21. Ailinne
21
AILINNE
B elieves fey at Midsummer Games deserved their horrible fate…
… influencing Prince Cylvan’s seelie ways…
… the red witch scourge…
Saffron didn’t realize he leaned too far out of the saddle until it was too late, barely jerking back to life, but not in time to keep from crashing to the road with a grunt. It even startled Boann, who stamped her feet and jerked forward, dragging Saffron a few feet with his boot caught in the stirrup. Copper raced up on his horse to block Boann’s way, allowing Saffron a chance to untangle himself. He just managed to yank his foot free when Cylvan was suddenly there, moving so fast a gust of wind kissed Saffron’s face even without his magic. It was just enough to knock some sense back into him, as Cylvan touched all over his head and face, asking if he was alright.
“I’m fine,” Saffron muttered, shaking his head and brushing Cylvan’s hands away. Only half a lie, as his head throbbed and his hands were scraped. “Just lost my balance, it’s fine?—”
“Come here, sit up,” Cylvan insisted anyway, pulling Saffron upright before cupping either side of his face and really looking into both of his eyes. Behind him, the others were stepping off their horses to get a closer look, and Saffron flushed hot with embarrassment.
He already felt self-conscious enough after the news that morning. Especially knowing everyone else had read it, too. They’d all acted like it wasn’t anything to worry about. Maybe Saffron knew it too, but—he couldn’t help the swirling nausea in his gut.
And more—he couldn’t stomach anyone fussing over him for something else, especially not when he already felt so anxious. Agitated. Especially not Cylvan, who, out of all of them—had not reacted to the headline at all. Not even to chuckle, or to reassure Saffron like everyone else it was nothing to worry about. Just reading it, then turning in favor of finishing his meal. Without a word.
“I said I’m fine!” Saffron insisted, freeing himself from Cylvan’s hands and hurrying back to his feet. He brushed himself off, nearly tripping over the prince still kneeling in front of him. Boann trotted over next, keeping her head low and bumping him in the side as if to apologize. He just put a hand on her snout, before turning back to everyone else standing in a half-circle around him. Looking a mix of worried and perplexed—which only bothered him further.
“What?” he asked, grabbing Boann’s reins and yanking himself back up into the saddle. The leather rubbed against his scraped palms, making his jaw clench. “I just wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. Stop looking at me like that! Come on.”
His audience glanced briefly between one another as Cylvan finally got back to his feet, too, before returning to their own horses. Only Cylvan hovered a moment longer, before scoffing and turning to do the same. Saffron had to resist the urge to kick him in the shoulder.
Not entirely unlike Erelaine before it—there was a line of horses, pedestrians, high fey patrons attempting entry at Ailinne once they reached the long wooden bridge that stretched over the tree-filled valley below toward the front gates. The rich smell of natural springs hung in the air like petrichor during a hot summer rain, fusty with the smell of eggs and hot stone in a way that made Saffron’s nose tingle and goosebumps grow on his skin.
Most of those queued in line held thick paper tokens in their hands, a tassel dangling from a hole in the top, some green, others bronze, others silver. The occasional gold tassel jostled amongst the crowd, and Saffron didn’t have to wonder long to himself before Sionnach noticed him watching.
“It designates one’s access to which pools,” they said, patting the side of their palomino’s neck as the horse bumped noses with Boann. “There are different tiers of pools here, like there are tiers for the gods in Erelaine.”
“If it belongs to the high fey, there’s going to be some kind of hierarchy,” Saffron mumbled. Sionnach grimaced, but didn’t disagree. “Do we need tokens like those to get inside?” He went on, just as Aodhán trotted by, passing the line all the way across the bridge to the gatehouse at the front. It made the crowd waiting ahead of them turn to see what made that guest so important, before whispers rang out at the sight of Prince Cylvan perched in his saddle behind where Saffron and Sionnach lead the group. Even if he wasn’t so obvious, though, the royal crest emblazoned on everyone else’s riding tack would have been a hint.
But then the collective gaze traveled from Cylvan—to Saffron. Looking him up and down, eyes lingering on his face as if memorizing him. As if they recognized him from somewhere, from something, dozens and dozens of faces that didn’t bother trying to be subtle about their long looks.
Saffron just watched Aodhán at the head of the line. He silently begged them to hurry . He knew why those people looked at him, why they thought they recognized him. He’d been quoted in Alfidel’s most popular gossip columns just that morning. Surely, most of them had those same leaf of paper tucked in their bags, the pockets of their cloaks. The high fey deserve what happened to them at the Midsummer Games . He could practically see the printed letters passing like bold marquees behind their eyes.
By every blessing of ériu and Danu and perhaps even Lugh, Aodhán rode back with a handful of gold-tasseled paper tokens before anyone could confront Saffron to his face. He nearly melted out of his saddle for a second time from the relief.
