair, nibbling and making Saffron yelp. Falling back, his landed on his ass with a sigh, allotting himself exactly ten more seconds of feeling sorry for himself before shaking his head and forcing himself back to his feet. He collected the brush off the floor, then snagged a few fresh vegetables from the bucket reserved for the royal horses.
He was in the middle of open-palming a thick slice of pumpkin for Boann when Saoirse suddenly hurried in. Startling one another, then startling Saffron a second time when the guard let out a bark of laughter. It wasn’t so much the volume that surprised him, rather the sound itself, as Saoirse had always been so stern and stoic since they first met.
“I worried his majesty might eat you alive,” she said, surprising Saffron further. He stepped out of the way as the guard approached Boann to look her over for the journey.
“King Tross is not all that scary,” Saffron reassured, even if it was mostly a lie, as if Saoirse didn’t already know. “He reminds me so much of Master Luvon, honestly, which definitely keeps my nerves at bay.”
At some point during Saffron’s time with King Tross, Saoirse had removed her plate armor, perhaps for the ease of movement while hurrying back and forth performing so many chores in preparation for the journey. Saffron had always been aware of her size, but for the first time had a chance to really appraise her without all the silver plating that made her look even more intimidating.
She stood as tall as the tips of Cylvan’s horns, upper body easily as broad as Copper’s with thick, burly muscle. Saffron spotted sun-warmed skin beneath the cuffs of her long sleeves, though her face and hands were tanned even more from the sun, spotted with freckles across her cheeks and the backs of her knuckles that also donned years of scars, both faded and recent. She was clearly older than Cylvan, with the fine lines beneath her eyes and around her mouth, though that could have simply been from a long life of hard work. The wrinkles blended into faint scars that criss-crossed over her facial features, the most notable one cutting down through one of her dark eyebrows and warping the shape of her right eyelid.
That morning, her red hair was pulled back in a series of braids and knots that, when let down, might have reached to the middle of her back. She wore a single stroke of gold eyeliner over her top eyelids, with a tiny added accent on her lower lashes, the color matching a pierced ring in her nose that flashed slightly whenever caught in the light. One of her pointed ears was notched, missing its tip, and Saffron couldn’t help but wonder if she’d lost it the same way Hollow had lost his.
“How long have you been Cylvan’s personal guard?” he asked, hating the silence, hating just standing there while someone else worked in front of him. Saoirse gave him a brief glance, holding back her answer until she’d grabbed Boann’s travel saddle and lifted it into place on her back. The new one was freshly polished, donning the crest of the royal family on both sides.
“I was his mother’s guard first,” Saoirse said with a grunt, adjusting the saddle before bending down on one knee to cinch the belts around Boann’s middle. Saffron knelt to help. “When the prince was born, Gentle Naoill asked me to keep an eye on him. Once he was old enough to move to Avren for school, they asked me to go, too.”
“So you’ve known him his whole life,” Saffron said with a little laugh. “Was he really always as troublesome as he says?”
“I don’t know what exactly he’s told you, but you can double it.” Saoirse smirked. “I cannot possibly put into words what a handful that little storm has been since the moment he first opened those damned eyes. You know—most sídhe fey develop their powers in adolescence, but Prince Cylvan had storm clouds brewing on the ceiling even as the nursemaids were wiping him down.”
“It’s unfair, isn’t it?” Saffron said, at first without thinking, then adding: “When I first met him, I didn’t think he was as scary as everyone else does. I just thought he was rude.”
Saoirse chuckled. “Cylvan tells me you’re not afraid of anything.”
“Does he?” Saffron grimaced. “He’s only being polite.”
Saoirse said nothing else, just smiling to herself as if reminiscing on a personal memory.
They continued working in wordless silence for a few minutes, Saffron feeding more vegetables to Boann as Saoirse made sure the saddle was properly tightened in every place. Not much longer passed before the quiet was interrupted by a voice calling the guard’s name, and they both turned just as someone stepped into the stables.
