20. The Shift
20
THE SHIFT
R eminiscing made Saffron soft for the rising sun, knowing Cylvan would be returning from the dé Bricríu estate soon enough. He wanted to apologize; Saffron wanted to share what he’d learned, and where he thought Ryder would be going next. He hoped Cylvan would be excited to hear it. He hoped Cylvan would be impressed with him, despite how they’d separated the night prior.
All throughout breakfast—eggs and sausage, pancakes with garden jam and raw maple syrup, biscuits with butter and garden herbs—Saffron smiled, and laughed, and looked constantly over his shoulder to the door wondering when Cylvan would finally make it back. He kept conversation with Copper with Sionnach, with étaín and Carce who returned from the satyr festivities with the sun, looking exhausted but more than happy to host their guests just a bit longer.
When a knock came at the door, Saffron turned in his seat, grinning at the sound of horses nickering on the other side. It was Saoirse who stepped inside with a slight bow of greeting, asking if Saffron and the others were ready to go. Saffron got to his feet a little too quickly—even Carce commenting on his eagerness with a teasing smirk, making Saffron’s face go red and turning to offer his own bow of thanks and words of appreciation for their hospitality. étaín just elbowed Carce in the side, ordering him to stop embarrassing the Harmonious King-to-be, which struck Saffron on the back of the head harder than any tease ever would.
“Go on, Saff,” Sionnach said, rising to begin gathering the empty plates. “Go make sure Prince Cylvan made it out alive.”
“I’ll come with you—” Copper attempted, grunting when Sionnach shoved the stack of plates into his chest with a sharp ‘I don’t think so, fox.’
étaín offered Saffron a final hug, squeezing him tight and wishing him luck in what he was looking for, as well as safety on the rest of their journey, as well as a reminder of her perpetual invitation to come and visit whenever he wished. Saffron hugged her back, attempting to steal as much of her comforting, sunshine-like warmth as he could, before giving one last bow of thanks and hurrying past Saoirse out the door.
Cylvan stood by his horse on the drive outside, brushing her black coat with repetitive strokes like his mind was far from where he stood. Further proven by the way he jumped when Saffron approached and said his name, then how caught off guard he was when Saffron threw arms around him, pulling him close before standing on his toes to kiss him.
He expected Cylvan to hug him back, to kiss him back—but when he didn’t, Saffron flattened back to his heels, smiling up at Cylvan awkwardly in question.
“Good morning,” he attempted. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to startle you?—”
“You only caught me off guard,” Cylvan interrupted with a brief chuckle, shaking his head. “You can’t imagine the night I’ve had. I hardly slept at all.”
“Me, too,” Saffron laughed lightly, letting himself feel relieved with that little flicker of the person he expected breaking through. “I hope Renard dé Bricríu didn’t harass you too much.”
“Far too much, I can assure you, him and Anyst—… Ah, well, at least my diplomatic obligation is fulfilled for the next decade, we can only hope.” Cylvan sighed. The smile remained on his lips, but he turned his attention back to brushing his horse. Saffron noticed how he’d cut himself short at the mention of Anysta, almost asking why, before stopping himself. Cylvan clearly didn’t want to talk about it, and Saffron wasn’t particularly eager to do so, either. Perhaps nothing of note actually had happened, perhaps they really had only discussed obvious things like Cylvan’s time in the Fall Court, or other topics as dull as how school was going for him, how the kings were in their health, hardly anything different from what étaín and Carce asked while they sat at the breakfast table an hour earlier. At least—he wanted to hope. He wanted to believe Cylvan would tell him if there had been anything more alarming.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Saffron said. Cylvan glanced at him. “And—I’m sorry for how I behaved last night. At the party, when the dé Bricríus arrived. I… think I’ll abstain from speaking when drunk on satyr wine, for a bit.”
“‘Abstain’ is a fine word for a beantighe,” Cylvan smirked, before it twitched, considering the things he’d said in his own heated anger the night before. But instead of apologizing back, he just cleared his throat and continued: “Did sleeping in Sionnach’s room crowded with books rub something off on you? Or did they run vocabulary lists with you as part of their tutoring sessions?”
“Oh—something like that, actually,” Saffron laughed awkwardly, unsure how to explain everything he’d learned about Queen Proserpina’s coronation route, how he thought he knew the next place Ryder would try and open the veil. Still, he did his very best, though his confidence didn’t improve any as Cylvan just stared back at him with blank politeness.
