44. The Rebel
44
THE REBEL
“ S affron… Púca, wake up.”
Saffron stirred, waking into the gentle touch of Cylvan’s hand against his cheek. The prince held a single candle, fully dressed in a dark green tunic adorned with golden thread and beads in the shape of wheat stalks down the collar and button seams.
“What’s wrong?” Saffron asked wearily, sitting up as Cylvan’s hands remained on his shoulder, helping him balance.
“It’s time to beseech the old king. I want you there with me.”
Saffron followed Cylvan’s request, crawling quietly out of bed to join him. He dressed in a dark green doublet that matched Cylvan’s, missing only the golden embroidery. Starched and subtly shimmery with a forest-green brocade, the buttons were made of polished silver shaped like the Celtic knots he’d passed on the edge of the trees in human Ire-land. Even his slacks were new and stiff, hugging his waist and cuffed at the bottom over a pair of new shoes.
More than once, he almost asked what exactly they were doing in the middle of the night, with no servants to help them dress, with only the light of a single candle to guide their movements—but each time, kept words to himself. Something in the air was solemn, something that was neither nervewracking nor reassuring. Cylvan moved with intention, but lacked any panic. A stoic certainty guided his hands as he buttoned the front of Saffron’s tunic like any beantighe would, before smoothing his hands across the collar, and settling on his shoulders. His eyes lingered on Saffron’s for a long moment in the darkness, before he leaned forward to press a kiss to Saffron’s forehead.
“Come,” he whispered. “They’ll be waiting for us, I’m sure.”
“Who?” Saffron asked softly, but Cylvan just took the candle in one hand, and Saffron’s in the other, leading him from the bedroom into the dark corridor on the other side.
Saffron knew the path they followed as soon as they left the warmth of the palace and made their way through the back garden, through a golden gate manned by a single guard, up a winding trail laid with stones in the earth to form steps up the hill. Between the trees scarcely lit by lanterns, illuminated only slightly more with the candle Cylvan still carried ahead of them. Saffron never released his hand, all the way to the top, where he knew Lugh’s altar would be waiting for them, overlooking the sea.
The ‘others’ Cylvan mentioned were the kings, Gentle Naoill, and Asche, who stood tucked into Naoill’s side under the protective warmth of their cloak. As Cylvan and Saffron came into view, Asche bounced a little bit on the balls of their feet, but Naoill held them back. On Lugh’s altar, a spread of offerings reflected the golden light of an array of candles, fresh fruits and bowls of wine, a thick sheaf of freshly-harvested wheat, a scatter of incense sticks lazily spilling smoke from the dishes they dangled from. The altar itself had been long cleaned of the carnage from Saffron’s return, reverent totems replaced and blessed so that members of the royal family could return to praying there as normal. But that night, every object, from the wheat to the altar cloth, was slightly different that Saffron remembered, and he realized each had been newly brought and laid there by the hands of those who stood at Lugh’s feet. Evident by the wheat grains clinging to Asche’s sleeves, the smell of incense thick on Tross and Ailir’s fine clothing, the carrying basket set to the side of the altar.
Cylvan walked Saffron to where Asche and Naoill stood a few steps behind the kings, kissing the back of his hand with a lingering pause before turning to join his fathers facing the altar. Asche’s hand slipped into Saffron’s the moment it could, and Saffron smiled down at them wordlessly. King Ailir reached out to cup the nape of Cylvan’s neck as he stood alongside them, pulling him close and pressing their foreheads together in a quiet moment of affection. It made Saffron’s heart race, biting his lip as emotion swelled within him.
The prince and the Primary King stepped forward, then knelt to one knee together at Lugh’s feet. King Tross knelt next, and Saffron followed suit as Naoill and Asche knelt last. Something tickled the back of Saffron’s neck, and he turned to look, expecting a leaf to have fallen into his collar—but there was nothing, except the tiniest sparkle in his blood. Even the veil had come to bear witness.
“Our beloved Lugh Lámhfada, king of kings, and kings of us Tuatha dé Danann—we beseech thee to hear the plea of one who came after you, in the favor of his son—” Ailir’s strong voice hitched, just for a moment. Saffron cracked open his eyes, gazing at the grass beneath his knee. “My son, Crown Prince Cylvan dé Tuatha dé Danann. His people demand a Court of Expectations, to anticipate what fate his reign may bring—a fate long thrust upon him in all the unkindness of his youth, and even now as he has only just come of age. My king—” Ailir paused again. Tross extended a hand, gently touching Ailir’s back in comfort.
