36. The Dinner
36
THE DINNER
T he mac Delbaith estate was located outside of the city, up a winding road through the frozen mountains where even the Winter Court horses pulling the carriage snorted and protested as snow fell in thick clumps from the sky. Through the windows there was only a wall of frost-laden pine trees on either side, steeped in darkness prickled with orange light from the carriage lamps that swung to and fro on either side of the cab.
Inside, each passenger huddled close to one another, particularly Sionnach and Copper who weren’t used to the cold of the Winter Court, even thick layers of wool doublets and cloaks barely enough to keep their warmth in.
A few times, Saffron turned to gaze nervously through the window between himself and the back of the driver, wondering if it had all been a trick. If there really was no mac Delbaith estate that far out into the dark wood—but surely Taran would have said something if that were the case. Still, Saffron had both his knife and his wand tucked away in the inner pocket of his doublet, down under the cuff of his sleeve, just in case. He wouldn’t be caught without either of them ever again.
When the house did finally come into view, Saffron was strangely emboldened to know it wasn’t anything bigger or grander than Luvon’s estate on the outside, though he could tell the age of it from the off-color of the glass in the windowpanes, the stonework, the metal shingle work supporting centuries of ice and snow on the peaked rooftops. A garden of winter roses and frozen fountains decorated the front side, and by the glowing light of lanterns in the back, Saffron knew it likely extended further in the rear. Perhaps even all the way to the base of the mountainside.
“If you look closely, there, toward the northwest side of the cliffs… you may be able to see the glow of Fjornar’s belltower,” Taran mumbled as Saffron stepped from the carriage, and chills unrelated to the temperature kissed his skin. He searched the dark mountainside carpeted with centuries of snow as Taran suggested, until he thought he saw the faintest glimmer of light within the trees.
None from the mac Delbaith family greeted them at the door, though the human servant that requested an invitation wrinkled their nose slightly when Saffron produced Anysta’s letter over anything else more formal. He braced to be kicked in the ass right back out into the snow, but the beantighe motioned them in, though the dirty look on their face remained as all of Saffron’s group followed along on his heels, Copper especially shoving his way inside in need of warmth. Sionnach, more politely, hurried past the rest right on his heels.
The beantighe who greeted them wore finer clothes than Saffron expected of a family who despised humanity so much—but perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise, either. If there was anything the mac Delbaiths hated more than humans, it was looking cheap.
While expecting to go straight to the dining hall for dinner, Saffron was once again only partially surprised to learn the dinner itself was already in progress—and he’d only been invited to attend the fete afterward. His instinct was to be insulted—Cylvan definitely would have been—but instead, Saffron just grabbed a glass of champagne from the nearest tray, throwing it back and entering the room where a few-dozen other high fey mingled.
Clearly more half-invited guests, all looking far too thrilled to be there despite being hardly more than filler, not even invited to the main dinner. Dressed in their finest clothes, some older Winter Court traditional garb while many other had clearly purchased their own recently. Saffron wondered who would be so important that high fey would travel so far north to meet them at Anysta’s offer, before internally rolling his eyes and himself and taking another drink. Anyone. High fey would cross open seas and vast prairies at any fete invitation, no matter who sent it.
Ultimately, it was no matter to him who those people were or where they came from, how far they traveled, even who exactly they were all so excited to meet. Once the main dinner was over, and the remainder of the guests joined them in the ballroom, Saffron would have a better idea of where everyone was. He could better figure out the means of slipping away, to begin his search to perform Ryder’s own searching spell. A broom closet. The back gazebo. It didn’t matter. He paused his considerations to make room for Taran’s repeated promise he would find nothing with it—but the wolf didn’t comment, that time. Like he had finally accepted, even he wasn’t sure what was possible any longer.
When the time came for the dinner guests to join the rest in the ballroom, Saffron was unsurprised by the sort of high fey who appeared, instincts confirmed by Taran in the back of his mind as he lazily listed off names of any face he recognized. A handful of sídhe family members, court nobility, local businessmen, patrons of the biggest gossip papers in Alfidel, a handful of foreign diplomats that even Taran was perturbed to see coming out of dinner with his sister. But those surprised Saffron least, once the final guest emerged—wearing the mask of a stag, the only one in the entire room who did.
It must have only been a beantighe, put on display in a more visibly demeaning way than just a veil. Saffron tried not to think about it, instead searching for another drink to imbibe on while keeping a close eye on his friends who mingled around the room on their own, especially once the remaining dinner guests arrived and some recognized particularly Copper and Maeve.
“The dinner wasn’t anything better than they serve in the palace, I can assure you.”
