7. The Address
7
THE ADDRESS
“ I know you’re not eager to go on a long trip, Maeve, but the new chill in the air is a little much, don’t you think?” Cylvan asked as they made their way across the bridge to the first gatehouse, an unexpected attempt at lightening the mood considering his own demeanor after everything that morning. Ahead of them, the kings rode in their carriage far more decorated and impressive than the mac Delbaith one had been, and Saffron made sure to mentally note every single thing that was more luxurious about it for that reason alone. He adjusted his new cloak as he did, at the reminder of King Tross seated inside.
“Speak for yourself, storm-lord,” Maeve argued back, adjusting her hood as a playful wind whistled past each of them so high on the bridge. “If anyone is the cause of the rain, it’s you and your curse to always be unlucky.”
“Nothing about the rain is unlucky. Some people prefer it to hot days, anyway, don’t they Saffron?”
“Sure,” Saffron answered without thinking. Perhaps Cylvan’s attempts at keeping conversation light were actually only meant for Saffron’s sake, so realizing Saffron was distracted by something else irked him. He leaned his horse a little closer to Boann, pinching at the bright-red fabric of Saffron’s cloak.
“At least if it gets any worse, we won’t have to worry about losing you in this, will we?” he asked, and Saffron huffed, tugging the fabric away in embarrassment. His face only went hotter when Cylvan added under his breath: “Though it’s a suitable color for a witch of your stature, I suppose.”
“Careful Cylvan, you wouldn’t want to start any new rumors so close to recent news,” Maeve added, smirking that time as she trotted up a little closer, too, sandwiching Saffron between her horse and Cylvan’s. She, too, reached out to pinch at the fine fabric draped over his shoulders. “I wonder, do all rowan witches wear crimson, Lord Saffron?”
“It—it was a gift from King Tross!” Saffron insisted, but the two fey daemons continued to purr over him.
“Red suits him,” Cylvan said. “Don’t you think? It brings out the color in his cheeks, the green of his eyes…”
“It makes him so intimidating, like I would gladly follow him into the woods to see what he could give me.”
“And what would you give to someone like me, Lord Saffron?” Cylvan asked, sliding a finger beneath Saffron’s chin to pull it toward him. “Will you feed me wine while casting spells over my body?”
“Will you bathe in my blood while I beg to feel the edge of your knife again?” Maeve touched Saffron’s hand on Boann’s reins, drawing his attention back to her. “Or will I get drunk on herbs and incense, first?”
“Perhaps we’d perform another spell together on your whims, like once in that woodland henge,” Cylvan said.
“S-stop!” Saffron finally snapped, face hot enough to practically melt. “That’s enough!”
Both fey bothering him laughed, pulling back and allowing Saffron room to breathe. All he could do was put his hand to his chest, exhaling a long breath before meeting Sionnach’s eyes that were turned back to him. He offered them a weak smile, and they offered one back, but said nothing.
Saffron wanted to ask if they were alright; he wanted to ask what Copper meant, with that comment about their mother—but instead, he just nudged Boann ahead, fleeing the sídhe harassing him in favor of trotting in line with his friend. Sionnach gave him another little smile, and Saffron nodded back.
He wouldn’t ask about Copper’s words, he wouldn’t comment on how Sionnach’s eyes were red and a little puffy, like they’d cried in the stables after Copper left. Instead, he asked if Sionnach had brought any textbooks to keep up with their readings despite Mairwen being closed, chuckling when Sionnach immediately cleared their throat and listed off every single tome they’d packed for exactly that purpose. A small moment of peace, a distraction, that time for his friend, he hoped.
The crowd at the mouth of the first gatehouse had grown, erupting once again into cries for an explanation, unending demands for answers, none caring that even the kings may not yet have them. Saoirse led at the front of the line, with Aodhán and a handful of additional palace guards riding in a perimeter around the carriages and horses. It kept hands from grabbing, but was unable to stop the abusive words thrown as easily as rocks. Most of them were directed at Cylvan, who remained perfectly upright and gazing straight ahead despite some of the things said. Calling him a beast, a wicked thing, the bringer of Alfidel’s fall and calamity. The Night Prince come early, darkening his father’s Day sooner than he was meant to. How it should have been him, not Asche; the humans should have taken him, and left the golden daurae in his place.