“My first born son faces a Night Court, despite the benevolence of his heart, never allowed a chance to share it.” Ailir said, maintaining his composure, except for the slightest twinge in his voice at the end.
Next to him, Cylvan kept his head bowed—but Saffron noticed how he began to tremble. His hand, clenched into a fist and pressed into the earth alongside his bent knee, flexed in and out in clear, growing nerves. Perhaps broken only by the wavering voice of his normally-unshaken father, who had to pause another moment to gather his words. No one else seemed to notice, or perhaps they knew better than to react—but Saffron didn’t. Saffron didn’t know this god, he didn’t know this ceremony, he only knew Cylvan knelt before the royal family’s king of kings, shaking, anxious, vulnerable. Head bowed low in shame, like he didn’t dare lift his eyes to the same king he pleaded with for guidance.
Saffron didn’t know that king—only all the promises he’d ever made, to never leave Cylvan’s side. And with them, he released Asche’s hand, and rose to his feet.
He passed King Tross kneeling just behind Ailir. He briefly—and intentionally—met eyes with Lugh towering over them, before turning his gaze down again and lowering onto both knees alongside his raven. He took Cylvan’s hand, Cylvan’s head snapping to him in instant disbelief—before his hand tightened around Saffron’s, and he released a tightly-held breath. He relaxed again. Alongside him, King Ailir’s golden eyes had lifted to regard Saffron as well, before turning back to the king. As if he thought the same thing Saffron did—that Cylvan had, actually, been allowed to share his secretly benevolent heart at least once. It was the reason Saffron knelt alongside him at all.
Squeezing Cylvan’s hand in return, he bowed his head and closed his eyes once more as King Ailir continued his humble plea for guidance, for clarity, for protection. All while Saffron knew, no matter what came of the court of expectations that coming night—he would be Cylvan’s Harmonious King, Day or Night. And King Lugh Lámhfada would know it, long before any oracles declared it for the rest of Alfidel to hear.
The rest of the day was spent in a flurry of preparations, both for the court itself, and for the feasting and celebrations surrounding it. Saffron thought it ironic, how the same people who feared their fates enough to call for an early court could stomach a fete amidst it all—but at the same time, he’d never known the fey to pass up an opportunity to celebrate any event. Even those on the declaration of their destruction.
Cylvan was sent to be spiritually and physically cleansed by the royal oracles—and Saffron only let him go once he was reassured there would be no Fjornaran oracles with hands in that part of the process. It left him alone in Cylvan’s room, supposed to wait for his time to be dressed and prepared. In any other circumstance, Saffron would not have been about to sit and wait for anything—but whatever outfit they’d prepared for him was kept far out of his reach. Somewhere he wouldn’t be able to find it, to dress himself prematurely. King Tross may have planned it on purpose. He only wished there was something, anything—to keep his hands, his mind busy, from turning over and over in endless, apprehensive circles.
Night or Day. Night or Day. Saffron didn’t care what they declared Cylvan to be. He didn’t believe reading the stars or scrying a basin of wine or whatever it was they were going to do would determine the next few centuries of life in Alfidel. But the people of Alfidel believed it—so he would have to pretend. He would have to act properly in regard to that, even if he didn’t respect it. Even if he thought them all fools; even if he hated every single one of them for the torture they put the person he loved so much through for such archaic beliefs. It was those same archaic beliefs that made him a beantighe from that start, anyway.
“Your highness?”
Saffron jumped, turning at the familiar voice. A grin spread over his face, though he wasn’t sure if it was out of excitement or body-melting relief. In the doorway, Professor Adelard meekly poked his head inside, smiling back and inviting himself in as Saffron battled the piles of clothes on the floor that congested the feet of the stool where he sat. Nearly trapping him against Cylvan’s vanity, finally kicking himself free to greet the professor properly.