Chills raced down Saffron’s back, going stiff as his heart thumped loudly in his ears. He hadn’t noticed anyone sidling up alongside him—but it wasn’t only the unexpected presence that startled him. It was the owner of the voice.
Saffron turned just barely, just enough to see out of the corner of his eye. Standing alongside him, not a beantighe, but a fey lord wearing the mask of the deer. The lower half of his face was pulled into a bitterly familiar crooked, but tight-lipped smile that would have given him away if his voice hadn’t already. Even in the fine doublet he wore, objectively handsome in that shade of dark red and accentuated with black beading that spilled from the collar down the front. But even dressed more regally than Saffron could have ever imagined—he would know that voice, that uneven smile, anywhere.
He had to resist grabbing the knife from his belt. From moving on instinct and slamming it into Ryder’s chest if that would truly be his last, and only, opportunity—but something else caught his eye, first, and his body stilled again. Familiar silver cuffs glinted from beneath the man’s red sleeve cuffs. Two hands overlapping a dagger. A lump formed in Saffron’s throat.
Ryder noticed Saffron’s eyes lingering on them, making his smile slump as he lifted his hand into view. Turning it over in the light, he observed them as Saffron did.
“Quite pretty for a pair of shackles, don’t you think?” He mused, making Saffron’s skin crawl. Ryder had no idea, Saffron was more than familiar with how pretty those shackles were. He didn’t know how Saffron could feel the weight of them on his own wrists at the mere reminder, let alone the tightness of the collar that was meant to be paired with them.
“Anysta keeps me right where she wants me, at least for now. That bitch,” Ryder went on under his breath, before swallowing back half of the wine in his glass at once. “You have nothing to worry about from me tonight, your highness. This is not a party I will be disturbing, as much as I would like to lock the door and set it all on fire.”
“What…” Saffron attempted, but he couldn’t speak. The lump in his throat, the tightness in his chest, he could hardly inhale a breath. He subtly scratched at the underside of his wrist, before rubbing the back of his neck. He had no reason to believe such an empty promise from the man who never told the truth—but the silver cuffs on Ryder’s wrists were shocking. Those were not something he could falsify—and even if he could, why? Still, Saffron strained the magic in his blood, just for the briefest moment. A white halo glowed around the opulent shackles, blending into the light pink of Ryder’s own half-human, half-fey existence. “What are you doing here, then?” he finally managed to rasp, before clearing his throat and taking a sip of his wine.
“Anysta found me nearly frozen to death in the mountains on her way back to Vjallrod,” Ryder answered, that time with a newly wry smile. “She was kind enough to pick me up and give me a ride the rest of the way.”
“How does she know you?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Saffron.”
Saffron snapped to him in shock, nostrils flaring. Ryder just raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Worst of all—he wasn’t wrong. Saffron could guess. And while that guess wasn’t anything definitive, he knew it likely had something to do with Ryder and Anysta’s joint connections with the witchhunters. If not that, then certainly due to the history between Ryder and Fjornar, and Taran in Fjornar, even if Taran couldn’t recall any specific memories of Ryder’s presence there. Ryder had confirmed as much, himself, while they were snowed-in in the cabin.
And if not that, then—it didn’t matter. Saffron didn’t have to know the specifics to question whether it was a good or bad thing for Ryder Kyteler to be under house arrest by the mac Delbaiths.
“Why are you still traveling alone, anyway?” Saffron asked, next. “Where’s your normal entourage?”
“You mean Breton and the others?” Ryder mumbled. “On the other side. Keeping an eye on things while I’m away.”
Saffron kept the rush of adrenaline from showing on his face. Ryder’s eyes lingered on him all the same.
“What does Anysta want with you?” Saffron asked, next. Taran’s presence shifted in the back of his mind, like a quiet warning to ‘ choose your words carefully .’ Saffron knew that much. “Or does she plan on just keeping you as a pet?”
“It doesn’t matter what she plans,” Ryder answered over the rim of his wine glass, swallowing back another mouthful. “I’m only playing nice for now. Until I can figure out what the hell is going on with all of them, myself.”
“All of who?”
“What did I say about stupid questions?”
Saffron glowered, turning away again in frustration.
“Your witchhunters still aren’t very happy with you right now, are they?”
Ryder’s smile twisted in agitation. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s obvious. You’re traveling alone, they’re following your every movement. Are they still trying to find you, Ryder? Are you still avoiding them on purpose?”
Ryder just smiled at him. That same tight, aggravated smile that repeated his words a thousand times over. What did I say about stupid questions? A wry smile and pregnant silence were answer enough, as was the man’s growing annoyance the more Saffron prodded at what was clearly a sore subject.