It was no wonder there was such a line of folk waiting outside the gates, as the streets of Ailinne were packed edge-to-edge with other patrons hurrying this way and that. Because of the overcrowding, horses and carriages weren’t permitted past the gatehouse, which meant after leaving their animals at the stables, the group was forced to move on foot. It made it easier to blend into the crowd, in some ways—but the ability to blend didn’t matter once Cylvan was recognized, and gossip spread like a bloody cough through the congestion. Saffron practically saw the movement of the news with his own eyes, knowing exactly where the ripple had stretched by how far ahead people turned to look for themselves.
“He must be seeking alleviation for his own ashen state,” came one of many whispers within Saffron’s range. “I hear he was so kind to those in Erelaine.”
Saffron bit his tongue. He adjusted his grip on the luggage in his hand, turning his eyes back down and focusing again on just following Saoirse’s broad-shouldered lead through the crowd. Parting bodies like a steel-tipped boat through lake ice.
“I’ll tell you if I sense anything,” Taran ghosted in his mind, a welcome offering just like back in Erelaine, allowing Saffron more focus on his feet. On the cramming walls of people on every side.
With the rabble of spring-goers making it hard enough to breathe, let alone navigate, Saffron eventually reached out to hook his fingers under the bottom lip of Saoirse's back plate in order to keep her within reach. The shiny silver surface was blurred beneath a thin layer of humidity from the myriad of hot springs that belched steam into the air, various signs and arrows pointing in various directions between Ailinne’s building to indicate the paths to reach them. Some were available right on the other side of the buildings, while other signs warned of the distance required to reach one or another, located a little further out in the trees.
Of the buildings themselves, there was nothing of particular note that stood out to Saffron as any more unique than the shops he passed in Avren, or those in Erelaine—restaurants, clothing shops, innumerable apothecaries and other storefronts that promised all sorts of charms and salves and potions to cure any ailment a high fey could think of. Copper had been right, when he guessed the springs were overrun with fey from Avren seeking respite.
Still, his eyes lingered on those medicinal-charm shops the longest as they passed by—until he spotted a particularly large cluster of patrons huddled around a little shop window, and he recognized the attendant serving through it. The same one he’d spotted in Erelaine, selling opulent silver. Somehow, still, knowing exactly which way the prince’s entourage headed and even beating them there.
As Saffron clung to Saoirse’s armor to ensure he didn’t get lost, the massive fey guard occasionally glanced over her shoulder to double check for herself. When the crowd grew even more untenable, she’d slow her pace some to ensure no tangling feet or elbows to the ribs would result in him losing his grasp. With his other hand, Saffron grasp the handle of his luggage, sharing it with Sionnach, who went bright red and whipped around to bark at Copper when the fox-fey teasingly grabbed their tail in the same sentiment. Perhaps without thinking, after yanking their tail away, Sionnach gripped Copper’s hand in their own, instead—before turning back to Saffron with wide eyes like they only then just realized the irreversible thing they’d done. They didn’t let go, though. Neither did Copper, who just furrowed his brows and went silent, like he wasn’t exactly sure how to react, either.
They passed through a series of gates along the road, stopping at each where a beantighe checked the legitimacy of their golden tassels, one by one, by plucking one of the narrow threads and dipping it in a shallow bowl filled with cloudy water. Each time, the golden threads turned green as if left in saltwater for a decade, and the group would be waved through to the other side. And each time, despite knowing they were legitimate, Saffron still held his breath as he watched the process. The growing need to pass through to the other side, where the crowds gradually thinned, and thinned, and thinned, until they could all walk without bumping into every stranger on the street—was simply too strong, making him paranoid that they’d be forced to return to the throng.
King Ailir was a regular patron of the hot springs, enough that the royal family had a private guest house in the golden-tier quarter of Ailinne, and Saffron nearly shed tears when they finally reached the end of the drive and left any semblance of a crowd on their heels.
Nestled within a wide circle of trees, steam curled from a private pool in the back yard of the house, while the building itself was simple, but stunning in its construction. With toothy, natural-wood shingles on the sloped rooftops, and open-air sliding doors and windows on every side, Saffron wasn’t sure there was a single pane of glass to separate the inside from the out. Only sheer curtains, or woven lattices of pine needles delicately sewn together with silk string, though he overheard mention of silencing charms for each room, not unlike the one that once dampened the noise of the Aon Adharcach suite. The floors were polished and smooth on the bottom of his feet, though they, like every other surface in the house, were kissed with the smallest sheen of humidity from not only the private pool in the back yard, but the constant cloud of natural spring air that coated all of Ailinne.