He tripped into the man near the doorway, where Adelard laughed and righted him again. Behind him, Professor Dullahan stood, and Saffron noticed how nicely both of them dressed—wearing all black each, as was apparently traditional both for periods of grief and for guests of a Court of Expectation. Adelard’s normally stiffly-oiled hair was even coiffed handsomely over his forehead, wearing a little eyeshadow and blush on his cheeks that brought out the warm brown color of his eyes. Saffron apologized right away for knocking the man’s glasses askew, offering Cormac a nod of greeting before stepping back and holding the door open to invite them both inside.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said, grimacing when he realized he should have tidied up rather than just sitting and stewing. He’d learned to find a sense of comfort in the endless garments and blankets and shawls left in piles and draping over the back of the sitting couches, though. That time, stemming from Cylvan madly stress-changing into every outfit he owned in the interim between that morning’s prayer at Lugh’s altar and when he’d be dressed for the formal ceremony. Adelard, however, might have been the last person to ever care, instead adjusting his glasses and looking over Saffron’s outfit. It was nothing special, all things considered—but compared to the worn-through travel clothes the professor had last seen him in, not to mention the years of beantighe uniforms before that—even Saffron knew he was dressed like a shimmering little doll.
“I’m still waiting to get dressed for the ceremony, myself,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted. “They know I would do it all myself at the first chance, so I’ve been imprisoned here until they’re ready for me. This is apparently the biggest party the palace has seen in centuries, erm—understandably, but with so much of the human staff defecting with Ryder, they’re spread a little thin, so I have to wait my turn…”
“You’re going to look beautiful, Saffron,” Adelard said with a genuine smile, making Saffron blush. “Even now, I think so. Far from the Morrígan beantighe who used to accost me after class during the week, begging me to identify the scribbled images in his sketchbook. More often with dirt on his face and twigs in his hair than not.”
“Th-thank you,” Saffron said, laughing weakly. He hurried to clear off room on the sitting couch, searching for the cart of tea and snacks that had been brought to him an hour earlier. The tea in the pot had gone warm, and he glanced over his shoulder, before shaking his head and readily pulling the hematite wand from a pocket in his blouse to draw a circle around the base of the pot that read ‘steaming hot’ . The pot’s ceramic lid rattled with a little puff of heat.
Pouring cups for Adelard and Cormac, the two of them looked both like they belonged there on the prince’s couch, while also wildly out of their element. Even Cormac, in all his stoic grace, held the hoop of the teacup like someone who’d only ever known drinking whiskey from a hip flask.
“Is that really only a passive outfit for you here? All of the palace can surely here exactly where you are, at any time, with all those beads and—ah, then little bells on your cuffs,” Adelard teased further, sipping at his tea and smiling down at it when the rich flavor far exceeded what he brewed on his own at Morrígan. “Charming, though, I’ll admit.”
“Don’t forget the heels,” Saffron exhaled, plopping down in the seat across from them and extending one leg to show off his heeled boots, as ornate as the gold collar of his blouse and the matching, pointed ear-cuffs on the tips of his ears. “King Tross insists we always look more than presentable, even when stalling before a party… Er, thank you both for coming today—I assume Cylvan invited you?”
Adelard nodded, pulling a dark-green enveloped from the inner pocket of his jacket, donning Cylvan’s personal wax-seal on the back. “Yes, on his personal letterhead, even,” Adelard said with a wry smile. “Informing me, without so many words, I was not allowed to refuse.”
“Oh—”
“He insisted my presence might help ease your nerves,” he went on, returning the envelope to his jacket. Saffron flushed in embarrassment again, mentally cursing Cylvan for it, but Adelard continued before he could apologize. “And, I admit, Saffron, I… was disappointed in how our last meeting ended off. Erm—disappointed in myself, that is.” He passed a brief glance to Cormac, who met his eyes, and returned the sentiment with a little nod. Adelard inhaled, and held the breath. Saffron could practically feel the nerves growing under the professor’s skin, making him straighten up.
“It is actually Cormac who convinced me to come and speak with you before the prince’s court tonight,” Adelard continued. As he did, Cormac’s hand silently reached out to touch Adelard’s leg, and Adelard’s hand found and squeezed it. Hard enough to strain the skin over the backs of his knuckles, betraying his real nerves. “You see—I wasn’t entirely honest with you, while you were at Morrígan. About—about myself. About the things I know.”
Saffron held his breath. It took everything in him not to interrupt.
“I’m sure there are things you’ve already figured out on your own—you’ve always been very smart, to a fault, which I’m sure had everything to do with how you’ve found yourself in this position,” he chuckled, shaking his head, then inhaling another slow breath. “But—there are reasons why I was able to share so much about—well, about pixie rings, for example, and their use amongst rebels during the War of the Veil.”