Saffron thought it was Cylvan at first—before realizing, it was only the dark-haired stranger from the king’s library. The one who had regarded Saffron with cold eyes at the start, then followed Saoirse out when excused. They stopped in the opening of Boann’s stall, looking Saffron up and down before a catlike smile crossed their face, laced with mischief. The curl of their mouth was familiar, resembling how Cylvan’s lifted when he had naughtiness on his mind. Draped over one arm, they held a crimson-red cloak, and Saffron had a sneaking suspicion they were there to give it to him.
“Well, good morning,” they said, stepping in and offering Saffron a little bow for the very first time. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, Lord Saffron. No better time than now, seeing as I’ll be accompanying you on your journey.”
“I thought we decided last night you would be heading back home today?” Saoirse muttered like a warning, like she knew exactly what trouble edged in the stranger’s voice.
“Well, Erelaine is on the way, isn’t it? Besides…” The stranger’s eyes never left Saffron, and Saffron refused to avert his own that time. Instead, he memorized their appearance, trying to put a finger on what, exactly, felt off about it. Shoulder-length, wavy black hair; pale skin; blue eyes accentuated with dark, smoky pigments; plum-colored lips that reminded Saffron of how his own looked after working too long in Luvon’s cold orchards. The fey wasn’t particularly tall or muscular, but seemed sturdy at the same time, somehow. Saffron could tell right away, there was certainly more to them than it seemed—why else would their closeness make his skin buzz in apprehension? “Besides, what you’ve got going on sounds far more interesting. You might even need my help keeping an eye on the prince and his entourage, Saoirse, don’t you think? This one especially seems to invite trouble. Ah, that reminds me. Here. The rest of your new things are already packed up in pretty luggage bags, your highness.”
They extended the folded cloak, just like Saffron expected. He accepted, holding the covering by the shoulders and letting it unfurl. Sewn from deep, blood red fabric, Saffron didn’t know if the fluttering in his gut was apprehension or appreciation. Tross had never been known for designing any piece of clothing that could be called simple —but that cloak, meant just for Saffron, very much was. Red, with some subtle crimson embroidery up the edges, imitating rowan branches. How long had he been holding onto it? Perhaps it was technically unfinished, in that state—but for Saffron’s tastes, it was perfect.
“Lord Saffron, why don’t you go see if the others have returned from Mairwen yet?” Saoirse asked, interrupting Saffron’s awed silence. Her tone was flat and irritated. “I’ll need to prepare their horses, too, as soon as they arrive.”
“Oh, sure,” Saffron said, throwing the cloak over his shoulders and pinning the front. The stranger wrinkled their nose like they hated how Saffron hadn’t reacted to their little jab—but admittedly, Saffron had already forgotten what they’d even said.
“It was nice to meet you—” He attempted, and the stranger interrupted again.
“Gentle Aodhán,” they introduced themself, offering a hand to shake. Saffron took it, realizing with that small motion, they must have originated from the Winter Court. Folk from other courts rarely shook hands like cold northerners exchanging warmth.
Sionnach and Maeve were just making their way through the gates when Saffron emerged from the stables, but more surprisingly, Copper rode up behind them. It made unexpected emotion flutter in Saffron’s chest, and he hurried to hug Copper tightly the moment his friend kicked his legs from the saddle.
“What’s going on?” Copper asked, throwing Maeve and Sionnach a dirty look like they’d both refused to tell him anything, like they both couldn’t believe he insisted on riding all the way back to the palace with them despite it. “Everyone’s losing their minds on campus right now. Had to use my hurling shoulder on a professor to let me through the dorm gate.”
“There was another veil event in Erelaine. We think it may have been Ryder who did it,” Saffron said, and Copper’s face dropped in an instant. Before the fox could fully shut down, Saffron added: “We’re getting ready to go see for ourselves. Will… will you come with us?”
“Wh—Of course!” Copper exclaimed, grabbing Saffron’s arms. “To Erelaine? Gods, of course—I’m not gonna let you go anywhere that prick might be without me to take care of you.”
Saffron grinned, not expecting that emphatic of a reply, hugging Copper again before reaching out for the reins of his horse. “Saoirse is in the stables changing out riding tack...” he turned just as Boann was lead out by Aodhán, who handed her reins to Saffron before raising an eyebrow at him in terms of Copper’s. Saffron nearly handed them over, but Copper stopped him suddenly, snatching them back.