Saffron sipped his wine, giving Ryder a moment of peace to gather himself again. Minutes passed with silence between them, watching the crowd of high fey guests, dancing and drinking wine and indulging in the buffet of food on the banquet table across the way. It made him feel like he was back at another of Cylvan’s suitor’s galas, watching as the handsome prince socialized around the room with a smile as empty as the laughter he summoned from those who stood and listened. Who always turned from the conversation with an immediate drop of their expressions, whispering quick gossip to one another when they weren’t quickly beseeching a day with their hands.
Something brushed the back of Saffron’s neck, and he turned to realize it was Ryder’s fingers. Ryder looked at him with silent appreciation, appraisal, a softness in his expression Saffron wasn’t expecting.
“Don’t touch me again,” he muttered, rubbing his neck where the contact had been made.
“You really are beautiful, Saffron,” he said. “You do belong on the arm of a king, whether or not it’s Cylvan’s.”
A chill raced down Saffron spine, and he threw Ryder another look. But Ryder didn’t meet his eyes, just gazed instead at Saffron’s mouth, then down his neck to where his collarbones peeked through the deep-cut neckline.
“Stay with me,” Ryder said, and Saffron threw him a fully sharpened look that time. A familiar, sarcastic smile finally found Ryder’s mouth, replacing the furious one. “I mean, just for tonight. This place holds many secrets you won’t learn otherwise. And I know you’re here for a reason—even if that reason is just getting in my way. Perhaps we can help each other, once the party dies down.”
That told Saffron everything he needed to know—that the queen’s memory tapestry may in fact be somewhere in that house, and Ryder knew it. It was the only explanation for why he was being so polite. A well-behaved dog. Leashed or not. Saffron knew even opulent cuffs couldn’t neuter someone like Ryder unless he allowed it.
“Doing alright, Saff?” Copper asked as he approached with a plate full of food, one mouthful already stuffed into one of his cheeks. Saffron had never been more relieved to see him coming, even with crumbs on the front of his tunic. “Making friends?”
“Ah, you’ve actually already been acquainted,” Saffron said with a tight smile, stepping back so Copper could get a closer look at the deer-masked guest. “You met him at Ailinne’s hot springs. Don’t you remember? He and Sionnach got into a little tiff.”
Copper raised an eyebrow in confusion, before his eyes traveled to Ryder, lingering for a long time before his mouth dropped open.
“Oh, this asshole!” he snarled, shoving his plate of food into Sionnach’s arms as the satyr barely approached behind them. “Oh, yeah, I’m well acquainted with you, but I sure would like to get to know you even better.”
“It was nothing personal, you brute,” Ryder snapped back, but still put his hands up in defense. “Your little animal friend just got in my way.”
“They’re a satyr, jackass,” Copper said back, managing to keep his voice low despite the rising emotion. Knowing it would only draw attention from the other guests, and clearly wishing to keep Ryder all to himself. His eyes briefly flickered to the healed, pink scar on Sionnach’s forearm from where Ryder’s knife cut them. “Why don’t you come over here and apologize, while I’ve got you? C’mon. I’ll break your legs if you won’t bend them yourself.”
“Copper, please,” Sionnach rasped from behind, putting all the pieces together on their own and going pale. “I don’t want any trouble?—”
“He’s not going to cause any trouble,” Saffron assured them. “He’s wearing a pair of the queen’s silver cuffs. Lady Anysta’s got him leashed like a good dog.”
“You’d know plenty about good dogs , considering the company you keep,” Ryder muttered back—only to grunt and buckle forward when Copper grabbed him by the shoulder and slammed a closed fist into his gut. Smooth and silent enough that no one else in the ballroom noticed, but Ryder looked like he was on the verge of vomiting beneath his mask.
“You’re lucky I’m domesticated,” Copper told him in a low voice. “Otherwise I’d do much worse, even on this shiny floor. Now,” he grabbed the scruff of Ryder’s collar, shoving him around to face Sionnach and knocking the man’s mask askew. “How about that apology?”
For some reason, Ryder threw a look at Saffron, as if silently begging for mercy—but Saffron just sipped his drink, then tilted his head toward Sionnach, who was bright red in disbelief for a myriad of reasons. Perhaps more than anything else, for Copper’s insistence, and not for the reason of teasing them about it later.
“I do apologize for behaving so poorly in Ailinne,” Ryder finally sneered, grunting when Copper’s grasp on the nape of his neck tightened to the point of leaving welts.