Saffron nodded, clenching his jaw to keep from exclaiming. He’d wondered such things. He’d assumed them, but never thought he’d get the chance to ask. It took everything in him to swallow back the urge to leap to his feet.
“I see it on your face—you know what I’m about to say,” he said, that time his smile weary. Cormac’s hand visibly squeezed Adelard’s, and the professor sighed. “I know, I’m stalling—lord help me, it’s been some time. I’ve kept my secrets well for centuries, give me a moment.”
“Take your time,” Saffron rasped, feeling like he was being squeezed from the inside out. Then he couldn’t stop the next words from coming, unable to find the patience: “You were a rebel during the war, weren’t you?”
Adelard grimaced, but nodded. “Er—yes. More than just a rebel, even, I… I…” his mouth opened, then closed, a choked sound escaping the back of his throat. “I… knew Verity Holt personally, I suppose I’ll say. It’s all I can stomach to share, right now. Ah, I suppose I should—you should know—well, you see, that hematite wand I gave you, is actually— was , actually, hers.”
Saffron stared at him, stomach sinking, before swelling up the back of his throat so fast it emerged as a shrill ‘oh, fuck!’
Thankfully, Adelard laughed in response—though it sounded equally like a wheeze—putting up his hands as Saffron instinctively looked down at the wand he still held in his hand from warming the teapot.
“Don’t look so nervous, Saffron, there’s nothing special about it other than that—nothing to be worried about, just a standard arid wand is all?—”
“But Verity Holt—! She’s the one who—! Who—!” Saffron choked, extending the wand as if Adelard didn’t realize what he was saying. “She—killed—Queen Proserpina?—!”
“Yes, she did,” Adelard managed to chuckle again. “I took the wand for myself after she died, for sentimental reasons, but, ah… it’s better suited for a rowan witch, you see, and I had no more need for such a thing by the time the war ended…”
Saffron wanted to ask what that meant, specifically— no more need . But instead, he remained silent, gazing down at the wand in his trembling hand. The same one Verity Holt, human witch, rowan witch, once carried throughout the war. Possibly even the same one she carried when dealing the final blow on Queen Proserpina, bringing the fighting to an end.
“Virtue…” he breathed, speaking before his thoughts caught up. Across from him, Adelard paled slightly. He adjusted his glasses, like a nervous tick, like that name summoned a different twist of emotions for him. “Erm, Verity’s brother, Virtue, he—” Saffron didn’t know how to explain. Was he getting ahead of himself? “Erm—! The man who has been opening the veils across Alfidel, Ryder Kyteler, it turns out he’s been looking for Queen Proserpina’s memory tapestry this whole time! He was going to implant the threads into Daurae Asche, as a woven vessel, like you once told me about, but I found Asche before he could?—”
“And thank god for that—” Adelard attempted, but Saffron couldn’t halt the momentum of his words.
“But while we were in the Winter Court, at the mac Delbaith estate, Anysta told him—told him Virtue Holt had taken the queen’s memory tapestry after Verity died. If you knew Verity, then did you also know?—”
“I don’t wish to speak of Virtue Holt at this time,” Adelard interrupted that time, a tight smile spread thin across his face, pale as a ghost. Cormac’s hand on his leg flexed again, but that time, Adelard ignored it. “But I will tell you what I know about Ryder Kyteler.”
“He’s—he’s Queen Proserpina’s son,” Saffron said first, and Adelard nodded, stiffly. “He’s the son of her and her human lover, Adone.”
“That’s right,” Adelard said. “I didn’t make the connection at first, and I apologize for that. When I knew him, he called himself Finn O’Daire.”
Saffron’s stomach turned over. Words that struck him deeply, but came as no surprise. The crone had mentioned witchhunters attempting to use that name to trick her into sharing where Ryder was, after all. Perhaps it was simply hearing it spoken by the last person Saffron ever expected, that made goosebumps flush his arms.
“He must have thought himself so clever,” he mumbled to himself. Ryder’s birth name had been Deimne , after all, another name for Finn mac Cumhaill in myth. For him to use the name Finn while pretending to be someone else during the war—it was painfully ironic, but Saffron knew, also entirely intentional. He must have really thought himself so cunning . Saffron could imagine the smugness of his grin when he’d introduce himself with that name—wishing to reach back in time and smack it off his face.
