22. The Quarrel
22
THE QUARREL
S affron reprised Taran’s offer to keep an eye out for Ryder at least a dozen times, particularly once he had a few drinks in his system. As Copper showed him and Sionnach around the green-tier shops of the city, with Saoirse on their heels at all times. Even indulging in a drink, herself, at one point, but only at the start. After just an hour of stopping wherever the sights and smells carried them, even she knew she needed every faculty at her disposal to keep Saffron, specifically, out of trouble. He was hungry for trouble. For rebellion. For a way to get his frustrations out, come what may. A dangerous predicament to be in, as a beantighe who could hold a grudge.
Instead, he just ate anything and everything Copper put in front of him. Grilled pheasant, honey crystals like beads on strings, river fish drizzled with a sweet sauce on skewers, apple-cinnamon croquettes, then candied apple slices, then apple pie in a clay cup, then apple-spiced beer by the mugful. Just because he could. His own wildly misplaced sense of rebellion, considering how careful he normally was when it came to allowing the fruit anywhere within Cylvan’s vicinity.
They visited a handful of the natural springs within walking-distance, soaking in some that smelled of wildflowers with thousands of petals floating on the surface; others that were cram-packed with visitors in a wide spectrum of undress, the special water promised to give their skin a permanent perfumed aroma; another that was nearly empty and set behind one of the dozens of Ailinne’s apothecaries, where the water was thick with natural minerals to the point of reeking like eggs. Saffron didn’t mind one bit, though Copper complained more than he didn’t. Claiming his heightened sense of smell, as a fox-lord, made it particularly torturous. Saffron just hooked an arm behind his head and dunked him.
They drank, ate, and wandered between springs until the moon reached its highest point overhead. Until all three of them were stumbling, slurring, sloppy and easily distracted. Until Copper was too drunk to stand up straight in one pool long enough to follow the steps out, having to drag himself over the edge to lay in the dirt like a fish on a dock, claiming he was going to pass out from the heat. Only to then complain about being too cold and bodily sliding right back in. All the same, not too drunk to catch Sionnach as one of their hooves slipped on the wet stone steps, sweeping them into his arm as they both blinked in confusion at one another—before he dunked the satyr with a splash and elicited screech that got them kicked out.
After visiting one of Ailinne’s innumerable apothecaries, with expensive tobacco and cannabis leaves in bags in both his hands as they exited, Saoirse had finally had enough and shepherded Saffron and the others back in the direction of the king’s private house. And even then, with the remnants of the sweet sting of apples still on his tongue, he made certain to rinse and gargle multiple times with the city’s sacred mineral water whenever they passed a public fountain. Each and every time, stretching the journey back to double what it should have been, but in such a state of inebriation he wanted to be absolutely certain he didn’t accidentally poison his raven. He only wished to rebel—not actually harm the heir to the throne.
Once safe and sound back in Ailir’s private house, Saffron’s choice in smoking leaves was unexpectedly effective—and it wasn’t long after they returned that he was spread out on the pillows in the main sitting room, staring up at the rafters while certain flower sprites buzzed back and forth between the gaps. Any time he tried to point them out, though, the Sionnach claimed to not see anything while Copper insisted they weren’t sprites at all, but hundreds and hundreds of spiders, which only made Sionnach squirm before telling him to stop talking. Saffron was just certain smoking made it so high fey could lie more easily.
He didn’t know exactly when Cylvan went to bed, only that the prince appeared in the corner of Saffron’s view to bend over and offer him a kiss on the cheek, then a wish goodnight. At least—Saffron thought so, as everything felt a little too floaty to know for sure. The longer the night wore on, he was certain he’d only imagined it, determined even to stumble his way through the house and find where Cylvan slept to demand to know the truth—but he didn’t make it off the pillows. In fact, the few hours of sleep he was able to claim came to him right there on the floor, wrapped in blankets and around Copper, who was as soft and comfortable as a fine mattress the more Saffron’s mind swirled in circles.
When morning came, Saffron woke to the sound of beantighes shuffling in and out through the front door and down the hallway, past the main room where he and his friends slept like a pile of pixies in the center. Trays of covered food paraded by, as well as more carafes of wine to drink, armfuls of clothing and bushels of aromatic flowers, as well as a small stack of letters. Saffron thought nothing of them, even content to curl back up under Copper’s bare arm to try and sleep a bit longer—but then he recognized the sound of Fiachra chittering in the backyard, joined by the raspy crowing of Cylvan’s one-eyed raven, Balor.
