18. The Foxes
18
THE FOXES
S affron eased in and out of a hazy sleep, draped over Cylvan’s chest in the chilled grass. At some point, the prince had carried his exhausted body back within the light of the bonfire, lying them down just out of reach of anyone spotting them from the party. Allowing Saffron a chance to rest before stumbling back in, covered in sweat and bite marks. At the very least, Cylvan had thought to wipe Saffron’s legs down with some icy creek water, though Saffron just groaned and whined the entire time.
Feeling like a living, breathing person again, Saffron sat up from where he laid on Cylvan’s tunic, rubbing his eyes and running fingers back through his tangled hair. He glanced down to where Cylvan reclined next to him, wearing his undershirt and pants, though they remained undone at the front. Like he was willing to do it all over again, if Saffron had the strength. Mentally, emotionally, Saffron could continue a thousand times over—but physically, he had gotten what he asked for. To be used up by a greedy fey in the woods.
Perhaps that was why Saffron couldn’t stop smiling down at him. He couldn’t stop trailing fingers over Cylvan’s collarbones, drawing circles on his chest within the low cut of his undershirt, thrilled with how he’d even painted his silver horn black in order to better play his role. Saffron’s finger followed the arch of Cylvan’s brow, then down his nose to his lips, trailing over them before leaning over to kiss them softly. Obsessively. Wishing to know him better than was humanly possible. Wishing to find the perfect way to experience every inch of him, to all the extents magic would possibly allow.
But there would be no time to explore his options—as something suddenly crunched within the trees behind them. Loud enough for Saffron to lift his head, and even for Cylvan to sit up and turn. They both sat in silence to listen, holding their breaths—and Saffron inhaled sharply when two watching eyes briefly reflected the light of the bonfire.
“Cylvan—“ he gasped, but Cylvan was already moving.
“Come,” he said, grabbing Saffron’s arm in one hand and his doublet in the other, handing it to Saffron once on their feet. Saffron shoved his arms through the sleeves, before Cylvan took his hand and hurried with him through the bushes, into the warm firelight.
“Copper!” Cylvan hissed from the edge of the trees the moment they were within speaking distance. Copper jumped, turning to see who growled his name, grinning like an idiot at the sight of Saffron and Cylvan spotted with twigs and moss and lovebites—but the smile faded once he also heard what came from the darkness. The whispered chittering of animals, bounding through the undergrowth. More than just one; at least a small handful.
“We should—” he started—just as a pack of shrieking, cackling foxes suddenly burst through the treeline, nearly three times bigger than was natural and heavy enough to nearly make the ground shake. Three, then four of them suddenly appeared from the veil of darkness into the firelight, and the sound of satyrs shouting and screaming as they scrambled away cut through the festivities.
Cylvan took Saffron’s arm again, swiftly tucking him behind his back before pulling him away from the trees and toward where Copper and Sionnach leapt instantly to their feet. One of the animal intruders noticed them, shrieking with blood-curdling laughter and pouncing in their direction. The beast might have snapped its sharp teeth straight down onto Sionnach’s arm had Copper not suddenly leapt forward, putting himself between them and the beast, releasing a guttural snarl Saffron never expected from someone not already in animal-shape. The attacking fox giggled again, barking and yipping and whipping its tail back and forth, corners of its mouth flecked with hungry foam and spit like the half-satyr trembling behind Copper’s back was the most mouthwatering thing it had smelled in months.
“Fuck off, Callem!” Copper barked, and the fox’s grin spread wider, before finally flicking its tail and skittering off to crash through the rest of the party with the other three. Only then did Cylvan pull Saffron forward again, meeting Copper’s eyes with an intensity that demanded answers while simultaneously accusing him of having something to do with it.
“You know them?” Saffron asked, before realizing, the answer was obvious. “Are they?—!”
“Your brothers!” Sionnach finally gasped, voice cracking before stumbling back again as two of the foxes collided over one of the fires, yelping and rolling through the flames before taking chase to a cluster of satyrs attempting to flee. Saffron wanted to shout for them to stop, but Cylvan sensed it, grabbing his arm and giving him a stern look to stay quiet. Saffron’s mouth clamped shut again, turning down his eyes and pulling the front of his borrowed doublet together to try and hide his nakedness as much as he could.
A flaming arrow whisked by, landing in the center of the clearing where the four foxes tore up the earth, erupting into sparks and earsplitting whistles that even made Saffron throw his hands up to cover his ears. The foxes themselves threw their heads back with teeth bared, ears flattened down and tails bristling in annoyance. The moment the sound waned, they turned to search for the archer who shot it; Saffron followed their eyes, spotting Carce standing tall and unamused at the head of the party.
Before he could speak, to command the foxes out—three more riders appeared from the darkness, on the backs of tall horses. Pale and intimidating in stature alone, their matching red hair told Saffron who they were without having to ask. The fey lord at the front, particularly, commanded a cold esteem first by the obvious age of his face, and second by the potency of his aura. Strict and domineering, gazing down his sharp nose to observe the chaos his brood sowed across the party. As his sons snapped sharp teeth at satyr tails and pounced after them, chittering, laughing, snarling and barking as the wild fey fled into the nearby woods. Even as one of the foxes drew blood from one satyr by the leg, the imposing Renard dé Bricríu on his horse did not flinch.