Saffron could only white-knuckle Boann’s reins to keep from shouting back. To resist even turning his head, either toward the crowd or toward Cylvan. He had to pretend like there was nothing to see, nothing to hear, to keep whatever peace remained. There was no telling how even the smallest twitch in the wrong direction might be intentionally misconstrued in written gossip the following morning—a sentiment that only grew more incessant as they travelled through the heart of the city, where the people of Avren gathered to observe the kings’ procession toward the train station.
The station platform was not much better, even with a handful of guards already dispatched ahead of the rest of the group to clear off a portion of the boarding platform so they would not be crowded upon arriving.
Leaving their horses with baggage attendants, the train was already on the tracks and waiting for them, delayed slightly for the arrival of the prince’s travel party so they would be able to arrive and board without having to wait. The haste of it all made Saffron’s heart race, doing his best to keep up as Saoirse hurried them onto the platform and toward the doors to the train cars. He held Sionnach’s hand as they went so there was no chance of being separated. More than once, Saffron turned to look for Copper, as if his friend had only fallen behind—only to bite his lip in embarrassment and turn forward again.
Had the circumstances been any different, Saffron would have been thrilled. He would have been overwhelmed with excitement at the thought of traveling outside of Avren, to see more of Alfidel, to visit a new town and breathe in all the parts of the world he’d never gotten the chance to while working as a beantighe, or even during his few uneventful months at Mairwen. ériu help him—the thought that the previous few months had been uneventful with his new perspective made the world turn under him.
At the last moment, he turned to look for Cylvan, but the prince had remained near the edge of the cordoned-off section of the platform, exchanging words with King Ailir as Tross stood slightly off to the side. The harmonious king was looking at Saffron, meeting his eyes and offering a reassuring smile, before motioning for him to board.
Saffron didn’t want to go without Cylvan, but everyone else was waiting on him. Still holding Sionnach hand, he stepped into the train, but rather than turning toward the sleeping car where he’d been instructed, he paused. He turned back toward the exit, biting his lip, hesitating just a moment longer—before hurrying the opposite way, into the neighboring passenger car. Sionnach whispered his name in confusion, but followed even as Saffron let go of their hand.
Only a few heads in the passenger car turned as they hurried in, but the interest didn’t last long before turning back toward the windows. As Saffron thought—Cylvan was approaching the growing crowd outside, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before flattening the front of his tunic. Preparing to address them like he’d mentioned in the garden. Saffron instinctively pulled the amethyst pendant from down his tunic, squeezing it. Hoping Cylvan felt it.
Moving carefully, not too quickly, Saffron found an empty seat just a few rows away from where Cylvan stood on the platform with his back to the train. The crowd in front of him gathered closer, and Saffron couldn’t help but taste bile in the back of his throat when he realized the first two rows of bodies all clutched quills to paper, eager to write down every word spoken. Did they have to rush him onto the train that way? Saffron would have liked to be there, right behind him.
Kneeling on the seat, Saffron cracked the sashed window as Sionnach shuffled in behind him. Cylvan’s voice wove into the train car as they settled, just loud enough for Saffron to hear.
“The events that befell Avren, and all of Alfidel, at the hands of the arid terrorist during the Summer Games have not gone unmourned by your kings, myself, or any of Danu’s people. After endless discussion held with my fathers, our most trusted oracles, and many people of Avren, I, myself, fear the growing threat of humans dabbling in illegal magic, and what exactly they intend to do with that magic. Manipulating the veil, wreaking havoc upon innocent high fey, disrupting the peace we have worked so hard to cultivate since the War of the Veil, there is no telling what may come next. Now, with news of a second veil event occurring in Erelaine, where high fey of all stature go to worship our gods with prayers of peace, these are threats we can no longer address without the utmost priority.”
Saffron’s heart had stopped beating.