Sitting up, Saffron yawned, rubbing his eyes and adjusting the fabric wrap that’d fallen off his shoulder and revealed his bare chest to the world. He left behind Sionnach and Copper within the pillows—making a mental note to tease them both to death about how Sionnach slept draped over Copper’s chest, as Copper’s arm wrapped snugly down the curve of the satyr’s back, where his hand cupped the round of their ass like holding a cat in place. Later. There would be plenty of time to tease them later.
Following the hurried line of beantighes into the eating area, someone already sat at the round table by another wide-open gap in the wall overlooking the trees and hotspring in the back. The fresh air tousled Cylvan’s hair like a needy lover as the prince sipped at a cup of juice, two slices of seed-sprouted bread spread with butter and jam in front of him. He’d only taken a single bite of one of them, clearly distracted by the letter in his hand. Saffron didn’t have to ask who it was from as he approached—he recognized the wax seal of King Ailir snapped in half on the upper edge.
“Good morning,” Saffron said. Cylvan didn’t jump—in fact, he barely reacted, except for his eyes. They flickered to meet Saffron’s, before returning to the letter.
“Good morning,” he answered simply.
“Is that a letter from the kings?” Saffron asked as the silence between them was like needles pricking under his tongue.
“Yes,” Cylvan answered. He took another bite of toast, before returning it to the plate and sliding it away. Toward Saffron, silently offering it to him. Saffron hesitated only a moment, before approaching to claim a seat next to him.
“What does it say?” He asked, not expecting Cylvan to sigh when he did.
“Father is asking why we’ve extended our journey to Ailinne.”
“Oh.” A longer silence, that time. Saffron took a bite of the toast, crossing his legs and appreciating the view on the other side of the opening in the wall. Birds chittered endlessly in the trees as the sun rose over them, thinning a blanket of nighttime mist until there was only the steam of the pools billowing in the light.
Saffron wanted to say something. It would have sounded like, ‘well, we’ll be heading back to Avren in the morning, so they won’t have to worry much longer…’ but he couldn’t bring himself to speak it. Because—he wasn’t sure. He hated that he wasn’t sure, but—there was no way to be. He didn’t know what would come that evening, or later that night, or whenever else Ryder might act. He wished he could vocalize those things, instead—but something told him uttering anything except certainty would only sour Cylvan’s mood further.
“Have you seen today’s gossip column?” Cylvan surprised him when he spoke again, next. His eyes flit upward once more, over the edge of the paper, holding Saffron’s gaze before returning to the king’s letter. He must have been reading it for the third or fourth time, considering how long his focus lingered.
“Er—no. Not yet?” Saffron answered, unsure how else to.
“They brought some with breakfast this morning. You can find them on the entryway table.”
Saffron lingered where he was, though. He took another bite of toast, watching Cylvan the whole time. Watching his amethyst eyes skim each line of the written letter—before, sure enough, they slid all the way back to the beginning again, starting over. He almost asked if there was something wrong because of it—but then Cylvan’s eyes flickered to him a third time, and Saffron realized—he was waiting for Saffron to leave. Pretending to read, because he didn’t wish to speak.
Scoffing, Saffron tossed the piece of toast back onto the plate, roughly shoving it back toward Cylvan and pushing his chair out. Cylvan muttered something as Saffron left, but Saffron didn’t hear it. Something told him it might have been for the best.
Making his way to the entryway, Maeve and Aodhán were already there, clearly for the same reason as they each had a different gossip leaflet in each hand. As Saffron approached, they gave him a look that chafed him even worse, snatching the one closest to him in Maeve’s grasp.
PRINCE CYLVAN’S HOLIDAY CONTINUES IN AILINNE AFTER SPENDING QUALITY TIME WITH MASTER RENARD Dé brICRíU AND LADY MAC DELBAITH IN THE FALL COURT; Sources Say Most Likely Discussing His Future Reign In One Final Attempt To Earn Allies. Lady Mac Delbaith Arrives In Ailinne Hours Before Prince Cylvan—Is He Keeping Her Trail On Purpose? Has The Young Head Lady And Priestess Of Dagda Won The Affection Of The Cold Prince?
THE FLOWER OF ALVéNYA TURNS HEADS ON THE ROAD AFTER RECENT OUTBURST AT TRAIN STATION OUTSIDE OF TYARA; Mairwen Peers Of Alfidel’s Visitor Claim He Was ‘Unpleasant’ And ‘Discourteous’ To Professors In Class; One Fey Lady Who Attended A Suitor Gala For The Prince Comes Forward To Claim The Alvényan Once Attacked Her For Chastising A Beantighe Who Spilled A Drink On Her; It Begs The Question Why Prince Cylvan Continues To Associate With Someone So Incorrigible…
“What’s this word?” Saffron asked sharply, venomously, even though he practically knew.