The prevalent red hair was where the lord’s resemblance ended with Copper—and Saffron was glad for it. He could not fathom how someone as carefree as Copper could have possibly shared an ounce of familial relation to that high fey whose eyes were sharp as glass blades.
But it wasn’t solely Lord dé Bricríu’s presence to chill Saffron to the his core—as Anysta mac Delbaith appeared on her own horse behind him, smiling calmly as she surveyed the wild party scrambling to regather itself. The moment her eyes landed where Cylvan stood on the edge with Saffron, the amusement shifted, and Saffron stiffened to resist stepping in front of Cylvan, between them. That curl of her lips looked excited , like she’d hoped to find Cylvan amongst the flock.
“You and your skulking brood are not welcome here, Renard,” Carce announced. For the first time since arriving, Saffron heard the power in his voice—the unwavering, intimidating strength of a leader, a prince of the satyrs, that hooked deep into even his own nerves. He couldn’t help but shy away slightly—only to feel the firm snout of a beast suddenly behind him. Sniffing on him, even nibbling on the fine fabric of Cylvan’s doublet; and Saffron turned fast, slamming his elbow into the fox’s mouth before thinking.
The animal reeled back with a yelp, before shaking off the surprise and wrinkling its nose, baring and snapping its teeth. Only then did Saffron spot the silver collar it wore, but not one to silence it—perhaps to allow all those siblings to shift into their animal form despite the recent ashen state. Emboldened by the fury the sight filled him with, Saffron lifted his arm again in warning—only to be yanked back a step by Cylvan, who growled his name in disapproval.
“I’m not here to cause any trouble, satyr,” Renard answered, voice gravelly but commanding with age. He never once glanced Carce’s way, golden eyes instead skimming the crowd until finally coming to a sharp halt where Cylvan stood in front of Saffron. “Lady mac Delbaith paid a welcome visit to my home this afternoon, and informed me my youngest was traveling through the Autumn Court with His Highness. Ah—what a pleasant surprise to find Lady dé Bhaldraithe here as well.”
Saffron threw Maeve a brief look, not expecting the blank, polite expression on her face. It matched Cylvan’s—like to show an expression in either way was more dangerous than speaking out of line. Saffron wanted to grab Cylvan’s hand on instinct—but even he felt a rush of anxiety over it. Never needing that hard gaze to fall over him to sense it. Even if it did, something told Saffron Renard dé Bricríu would not actually see him.
“It is a pleasure to find you well, Lord dé Bricríu,” Cylvan finally broke the tense silence, using that voice Saffron hated, the one meant for good impressions and practiced from years of having no choice but to learn it. “I see your sons are healthy as ever, as well.”
Renard smiled in return, but not with any sincerity—like a person offered something they knew they were owed. Saffron’s frown deepened. He extended his hand slightly, wanting to touch the back of Cylvan’s undershirt—but a tiny sound escaped the corner of Maeve’s mouth from a few feet away. When Saffron glanced her way again, though, she still had her eyes on Renard.
“I thought I might invite you and Lady dé Bhaldraithe back to my home for the night, your highness,” Renard continued, approaching a few more steps on his horse. “I could not bear to allow you to sleep in the dirt with these wild fey.”
“That is very generous of you,” Cylvan responded with a small nod. “I hope you did not think we intended to pass through without sending you greetings, in fact Lord Copper and I?—”
“Copper seems to fit in so well with these satyr-folk, don’t you think?” Renard interrupted, turning his eyes to his youngest son for the first time since arriving. Copper stiffened, but didn’t dare lower his own gaze from his father’s. “I imagine he’d prefer to play in the dirt with them for the rest of the night, anyway. I am sure you and Lady dé Bhaldraithe would prefer to indulge in finer things, however, with us more-refined folk.”
“Cylvan,” Saffron whispered in disbelief, not expecting the ancient fey lord to hear it. His words cut short in an instant, and suddenly his icy gaze was on Saffron. Saffron stared back at him, trapped in its intensity, unsure if he held it because that’s what everyone else did—or because he feared what would happen if he were to glance away, first.
“I see,” Renard finally uttered. “This must be your visitor from Alvénya. Lady mac Delbaith told me you’d come to visit, as well. I nearly lost you in the crowd, child. I see the prince draped your nakedness in his finest doublet—how polite of him. Careful that you do not allow these wild fey undo everything you’ve learned of propriety since arriving in this country.”
Saffron’s face went hot, a mix of embarrassment and an unexpected wash of annoyance.
“I’m afraid I’ve yet to see any of the Fall Court propriety you speak of. Though we haven’t been here long yet.”
Cylvan’s head snapped around, eyes wide, nostrils flared in a flash of rage. Saffron glared back at him, but Renard just scoffed with a bitter smile from the back of his horse.
“Ah, apologies for my surprise. I am merely impressed to hear a country-fey use such large words.”