Perhaps sent ahead the moment Aodhán made their arrival known at the front gates, a handful of beantighes hurried throughout the house as the prince’s entourage made their way up, opening windows and racing back and forth over the slippery floors with rags to dry them. When Saffron and the others arrived, the servants only briefly halted their rush long enough to offer a greeting and a bow, to ask if they would like anything particular brought to them to improve their stay, before listing off everything that was already prepared and at their disposal. Bath-wraps to wear both while soaking and while strolling the main thoroughfare; reed-woven shoes for the same; Ailinne’s specialty of steamed wines and sap-seared fruit platters, though they would have a proper meal delivered within the hour. All offerings made to Cylvan, who just waved them off without requesting anything in particular. Clearly exhausted, himself, from all the attention, from the crowds. It was dismissive, the way he did it, in a way Saffron hadn’t seen of him in a long while.
Changing out of their traveling clothes into Ailinne’s more common bathing robes, Saffron was admittedly grateful for the flowing, even borderline-revealing nature of the barely-opaque shawl of fabric that hugged his body. A single, long piece of cloth that came with an illustrated instructional parchment for wrapping oneself properly, lilac-purple fabric hanging to his mid-thigh and leaving his back and arms bare to the warm air. A welcome relief from the constricting, protective gear he wore on the road. It reminded him a little too much of what he’d been chased through the woods wearing at the satyr party.
Despite Saffron’s own exhaustion, and how badly he wished to throw his things on the floor and walk straight into the steaming, bubbling natural bath right on the other side of the back porch—he found it difficult to let his guard down, even once the beantighes excused themselves and it was just Cylvan’s party left. As Saoirse and Aodhán circled the perimeter of the yard to check for anyone who might be hiding, whether it be gossip writers or—someone else. Someone else who, the mere thought of, was likely the reason Saffron couldn’t seem to stop pacing back and forth. Why he couldn’t stop checking every room, himself, or pushing the pine-needle shades aside to look out over the yard. Even though he was sure Ryder wouldn’t come early, in the middle of the day. He wouldn’t perform another veil event that didn’t align with his already-established schedule, if he was following the exact same timeline as the queen’s coronation route. But that didn’t mean the man wasn’t already somewhere close by. Already in the town. And if he was—he likely knew Saffron and the others had just arrived, too.
“Do you guys want to go walk around some more?” He finally asked as everyone else slumped over the cushions and blankets spread out in clusters in the main sitting area, snacking on Ailinne’s treats and sipping at streaming goblets of wine. Most of them groaned at the thought of going back out again, including even Sionnach—but then they noticed how clearly antsy Saffron was, biting their lip and getting back to their feet.
“Sure,” they said. “I wouldn’t mind walking around. This is my first time in Ailinne too, anyway.”
“Are you sure that’s such a good idea?” Maeve asked, though the argument wasn’t made particularly strongly. “Considering the reason we’re here, and all.”
Saffron wrung his hands together. “According to what Sionnach and I know—Ryder won’t likely cause a scene until at least tomorrow. More likely, even tomorrow night, according to how many days passed between the queen’s visit between Ailinne and the Fall Court on her coronation route, assuming he’s following the same schedule like already demonstrated?—”
“But he might still be in the area,” Aodhán muttered, though they didn’t lift their head from where it was draped over the back of a particularly round cushion.
“I think it best you stay where you are, Saffron,” Cylvan added. He, took, didn’t look up from the tray of food he lazily observed. “For the sake of everyone.”
Saffron didn’t know what that meant—but something told him it was a needle at his tendency to find trouble. There wasn’t anything teasing about his tone, though, which only made Saffron prickle all over again.
“I don’t want to just sit around and wait for him to come,” he argued. “The least we can do is walk around and try to figure out where he might be when he comes tomorrow?—”
“Somewhere significant to Queen Proserpina, as you’ve theorized,” Cylvan said, cold-purple eyes cutting upward and meeting Saffron’s.
“Well, yes,” Saffron answered. Flushing with a sudden frustration and, admittedly a bit of embarrassment. Cylvan looked and sounded so exasperated.
“I’ll come, along,” Copper interjected suddenly, despite having been the one most spread-out over the cushions only a moment prior. He got to his feet and smoothed down the bottom of his fabric-wrap that had hiked up over his bare ass. “C’mon, I’ll show you both where to get the best grilled pheasant in this place. Gotta brave the green-tier shops again, though, if you don’t mind.”
Saffron didn’t. He just turned on heel and made his way for the exit before Cylvan could think of something else to say, first. Perhaps realizing no one else was going to stop him, even Saoirse sighed and got to her feet to join them, too. Saffron didn’t object. Saffron didn’t care. A part of him even hoped Ryder might show himself while they were out. There would be nothing more goddamned delectable than bringing him back trussed up like a pheasant of their own, to thrown in Cylvan’s face.