“‘Incorrigible’?” Maeve asked.
“Undisciplined, unscrupulous,” Aodhán answered sooner. “Impulsive, malfeasant, improprietous…”
Maeve threw them a look of exasperation that clearly said don’t use more big words to explain another— and it nearly sent Saffron over the edge. He shoved the paper back into Maeve’s chest. He turned to storm back into the kitchen—but stopped short. He turned to stomp his way back to where Copper and Sionnach still slept amongst the pillows—but stopped himself that time, too. Finally, the errand-beantighes hurried by and out the front door—and he followed them, instead. Wanting nothing more than somewhere to hide, where he could crouch down and scream into the grass until the tangling thorns in his chest were broken enough to breathe again.
The rest of the morning passed without finding the relief Saffron sought after. He wandered the yard of the king’s guesthouse in silence, though there wasn’t much to it apart from the trees and small patches of manicured grass and places to sit and appreciate the surroundings.
He didn’t want to go into town again. He didn’t want to get into the pools. He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He didn’t want to see or speak to anyone, for as long as he could manage.
But worse of all—he didn’t want to let his guard down. He couldn’t. Not when they anticipated Ryder appearing anytime that same day, that night, somewhere in that damned city so crammed-full of visitors it was impossible to tell a living fey from a carved statuette outside a restaurant.
They still didn’t know where Ryder would appear. The veil hadn’t told him much. A part of Saffron had even hoped it might tell him more as soon as they arrived in the town. He thought he might be able to sense it, or it would just jump out as something obvious. A specific pool dedicated to Danu, or the veil, or Lugh, or even the Dagda for god’s sake, somewhere as significant as all the other locations Ryder had gone—but there was nothing. There were no pools dedicated to any gods, only those that cost more money to buy privacy in.
Saffron wasn’t familiar enough with Ailinne’s security to know if someone like Ryder could get into one of the more isolated pools without a golden-tasseled token. He didn’t know if Ryder would continue his pattern of not drawing attention to himself, therefore avoiding large crowds of people. Saffron—didn’t actually know, for certain, that the man was following the queen’s coronation route. Or that, even if it started that way, that he would continue to do so. Especially if he realized Saffron had caught on, and was following him.
By late afternoon, Saffron resided on the edge of the back walkway that stretched the length of the house. He absentmindedly fed blueberries to Fiachra who nibbled greedily on his fingers. Through the open wall of the sitting room at his back, Maeve and Copper played cards. Sionnach restlessly flipped through a book. Saoirse and Aodhán chatted by the trees a few yards from him. And Cylvan—kept to himself. In his room, somewhere in the house. Balor was still scuttling around, which meant he hadn’t sent a response to the kings yet, but that didn’t necessarily make Saffron feel better.
The longer the hours dragged without even a stir in the veil—the more uncertain Saffron grew. The more embarrassed he felt, the more mortified he was to think he’d dragged everyone that way, possibly for nothing. Heavier than anything else, though, was the feeling of pure— abandonment , but by who, exactly, he didn’t know. Abandoned by Cylvan, who wouldn’t linger in any room where Saffron did. Abandoned by the veil, who Saffron wished had shown him anything else . Abandoned, even, but Ryder, himself, for not appearing when Saffron actually needed him to.
When the sun started to set, and beantighes arrived to begin preparing dinner, Saffron felt more lost than ever. Lost and humiliated and—nauseated with anxiety, thinking that he did not, in fact, know where Ryder would go next. He did not, in fact, have any idea where that man could be found, let alone still, what he was doing. He didn’t know. The witchhunters didn’t know. Even the veil didn’t know. Which meant—Saffron had failed, once again, to get any closer to bringing Asche and his friends back home. If it hadn’t already—the hope and excitement he’d witnessed in Cylvan’s eyes in Erelaine would surely soon turn to resentment.
The sun was below the horizon when dinner was ready to be served, and Saffron blankly followed the others to the meal table. When Cylvan wasn’t there, though, he stopped. He stared at the prince’s empty seat for a long time, until Saoirse nudged him from behind.
“Cylvan has decided to take his dinner later,” she said, before lowering her voice to whisper: “I believe he’s in the private pool behind the house, right now. But don’t tell him I sent you.”