“I could say the same for a skulk of foxes?—”
“Saffron.” Cylvan’s voice was colder, darker than Saffron had heard in a long time. It froze his throat closed in an instant, leaving him with his mouth dangling open in surprise, only able to barely close it again when Cylvan turned back to address Renard once more.
“I’m sure I speak for Lady Maeve when I say your offer is very kind, Lord dé Bricríu. While an evening with you and Lady mac Delbaith sounds delightful, we wouldn’t wish to impose on your house. Prince Carce has been very welcoming to myself and my companions?—”
“Your highness.” Another voice hissed from behind them, one Saffron didn’t recognize until he turned. The last person he expected to offer any kind of disapproval, let alone a reaction, was Aodhán, but the guard gave Cylvan a look that spoke only a language Cylvan seemed to know. Though Saffron could fathom a guess. Cylvan then glanced at Maeve, who glanced back at him. She gave him the smallest flinch of a nod. Cylvan looked ahead again—and the way he never once glanced back to Saffron made Saffron’s irritation only flare hotter.
“It is a generous offer, Lord dé Bricríu. As for our other companions?—”
“I would hate to take them from their festivities, of course.” Renard smiled. “Besides, I’m sure the conversations of sídhe fey over dinner would be of no interest to them. They would much rather stay here and drink and dance. Isn’t that right, Lord…? What was your name, Alvényan?”
“My name is Saffron,” Saffron answered flatly. Cylvan threw him another look of warning, but Saffron’s words were already rolling off his tongue: “And I cannot agree more, that satyr festivities sound far more entertaining than even the finest dinner shared with a brood of animals. I’ve heard how most dé Bricríu feasts go.”
“You have a deathwish!” Taran snarled suddenly, as Cylvan turned to him fully that time. One last time—where he grabbed Saffron by the arm, hard enough that Saffron jerked back in surprise, but didn’t break the grip. The prince’s expression made his heart stop, flushed with fury, exasperation, disbelief, reminding Saffron far too much of how he once looked at him in the yarrow field when they first met. Behind him, even the austere Renard dé Bricríu appeared momentarily affronted—though it disappeared just as quickly as it came.
“You can’t actually be considering leaving with—!” Saffron attempted in a hiss.
“I am,” Cylvan growled in return. Maeve took up conversation with Renard at that moment, as if to distract him away. Anysta kept her gaze toward them all the same. “And you will be sure to reflect on how you’re meant to behave while I am gone.”
Behind him, the two fey lords flanking Renard kicked off their horses, and Saoirse approached to claim the reins in order to hand them over to Cylvan and Maeve. The brothers then shifted into fox-beasts right there in the center of the clearing, shaking out their fur before touching noses, then snarling at the nearest group of satyrs.
Cylvan, still gripping Saffron’s arm, shook him. Demanding his attention back. But Saffron didn’t want to look at him—Saffron didn’t recognize his raven prince standing in front of him. Like a wild animal in a trap, gnashing its teeth and resorting to frightened instinct. Saffron didn’t want to see Cylvan looking like that—and he refused to concede to being on the receiving end of it, either.
“Then go,” Saffron muttered at the very least. “Enjoy your dinner. Make another midnight deal with Anysta mac Delbaith while you’re there, since that comes so easily to you.”
“You—” Cylvan snarled. “For once, can you act how I expect you to!”
“And how is that!” Saffron snapped. Cylvan lurched closer, and Saffron stepped back, tripping onto one of the logs. Cylvan never let up on him.
“Harmoniously,” he growled between his teeth, loud enough for only Saffron to hear. “Like you’re meant to, damnit!”
“Get off of me,” Saffron said. “Being harmonious has nothing to do with being stubborn!”
“Perhaps I should have left you a beantighe, then, if you’re going to keep acting like one!”
Saffron stared at him. Cylvan stared back. His shoulders rose and fell with the effort, color gone from his face, eyes wide in a mix of anger and pleading and something else Saffron couldn’t read. Even if he could—he didn’t want to.
“Morrígan is only a train ride away,” he said. “You can drop me off on your way home.”
Cylvan furrowed his brows, closing his eyes and groaning from the back of his throat.
“Gods help me. I don’t have time for this.”
“Enjoy your dinner, my lord.”
Cylvan gave him a final look, before turning. He went to where Saoirse had emerged from the sidelines to stand with the horses, Maeve already in the saddle of hers and watching where Saffron had been left behind. Cylvan gave Saffron no second glance as he kicked his foot into the stirrup and heaved himself into the saddle, and even still as he said something to Renard and they turned to cross back into the trees.
He didn’t look back—but Anysta did. She offered Saffron a single nod of acknowledgement, which was nearly enough to summon blood to gush from his nose. He fantasized about summoning Taran right in that moment, to demand Cylvan back. To make Renard pale in the face of the black wolf. Maybe to make Anysta faint off her fine horse into the mud.
But he didn’t. He remained on the log, watching as the uninvited guests melted back into the trees.
Only once nervous chatter resurrected back into scattered notes of music, carefully reviving itself in an attempt to summon the energy of the festivities back, did Saffron’s insides sink heavily with regret.