“As your crown prince and future king of Alfidel, today I depart to not only witness the aftermath of last night’s attack on Erelaine, but to observe the needs of the people there and on her outskirts. I will see for myself exactly the damage caused, and how far the curse of ashenness has spread from it. I wish to look into the eyes of the people suddenly without their lifeline to our inherent opulence, to offer comfort and promises of the return of peace. Your kings’ Day Court has not come to an end, as Danu provides. I will ensure Alfidel remains illuminated by the sun for as long as the goddess will allow it.”
Cylvan inhaled a long breath, like he felt every quill scratching away on paper. As if the nibs dug each word into his own skin.
“As I tread the path of the gods in Erelaine, I will also seek the spiritual guidance of my dear Great-Grandmother, Queen Aryadna. While many things are different now than they were then, there is no denying the depth of her work and experience with the veil reaches farther than even our most practiced oracles. I plea with Danu to touch me with some of her wisdom with what we shall do next, to keep any more harm from befalling Alfidel, her people, and the veil itself. I know there is a peaceful resolution on the horizon for us, for both high fey and humans alike, and I will do everything in my power to draw that resolution swiftly. I ask that all of you pray for Alfidel in these uncertain hours.
“May Lugh watch over my passage and ensure it a safe one, both for myself and my companions. May Lugh watch over Daurae Asche and the other missing high fey where they may be, and may the veil take pity on their plight, returning them to our waiting arms soon…”
Saffron’s ears rang. He stared at the broadness of Cylvan’s back, though no longer heard any words the prince spoke. Sionnach’s hand had slipped into his at some point during the address, but Saffron hadn’t noticed, until that moment when his skin flushed hot and he suddenly felt everything . Every trickle of breeze through the open window, the warmth of Sionnach’s skin, how his stopped heart had come back to life and pounded relentlessly against the inside of his chest.
How could Cylvan say such things? How could Cylvan beseech Queen Proserpina for her wisdom, despite everything she did? Despite everything that still went on even after her death, the stains she left on Alfidel and its treatment of humans, not even those performing arid magic? Even if it was to put on an act, to plead for leniency from the people of Alfidel on his reputation, or their expectations of him, or as some sort of reassurance that their best interests were in his hands—how could he say such things, knowing he would next board the train to where Saffron was waiting for him?
It was no wonder he waited for Saffron to go before speaking. He’d intended on making that announcement using the veiled queen’s name, before joining Saffron in their reserved cab to pretend like nothing had happened. Saffron wanted to believe Cylvan only spoke those words because they were handed to him at the last moment and he had no choice but to—but being unsure even of that was more upsetting than what had actually been shared.
Something dark in the corner of Saffron’s eye caught his attention, and he turned to look, blood running cold at the sight of four black-veiled witchhunters hovering behind the line of the crowd, on the side where Cylvan stood with his back to them. Speaking amongst each another, one clutching the silver pendant of their work like something precious, like a protective totem. But that wasn’t what paralyzed Saffron—it was the way one of them had their head tilted toward where he stood on the other side of the window.
Their face was hidden beneath the veil, but he knew. He could feel the knife of their eyes, looking him up and down, memorizing him. Reminding him how it felt to be incapacitated by yew branches, a silver coffin, to be thrown into a pit in the earth by hands wishing to bury him. To give him a rowan witch’s death, as Queen Proserpina would have encouraged. Witchhunters had once tried to bury him, but failed. And those ones knew his face, just as Ryder did.
“Why don’t we go to the sleeping car?” Sionnach asked, not having noticed the looming shadows in the corner of the platform. Or maybe they had, but chose not to acknowledge them for Saffron’s sake. Saffron’s ears just continued ringing.
Rising a little too quickly to his feet, he followed Sionnach out of the passenger car. They passed the door right as the four witchhunters on the platform stepped into the cab to join them, pausing to allow Sionnach and Saffron room to pass. Saffron didn’t give them a second glance. If they knew who he was, they’d already recognized him. He wouldn’t give them the second thrill of looking directly into his eyes.