Saffron said nothing, just turned and hurried away. Saoirse didn’t let anyone follow after him.
“Cylvan?” Saffron asked the growing darkness of the backyard as he made his way down the compressed-dirt pathway toward the house’s private pool, finally spotting the prince sitting alone in the water once he rounded a bend in the trail. Cylvan turned just as Saffron approached, offering him a little smile at first—before it slipped away again just as quickly. Like he’d done it on instinct, before realizing and pulling back. Saffron swallowed against the nerves lodged in his throat.
“Already finished with dinner?” Cylvan asked as Saffron approached and stood on the edge of the raw-stone steps leading down into the water. Saffron shook his head, wringing his hands together before kicking off his shoes. Perhaps he should have asked first, but—a part of him was afraid of hearing Cylvan command him away if he did.
“I haven’t had a chance to speak to you all day…” Saffron said, trying to keep his voice light. The water rose to his chest, and he sank a little deeper until the surface kissed the skin below his ears. He waded closer to where Cylvan leaned against the far edge, but resisted the urge to get any nearer than that.
“Is there something you want to talk about?”
Saffron swayed back and forth in the hot water, allowing a moment to pass as he gathered his thoughts. Any of them, anything that might break through the awkwardness between them, just for things to feel normal again.
“When reading through one of Sionnach’s books the other night, there was this map of Alfidel, and I realized Morrígan isn’t all that far from here,” he said with a weak smile, trying to just make casual conversation. To summon anything at all to appear on Cylvan’s flat expression. “I was thinking how nice it would be if we’d have time to stop by, so I can visit?—”
“You wish to extend this journey even longer?” Cylvan interrupted. He wore a stiff smile that time, and Saffron immediately clamped his mouth back shut. It struck him like an icicle to the heart.
“Well—I wasn’t meaning—I don’t know, not really… Although I guess it would be nice if it were possible, since I haven’t been able to visit in months. With everything going on, maybe it would be nice to check in on?—”
“And how do you think something like that would be portrayed in a gossip leaflet?” Cylvan asked, voice calm as ever, but Saffron felt as if it raked down the back of his throat. “Or—you hadn’t considered that, had you?”
“No, but…” Saffron looked this way and that, hating how badly he wished to meet Cylvan’s eyes. Knowing it was best he didn’t. His face felt hot, trying to convince himself it was only from the warmth of the pool—but Cylvan’s immediate refusal of such a little comment made his whole world spin. He tried to justify himself: “But—I mean, there could be more reason for us to visit, too, I guess. Professor Adelard is there, and he definitely knows more about the veil than he lets on?—”
“You must be mad.”
Saffron finally looked up, driven by disbelief. Sure he hadn’t heard those words, exactly—but the way Cylvan looked at him in return, the certainty wavered.
“What?” He asked softly. Cylvan’s frowned twitched downward.
“Think about it a moment,” he said with a sigh. As if days, weeks of pressure were finally building up the back of his throat, too far to push back down again. “First you wish to visit your old beantighe friends, without considering how that might be perceived—and then you suggest visiting Morrígan’s human professor to ask what he knows about the veil.” Not bothering to include any clarification to why that was preposterous. Not needing to. Saffron’s face swelled hotter. He couldn’t blame it on the water, that time.
“Or did you dream of Ryder Kyteler visiting Lake Elatha?” Cylvan went on. “Perhaps drinking from Quartz Creek, or having a meeting with Headmistress Elding?—”
“What’s gotten into you?” Saffron interjected, mouth hanging open slightly in further disbelief. Caught so off guard by the aggression, he almost wondered if it was a mimic who stood in front of him, rather than his prince.
“Nothing has gotten into me,” Cylvan answered, before pausing, then shaking his head and adding: “Don’t you think we’ve chased this ghost long enough?” He let the words hang between them for a long moment, as if counting how many times Saffron’s pounding heart made the water ripple. Finally, with a notable, bone-deep exhaustion, he concluded: “I think it’s time we give this up, Saffron.”
“We…” Saffron trailed off. He didn’t know exactly what he wished to say—until he did, and the words rushed out of him like a winter wind. “What in god’s name is wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me?” Cylvan asked. “Perhaps I’m not the one?—”
“You’ve been acting miserably ever since you got back from the dé Bricríu estate yesterday!” Saffron argued.
Cylvan’s eyes bore into him for what felt like an eternity, tongue pressing into his cheek and between his teeth as he clearly swallowed back what he really wished to say.
“Nothing is wrong,” he finally uttered. “I simply don’t understand why we continue this wild goose chase, after a man we don’t even know we can catch.”