“Don’t kill him yet, Copper, I’m not done chatting,” Saffron finally said, knowing his giant friend would gladly spill first blood of the night if he didn’t. Copper muttered something, but shoved Ryder away, who stumbled a few steps before straightening up and rubbing the back of his neck with murmured insults.
“Copper, why don’t you take Sionnach to get something to drink?” Saffron went on. The fox-lord gave him a reluctant look before sighing and throwing an arm around Sionnach’s shoulders, making Sionnach squeak in surprise and stumble away with him. Saffron watched them go, noticing how stiff Sionnach’s movements were even as Copper grabbed a glass for them and handed it over. Taking it with careful movements, like they thought he might throw the drink in their face at any moment.
“What else, exactly, do you think I’d be interested in in a place like this?” he finally asked Ryder, as Ryder finished smoothing down the wrinkles of his handsome tunic and adjusting his mask.
“What?”
“You said there were secrets here that I might be interested in. While I’m not focused on getting in your way, that is.”
“Aren’t you curious? As the future king of this place,” Ryder answered, snagging his own drink from a passing beantighe waiter.
“You think they’re keeping Queen Proserpina’s memory tapestry somewhere here, don’t you?” Saffron finally said. Ryder’s body snapped around to face him, grabbing Saffron’s arm and nearly spilling his drink as he suddenly stood close.
“Keep your godsdamned voice down,” Ryder hissed. “Or are you really stupid after all?”
Saffron yanked his arm away, fighting the urge to throw his drink in Ryder’s face.
“I don’t know how you ever think you’re going to win me over if you continue talking to me like that.”
“Like your prince treats you any differently? I thought you liked being degraded.”
“Cylvan doesn’t speak to me like you do.”
“Not from what I overheard at Ailinne,” Ryder scoffed. “Or was that a rare occurrence for him? No wonder you’re so poorly behaved. Maybe he should assert himself over you more often.”
Before Saffron could offer his retort—an old fey lady and her wife suddenly approached. He straightened up, thinking they might have recognized him as a member of Cylvan’s inner circle, but to his surprise, they instead went to Ryder. Where they said nothing, only offered him a small bow, followed by a moment of direct eye contact and a few whispered words Saffron didn’t catch. He wasn’t sure Ryder caught them, either, with how softly they were spoken—as if uttered in a ritualistic sense, for some intangible force to hear. Ryder didn’t react as they did, even looking annoyed, just gulping back another mouthful of his drink when the two fey ladies wandered off again.
“What was that?” Saffron asked.
“You haven’t asked about my mask yet, either,” Ryder said, tugging at it in agitation. “Aren’t you curious?”
“I assumed it was a way to degrade you in front of all these high fey. Don’t you like being degraded, Ryder?”
Saffron couldn’t see exactly how Ryder sneered, but he could sense it.
“Cailleach had her wolf—and she had her deer,” he muttered, taking another drink. “Anysta sure thinks she’s funny, pulling this outdated stunt to make everyone obsess over me.”
“Oh, so it is a form of degradation,” Saffron bit back his amusement. “Maybe Lady mac Delbaith actually does have a sense of humor. I never would have thought of something like that.”
“I’m sure your way of degrading me would be much more enjoyable, your highness. If you stay the night with me, perhaps I’ll even find out.”
“I’ll show you something, alright,” Saffron answered flatly. Ryder glanced back his way, and Saffron could picture the look on his face beneath the mask again. An eyebrow raised in curiosity.
“So you do plan to take me up on my offer?”
“I’m not taking you up on anything,” Saffron assured him. He swirled his wind as Taran stirred in the back of his mind again, though still said nothing to argue. “But perhaps a night in this giant estate would answer some questions I have, like you said.” If it really is here, maybe I’ll find the tapestry before you do. Maybe I’ll tie you to a bedpost and leave you there for the next century.
“And your friends?” Ryder asked, nodding toward where Copper, Sionnach, Maeve, and a glamoured Naoill all lingered by the buffet table, doing a terrible job each at pretending like they weren’t watching Saffron like hawks. “Will they be joining us as well? I doubt Anysta will be thrilled to have so many guests clogging up her rooms, considering how many of these other courtiers will be getting too drunk to leave, either.”
“Maybe I won’t wait for an invitation, then,” Saffron said. “Maybe I’ll just… blend into the crowd, and follow you when you go to bed.”
Ryder grinned. “I promise to keep you warm, wherever we do end up.”
Saffron rolled his eyes. He sipped again at his drink, searching the ballroom for Anysta at the thought. She was on the far side, conversing with the same two fey ladies who’d just approached Ryder to offer that strange exchange. She paid Saffron no mind at all. In fact, when she did glance up again—she only had eyes for the man wearing the deer mask by his side.