“Did you know he was Proserpina’s son, during the war?” Saffron asked.
“No,” Adelard insisted. “No, he glamoured himself as a human while I knew him. He—he lied to me. To all of us. He lied to Verity, too. He was nearly the reason Proserpina found her, near the end, that absolute bastard…” Adelard’s fists on his knees clenched tighter, trembling in the effort, matching the growing intensity of his voice. “I’m—I’m terribly sorry that I did not realize it sooner, Saffron, I… I think of it now, and it’s obvious, but I… I have intentionally avoided any manner of recalling details of my time during the war, for my own sanity, but also for the sake of protecting myself and the simple life I’ve been able to make for myself at Morrígan?—”
“I understand,” Saffron said right away. “Professor, you don’t have to apologize. I understand.”
Adelard looked like he wished to share more, like something buried deep within his being crawled at the back of his throat to be spoken. Another secret, another hidden part of his life he wished to share, but fought to keep down. Whether he was afraid to share it for his own safety, or perhaps for Saffron’s, Saffron might never know—and while that frustrated him to the bone, he could understand. He, more than most, knew the importance of keeping one’s true identity a secret in order to protect oneself and the people they cared for.
“Thank you for telling me,” Saffron added, squeezing the wand in his hand and lifting a reassuring smile to Adelard. “Please believe me, when I say I will keep your secrets safe. As one of the first people to keep my own secrets—I owe so much of my current happiness to you and your discretion, professor. All those times you helped me read in your office, or shared information about the wild fey with me—not to mention how you hid me while I was passing as the rowan spirit.”
“I think I’ve always known there were great things in store for you, Saffron,” Adelard said with a gentle smile, shoulders finally relaxing from how tensely he held them. “I only hope I can make up for all the things I wasn’t able to teach you back then—and for the cowardice that kept me silent. If you’ll let me, I’d like to remain here in Avren with you, for now. To teach you all I know about rowan magic, veil magic?—”
“Oh!” Saffron exclaimed, that time leaping from his seat in excitement. “Of course! Of course, please!”
Adelard laughed again, getting to his feet and shaking his head before gazing at Saffron in long, quiet consideration. He lifted a hand, touching Saffron’s cheek, still wearing a tiny smile, before his fingers trailed up to gently trail over Saffron’s hair combed back with aromatic oils, then down to the golden tips on his ears, before plucking his hand away in embarrassment.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered. “Like a rightful king.”
“Not quite yet,” Saffron chuckled. “Hopefully someday still, though, if these high fey will allow it.”
“I am certain of it,” Adelard said, like a promise. Like an ancient creature declaring a premonition. “I have seen kings and queens come and go many times; I have nearly seen the veil undone, then haphazardly stitched back together again for the sake of regaining a tenuous balance. But those stitches were never going to last—and in order for true balance to return, they must all be torn open again. No matter what these oracles declare of yours and Prince Cylvan’s court, tonight, we are far from any peace on the horizon…” he trailed off, eyes lingering on the amethyst pendant Saffron wore around his neck, polished bright down to the silver moon charm dangling from the jewel. “But you and Cylvan know that as well as I do, which gives me more hope than I’ve had in a very long time. Hope that we may soon see actual change in Alfidel. A change for the better, for both sides. These high fey will not listen, yet—but even they will bow and kiss your feet in thanks one day, Saffron. I know it.”
Saffron blinked back tears, before reaching out to wrap his arms around Adelard. Hugging him, his professor, his mentor—his friend , who had been there to encourage him when he was nothing more than a veiled beantighe scrubbing floors at Morrígan. Saffron, who’d lived only the smallest fraction of time as Adelard, yet that ancient man had still given Saffron a weak smile and invited him into his office to chatter on and on about all the wild things Saffron had seen in the woods that morning. Who offered Saffron a place to sleep while he roamed the campus drenched in red rowan berries; who never once turned Saffron away, even though it could have lead to disruption of the simple, quiet life he protected so closely.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, Professor. I won’t forget your kindness, no matter what comes next.”
Adelard held Saffron in return, embracing him tightly, like Saffron was something precious. Like he meant it, when he said Saffron was the first thing to give him hope in such a long time. Saffron swore he would not take such a delicate thing for granted.