“We don’t know that?—”
“Where is he, then!” Cylvan snapped, making Saffron jump as he threw out his arm and whisked water across the pool. “You were certain Ryder would be in Ailinne tonight —but he isn’t. He isn’t here, Saffron! He may never have meant to be! Maybe there is no pattern to his madness after all. It was an outstanding theory, púca, and the reality is disappointing, but—we now have to reassess how else to make ourselves useful. To Alfidel, to finding Asche. I think this was all a very good effort, but—but it’s not needed, any longer.”
“But—”
“We’ve made enough fools of ourselves already, don’t you think?”
“Is—!” Saffron bolted up, making water splash around him. “Is this because of those things in the gossip papers this morning!”
“ Far more than just things , I’d say,” Cylvan replied flatly. “They should act as a warning to you, Saffron—that eventually, you’re going to have to stop acting like a beantighe , and start acting like someone who knows they’re being watched.”
“It doesn’t matter to me what those godawful people write in their stupid papers!” Saffron exclaimed.
“You’ve made that evident.”
“You—!”
“The kings asked us to investigate the veil event at Erelaine ,” Cylvan went on tightly. “Nothing more—and nothing less. The fact we’ve continued on this long outside of those orders is questionable enough. You must, at the very least, understand that.”
“Is that what Ailir said in his letter this morning?”
“It does not matter what exactly my father wrote?—”
“Clearly it does!”
“No!” Cylvan shouted back, rising to his feet and towering over Saffron in a way that made him steal a step backward. “My father wrote asking to know what exactly happened between you and those gossip writers. Wishing to know what other careless things you may have blabbed for them to publish—because, apparently, even members of Avren’s high council are beginning to show concern for my motives . Because that’s what every godsdamned person is starting to wonder, with something so simple—! And they will only continue to wonder, to question me, until I am able to return to Avren and address the rumors properly! Until I am able to return to my duties as crown prince of Alfidel?—”
“When has that ever done anything to change their minds about you!” Saffron shouted back, reclaiming the step forward he’d lost.
“It nearly did!” Cylvan’s voice boomed, making Saffron’s ears ring. “After my due diligence in Erelaine, it nearly did! For once, in my entire life, a single string of favorable words were disseminated to the masses about me—but of course I should not have expected it to last, with such an incorrigible partner by my side! How can you not understand!”
“How can I—!” Saffron choked. “You’re acting like all of this was just—! Just some kind of stupid game, to keep myself busy! To make me feel useful, or?—!”
“Hasn’t it!” Cylvan exclaimed. “Are you sure chasing after this man isn’t just some misguided attempt at feeling useful for you! Even if we catch him—he’s not going to give me my sibling back, Saffron! Catching Ryder Kyteler now is not going to absolve you of what you’ve already done!”
The sound echoed across the trees, summoning a cold wind to whistle back over them in return. Stealing steam from the air, making every inch of Saffron shake. It was only the wind. It was only the chill of the wind that made him shiver, made his eyes burn, made it feel like he was suffocating despite breathing so heavily.
“We must return to Avren,” Cylvan continued, though his voice trembled that time. “Where we can actually be useful. Where we are meant to be, prepared for the moment a path through the veil is found.”
“When have you ever been any use to Avren?” Saffron said, hating how his voice wavered, betraying the hot emotions roiling in his stomach and threatening to swell up the back of his throat. Hating the words he chose, knowing there was no use trying to explain what he really meant. Avren hates you, they think you’re cursed, they’ve never appreciated you; Avren has never asked for anything of you because of it, they don’t need you—but I do. I do. Beneath the hot water, he clenched his fists tight enough to dry the skin of his palms.
“How dare you,” Cylvan whispered, shaking his head. Clearly wishing to say more—but swallowing the words back, replacing them with others chosen carefully. “We will not be visiting Morrígan. Or anywhere else, for that matter. If you wish to consult with Professor Adelard, he will be invited to join us at the palace. We will be returning to Avren in the morning, as we should have done already. And you will simply have to accept—you’ve already done enough. Don’t you think?”
Saffron still didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He’d forgotten how; he felt nothing but the cold breeze on his face, and the boiling-hot water against his stomach. Neither caused him as much pain as the sharpness of Cylvan’s words.
Rather than answering, Saffron lowered his eyes down, then away. He turned and made his way back to the stone steps, and out of the pool, to follow the path back to the house. Cylvan called his name, suddenly, with a sharp inhale of breath—but Saffron ignored him, and continued on his way.