“So, you wish to travel to Ailinne?” he asked. Saffron nodded, biting his lip, unable to help but sense something else Cylvan meant to say—but didn’t. He just returned to brushing his horse for a moment, clearly deep in his own thoughts, before nodding slightly. “Perhaps we should consider…” he began, still. His hand on the brush stiffened, before returning to its strokes. “Perhaps… I suppose there’s no avoiding it, then… But only if you’re absolutely sure?—”
“Yes,” Saffron tried to reassure, especially with Cylvan’s clear hesitance, the uncertainty bubbling beneath his expression. He tugged on Cylvan’s sleeve to draw his attention back. “I’m certain, especially after what the veil told me yesterday. That thing about ‘where the earth’s minerals heat the rocks’…”
“Then Ailinne makes perfect sense. We’ll make our way there right away,” Cylvan smiled back, before turning sharply as Copper’s sudden, booming laugh from the house made both him and Saffron jump. Saffron snapped around just as Copper was physically kicked out the front door by Sionnach’s cloven hoof.
“You should ride in the carriage today, if we’re able to rent one from Tyara,” Cylvan summoned Saffron’s attention back. “Especially if you didn’t get any sleep last night. It will be more comfortable than in the saddle.”
“Alright,” Saffron smiled as the others finally joined them, already chatting about the route they’d be taking to Ailinne assuming Cylvan agreed, like Copper of all people couldn’t resist blabbing the night’s business the first chance he got. Cylvan confirmed that Ailinne sounded like a good place to try, next, though didn’t say much else except to ask Aodhán to ride into Tyara to see if there were any carriages to rent. Maeve offered to join them, leaving together as étain invited Cylvan and Saoirse inside to eat breakfast before they left.
Saffron reached to take Cylvan’s hand, to walk with him back to the house—but Cylvan heaved himself suddenly onto the back of his horse, nodding Saffron to go ahead and return to the house.
“I just remembered, there are a few things I need to pick up before we go as well,” he said. “I’ll hurry to join Aodhán and Maeve. Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone, púca, alright?”
“Alright…” Saffron said in uncertainty, as even that flirtation felt—unnatural. Cylvan offered him a nod, before turning and kicking his horse to trot down the road after the other two up ahead. Saffron just watched him go. Trying to deny the lump forming in his stomach, trying to reassure himself that—Cylvan would have definitely told him if something more alarming had happened while staying the night with the dé Bricríus.
To keep himself from overthinking it, from driving himself mad when there were already so many other things in the world attempting to do that for him, Saffron did as he was told. He rested in the carriage once Cylvan and the others sent a robin inviting the rest of the traveling party into town where they had managed to find one.
Saffron would not overthink it; he would let the anxiety wash out of him as easily as the creek used to wash mud from his veil. He would enjoy the simple luxury of riding in the back of a carriage over another day in Boann’s saddle, listening as the wheels bumped over hardened dirt roads through the Fall Court woods. Sionnach sat with him, as well as Maeve, though she mostly just gazed out the window as Sionnach drifted in and out of sleep on Saffron’s shoulder.
When he wasn’t fighting the urge to sleep alongside his friend, tempted by the constant, rhythmic clattering of the carriage, Saffron had his sketchbook on his lap and a tin of charcoal on the seat next to him. He scribbled quick gestures of the trees they passed by; he sketched Sionnach’s legs crossed neatly on the seat next to him; he copied the designs of the stitching of the carriage cushions, and the hand-painted genre scenes of fey enjoying picnics and frolicking through meadows on the walls and ceiling. He drew Maeve, nervously, as she gazed beautifully and intimidatingly out the window, hardly moving except to blink and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.
He couldn’t tell if she had something on her mind, or if that was just how she preferred to pass the time, but he never bothered her. Her stillness was welcome as a drawing subject, at the very least. He would have gladly kept his drawings a secret just for himself, too, if her icy-blue eyes hadn’t suddenly flickered his way, raising an eyebrow the next time he glanced at her while trying to get the shape of her jawline right. It made him go stiff, before smiling awkwardly and turning the sketchbook to show her. He didn’t expect her to look so surprised, raising her eyebrows and sitting forward.
“Can I see more?” she asked. He nodded meekly, handing the sketchbook over, grimacing when she immediately flipped through the previous handful of pages once finished looking over her own portrait. “You’re very good. Better than I expected.”
“Uh, thanks. I think.”
She smirked, handing the sketchbook back.
“Cylvan told me about your drawings a few days ago, really had me thinking you were some kind of hidden master. I don’t think I’d go so far as to say that, but you definitely have a talent for it, your highness.”
“Cylvan told you?” Saffron asked, embarrassed, never considering that Cylvan actually thought about Saffron as much as Saffron thought about him when they weren’t together. Which was a foolish thing to believe, considering everything Cylvan had ever said to promise otherwise—but with the strangeness of his behavior that morning, Saffron couldn’t help it.
“You’re the only thing he talks about,” Maeve sighed. “You or some old book he’s reading or bought underhanded from a seller dealing in taboo goods…”
“Saffron is sort of a walking taboo good, if you think about it,” Sionnach mumbled sleepily, before slowly lifting their head and rubbing their eyes.