“Oh—” he said, eyes lingering on Boann’s new saddle donning the royal family crest. “Er—is this a crown-sanctioned thing?”
“What do you mean?” Saffron asked. He thought Copper was joking, but the furrow in his friend’s brows insisted otherwise. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing wrong,” Copper said, but his frown remained. “I just, uh… I assume if everyone is going to be riding with tack printed with the royal crest, then… there’s going to be a lot of attention on the party, huh? Everyone’s going to be watching. Everyone’s going to be writing about it in their gossip columns, about how the kings are sending the prince to check the damage at Erelaine…”
“Copper…” Saffron argued. He didn’t mean it, but a flicker of irritation bubbled in the back of his voice, like long-brewed carryover from the first time Copper hurried out of the room while King Ailir asked for their combined help and discretion. That had been ‘sanctioned by the crown’ too, in its own way, requiring Copper to closely associate himself with the future king of Alfidel. And that same look of pale uncertainty, anxiety was evident on the fox-lord’s face as he stood there in the palace courtyard.
“I just—don’t really wanna wrap myself up in political stuff,” Copper said, though his voice lacked any resolve. He pulled the reins fully from Saffron’s hand, even taking a step back and leaving Saffron standing there. “Erm… well, I can just keep an eye on Avren for you while you’re gone. Send a bird if anything else strange happens, you know?”
“Copper!” Saffron exclaimed in frustration, but Copper just offered him an uneven smile, then turned to pat the side of his horse’s neck.
“Let him go, Saffron,” Sionnach appeared, offering the reins of their horse to Aodhán, instead, who took them, but didn’t turn away just yet. Like they wanted to see how the tension resolved, intrigued and curious. Saffron gave them a look, and they must have realized how rude it was to linger, because they turned and pulled Sionnach’s palomino horse into the stables as Sionnach went on: “He made it clear last week, he doesn’t want to associate himself with anything honorable.”
“Sionnach,” Saffron interjected in surprise, and even Copper looked shocked. But the half-satyr appeared more irritated than Saffron had ever seen them, like there had been more words exchanged between them and Copper before they ever arrived at the palace. Or perhaps even before then—as if Sionnach had confronted Copper about his response to King Ailir’s request at the very beginning. Only when Sionnach straightened up and pressed their lips together, though, did Saffron realize—it might have been more disappointment, rather than irritation, they felt toward Copper’s decisions.
“‘Honorable’? You’re one to talk, goat,” Copper said stiffly, clearly bothered, clearly— overwhelmed by the flooding emotions inside of him. “Ironic, considering you wouldn’t even exist if your mother had done what everyone thought was ‘honorable’ years ago…”
“Copper!” Maeve snarled that time, making Copper jump. But Sionnach didn’t move, just staring at Copper as the tight line of their mouth shifted, then trembled. Their chin wrinkled as they fought against how they wished to respond, before turning and hurrying away toward the stables. The second they were gone, Saffron whirled back on Copper, but the fey lord’s shoulders had slumped. He looked miserable, in an instant, like a fresh candle taken to heat.
“I should go,” he said, grabbing the horn of his saddle and pulling himself up. “Good luck, Saffron. I’ll see you again soon.”
“Copper, wait, please—!” Saffron attempted, but Copper was already pulling on the reins and turning away to gallop toward the bridge.
Saffron stood there, staring at the gates, hoping his friend would re-appear. Laughing and insisting it was only a joke. Of course he’d join them. He would apologize to Sionnach, there was nothing wrong. There was nothing wrong at all.
But only a light rain returned to shift the air, sprinkling the crown of Saffron’s head. He didn’t notice, until someone pulled the hood of his cloak over his hair, and he stiffly turned to find Cylvan gazing down at him. Looking as solemn, as lost as Saffron felt.
“Should we go?” he asked. Saffron bit down on his tongue, swallowing back his own swelling emotions, putting his arms around Cylvan and holding him close for as long as they had left. Until the gates would open, and they would emerge to be perceived by all of Alfidel again—and he couldn’t any longer.