“You’re not wrong,” he said, settling back into the seat with the sketchbook returned to his lap. That time he gazed out the window, sketching gestures of Copper on the back of his horse, then Cylvan who rode next to him. They shared what appeared to be an intense conversation, lacking the same sort of juvenile laughter and attempts to kick one another out of their saddles as before. Saffron knew it likely had something to do with what happened at the satyr party. Then what happened at the dé Bricríu home after; and how Copper hadn’t been invited to join them.
Exhaling through his nose, Saffron tried to smother the growing nerves, but instead the emotions just showed in the stiffness of the lines on the page.
“Sionnach, Maeve…” He specifically felt Maeve’s gaze without having to watch for it. “Back after what happened at the games, after we were done talking with the kings, and then Copper hurried out—you both said his reaction to learning all those things about me wasn’t a surprise. Erm, and that his family situation was ‘complicated.’ When we wandered away from the party last night, after you and Cylvan left with Renard, he did tell me a little bit about how his Aunt Una was King Ailir’s mother—erm, at least, she was supposed to be. She was King Elanyl’s Harmonious Queen, but he had King Ailir with a prostitute before he died, and she agreed to raise Ailir as if he were her own, and… you know. I’m sure you both already know all that.” Saffron’s brows furrowed in frustration, hating how quiet they both were while listening, hating how complicated everything about it all really was. “I guess what I’m asking, is… What I’m wondering, is?—”
“You want to know if that was what we were referring to,” Maeve finally offered an escape, and Saffron sighed with a nod. She too glanced back out the window to where Copper and Cylvan rode alongside each other, considering her answer for what was only a few moments, but felt like an eternity.
“There are seven sídhe families, including the Tuatha dé Danann.” She said. “Cylvan has told you at least that much.”
Saffron nodded.
“Then you also know that the Tuatha dé Danann family name is as much a title as it is a lineage, right? Sídhe families who marry into the Tuatha dé Danann can become Tuatha dé Danann, themselves, at minimum in benefit if not wholly by name. But that requires having children born under that name. For example—in order to be a rightful heir to the throne, a child has to be born a sídhe fey, which is promised to happen if both parents are also sídhe fey. Which is why Cylvan and Asche have a progenitor mother, Naoill, from the de Fianna sídhe family.”
“Right—but they also have siblings with King Tross’ family. Asche mentioned his sister, éoine, is also a progenitor for their family.”
“That’s right—because Tross’ family, the mac Cadáin family, are not a sídhe family, but they earn a chance to have sídhe heirs with King Ailir by marriage. If any of the children between éoine and Ailir develop sídhe powers later in life, and neither Cylvan nor Asche are eligible for the throne for whatever reason, they could technically take their place, and the mac Cadáin family would become the new Tuatha dé Danann.”
“Technically Gentle Naoill could introduce themself as a Tuatha dé Danann—at least, they will be able to once Cylvan becomes king,” Sionnach added. Saffron’s head spun.
“And why is it a requirement for heirs to be sídhe fey, exactly?”
Maeve smirked. “Why are humans only allowed to be beantighes? Old rules declared by old kings that have not been reconsidered in centuries. Something else to add to your list of things-to-do, your highness.”
Saffron grimaced. One thing at a time.
“So then, going back—the fact that Elanyl and Una didn’t have an heir between the two of them is a sore spot for Renard. Who is Una’s brother,” he reiterated.
“That’s right. And the fact King Ailir developed sídhe magic despite having only one sídhe parent. Because if he hadn’t, the dé Bricríus would have automatically adopted the Tuatha dé Danann name—and therefore the ruling power—by Una’s marriage to Elanyl.”
“God,” Saffron groaned. “Alright, that old fey lord’s attitude suddenly makes so much sense.”
“Not to mention how he only invited Cylvan and Maeve home with him,” Sionnach muttered, before fluttering their lashes and flipping their hair theatrically. “’Only sídhe fey are welcome to break bread at my table, no Alvényan countryfey or half-satyrs shall cross my threshold.”
“But then why not invite Copper? He’s as sídhe as Cylvan and you, Maeve,” Saffron added in annoyance. “Though I think I can guess, considering how he talked down to him in front of everyone.”
“You’re correct that Copper is as sídhe as Renard and all his siblings—but that doesn’t mean Renard has to love him any.”
Saffron’s heart squeezed in disdain, especially as Maeve said it so easily. “If Renard resents Ailir that much, and therefore Cylvan, or anyone else who’s part of the royal family—then the reason Copper was so hesitant to agree to anything Ailir asked of him is perfectly clear. And what else is perfectly clear—is that I’ll be taking back my apology to Cylvan for how I talked to that old fey. He deserved it.”
Maeve grinned, helping herself to some wine from the carafe in the center between the cushions. “I can assure you, that old fey will not forget you anytime soon, Saffron. The foul-mouthed, drunk Alvényan who dared talk back to him. You may already be first rowan witch in centuries—but even more impressively, you may also be the first creature to walk away from disrespecting Renard dé Bricríu like that, too.”
“Did he mention it at all over dinner?”
Maeve scoffed. “Of course not. But everyone could tell he stewed the whole time.”
“Good,” Saffron muttered. “I’ll claim Copper for myself, too, while I’m at it. Since Renard wouldn’t care anyway…” He trailed off, biting his lip and glancing out the window to where Cylvan still rode ahead of the carriage alongside Copper, though they no longer spoke to one another. He couldn’t resist, asking: “What did you all talk about at dinner, anyway? Anything that might… might put Cylvan in such a bad mood?”
“Nothing specifically that I can think of,” Maeve said. “It was tense, and terrifying, in a way only sharing bread with Renard could be—but there wasn’t anything notable that I overheard.”
“What about with Anysta, then?” Saffron encouraged. Maeve considered it for a moment, twirling a piece of hair around her finger.
“Anysta was mostly quiet during the dinner,” she said. “Though I think she and Cylvan may have had a private conversation sometime after dessert. Before he went to bed. I don’t know what about, though—maybe just discussing her family silver, again…”
Saffron’t stomach turned over, though he didn’t know if it was in a sense of betrayal or further concern. Cylvan promised him there wouldn’t be any more deals made with Anysta in private; he promised there wasn’t anything long-term formed with her during their first secret meeting in Erelaine. Had he purposefully misled Saffron about it?
“Did any of Copper’s brothers attempt to flirt with Prince Cylvan while you were there?” Sionnach asked, clearly sensing the shift in mood and attempting to remedy it. Maeve shook her head, mid-sip from her drink.
“Too proud for that sort of act,” she said. “If Renard decides to try and get the crown for himself again, it won’t be through marriage. Seeing as that already burned him once. Not to mention, it wouldn’t matter—none of his sons are able to have children.”
“What?” Saffron raised his eyebrows. Maeve’s perfect mouth curled into a sly smile.
“That’s right,” she said, leaning forward. “Family curse, bestowed by the forest itself after that trick he played with his feast all those years ago.”
“It’s not just a story, then?” Saffron leaned closer, too, eyes wide.
“Who knows?” she purred. “That’s a closely-held family secret, exactly what happened. Exactly the terms of their curse.”
Sionnach snorted under their breath.
“It’s just…” they said, eyes flashing to where the scars on Saffron’s forearm were hidden beneath the glamour. “Funny that the arrogance of two sídhe families earned them a curse that withstands generations, is all.”
Saffron touched his hand to his arm, realizing Sionnach was referring to Taran, to the mac Delbaiths, and their family curse of ashenness. How ironic, too, their eagerness to marry into the Tuatha dé Danann compared to Renard’s refusal to let such a thing hurt his pride. Taran’s presence grumbled something at that thought, too far for Saffron to hear, but enough to make him smirk to himself.
“Every sídhe family has a curse or two,” Maeve went on coyly. “Even mine. Even the Tuatha dé Danann, I’m sure.”
“What’s your family curse, Maeve?” Saffron asked, but Maeve just smiled at him slyly again and shook her head.
“Maybe I’ll tell you after you’ve earned your crown, Lord Saffron. I don’t need a rowan-blooded arid-witch-beantighe knowing my family’s biggest weakness, hm?”
Saffron’s face went hot, jumping forward to declare an apology, which made Maeve throw her head back and laugh. She put her hand up to brush him off, before offering the remaining wine from her glass, and he took it. He even took it gladly, finishing off what was left before returning to his sketchbook.
“All of the sídhe family names, what are they again?” he asked, pressing charcoal to paper. At the very least, Maeve was happy to spill that information, until the page was littered with names both familiar and new. He didn’t want to have to go through what he did at the satyr party again, ever again—and knowing exactly who he was dealing with, exactly which members of Alfidel he must reckon with, was one way to start.
Breaking for lunch in a small Fall Court town on the way, Saffron was happy to get out of the carriage and attempt once more to tease Cylvan back into a better mood—only for a gossip crier to grab him on the corner, stuffing the morning’s most recent column into his hands. Saffron attempted to give it back, desperately not wishing to know what was printed, especially considering his mistake the morning prior with the reporters who crowded him outside the train—but he couldn’t avoid it, and the bolded text summoned bile up the back of his throat.
FLOWER OF ALVENYA BELIEVES FEY AT MIDSUMMER GAMES DESERVED THEIR HORRIBLE FATE, INCLUDING WHAT BEFELL DAURAE ASCHE; Folk Are Beginning To Wonder If The Flower Isn’t Influencing Prince Cylvan’s Seelie Ways, Fearing What The Prince May Do Next Regarding Red Witch Scourge…