45. The Court
45
THE COURT
S affron wore all white, with gold beading and stitched filigree up the line of his sleeves, across the square shoulders, and down the back of his spine to spill and trail along the fabric on his heels. Only a tissue-thin, sheer panel covered his back, displaying his skin and trailing like beaded constellations that sparkled with every movement; from the peaks of his shoulders, a similarly-delicate cape draped out behind him, blending with the layers of chiffon that made up the skirt. It was apparently customary to wear white to a court of expectations, a blank canvas, a pale void in which to invite any and all possibilities. Even if they already knew what would come. Even if there was no possibility of anything else. Mostly, while the dress was beautiful as ever—it just reminded him of the veil he used to wear at Morrígan, to hide his face. Where being a blank canvas was a force of submission, not a call for possibilities to find them.
Pinching at the fabric, Saffron stood in the dimly-lit corridor located behind the ballroom, waiting for the courtiers to find their places on the other side. The air smelled humid and sweet like a mountain lake, mixing with the light smoke of what he imagined to be oak-sap candles and incense. He hadn’t been told what exactly to expect during the court’s ritual, he didn’t know what he would see when he was finally able to step through to the other side, but all he could imagine was opening the door to step straight into the middle of the woods rather than the elegant ballroom. Perhaps they’d placed a temporary veneer right there in the palace, to take all guests somewhere within the heart of Avren’s wood. He smirked, he grimaced, sarcastically wondering why no one had thought to ask for his help, considering he was now a master of the veil.
“Ah, excuse me, beantighe, I seem to be—oh, dear, my mistake~” Cylvan’s voice made Saffron jump, and he turned fast, caught in a sharp laugh when a mouth was suddenly pressing to his. Saffron wrapped his arms instinctively back around his prince, practically tasting the trepidation emanating off of him. Cylvan kissed him for a long, drawn out moment, hands finding Saffron’s waist and holding him there, allowing time to slow to nearly a stop before finally pulling away and pressing their foreheads together.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said in an exhale. “I’m actually not supposed to be here, either?—”
Saffron touched his face, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. He meant to reassure him—but Cylvan’s appearance caught him by surprise. His dark, brooding, haunted raven was dressed in pure white vestments just as his own, contrasting beautifully against his dark hair and jewel-toned eyes.
“Oh,” Saffron breathed like the air had been knocked out of him. “You look…”
“Like a little doll,” Cylvan smirked. Saffron cupped his face, chuckling too.
“Yes, but—a handsome one. White suits you. It’s making my heart race.”
“Has it not been racing before now?” Cylvan asked, a little rattled at the thought that he may be the only one who was nervous. Saffron kissed him again, drawing his nerves back to where he could gently hold them in his hands.
“Everything is going to be alright,” he whispered. “If anything—there will be no surprises. I will be right there with you when we announce our engagement—then for you the entire time after, if you ever feel uncertain, just turn and find me. God knows I’ll stand out like a spotlight in this outfit, too.”
“I’ll look for you,” Cylvan said, taking Saffron’s hand. He pressed his mouth into his palm, breathing him in a moment before leaving a kiss in the center. “I’ll find you again the moment it’s over. I’ll think of nothing else but leaving with you when it’s all over.”
“Leaving for good?” Saffron teased. “We could still run away together, never to be seen again.”
“Gods, do not say such things. Did you just feel me twitch? I nearly took your hand and bolted.”
Saffron laughed again. He tucked a piece of Cylvan’s long hair from the corner of his eye, where it draped down in long, luxurious waves over his shoulders. He hadn’t realized how much longer it’d grown since they first met. Hardly enough for anyone else to notice—but Saffron knew everything about his raven, down to the shifting emotions behind his eyes, how his lips were slightly less full because he clenched his jaw tightly in apprehension.
“I love you,” Saffron said. “Even before, and even after a Night Court, I’ve always loved you. No matter what comes.”
“Day or Night.”
“Day or Night,” Saffron repeated. He touched his forehead to Cylvan’s one last time, closing his eyes. “I love you, Cylvan.”
Cylvan exhaled a long breath, as if drawing those words in to wrap over himself like a comforting blanket.
“I love you, Saffron,” he whispered. “I will never love or cherish anyone, or anything else more than you. And finally, tonight—all of Alfidel will finally know it, too.”
Saffron’s heart leapt for the first time, though he didn’t know if it was out of nerves or affection. He only nodded. He was ready. He would bravely face whatever came next, with his hand clasped tightly in Cylvan’s. To prove to any and all who ever doubted—that there was at least one person who cared for the Night Prince of Alfidel. Someone who commanded power none of them would ever anticipate, in order to protect him.
The kings would enter the ballroom first; then Cylvan would follow them, then Saffron would be introduced formally as the prince’s fiancé, to follow them in last. But until then, Saffron watched from the back corridor with Sionnach, who joined him once Saoirse arrived and forced Cylvan away. The moment Saffron had to release Cylvan’s hand, Sionnach was there to claim it for themself, smiling in reassurance.
Behind them, Naoill approached in their Aodhán glamour as well, offering Saffron a flourishing bow and a compliment, before showing where a piece of the carved floral design stretching over the wainscoting could be slid to the side and offer a view into the ballroom. Saffron instantly pressed himself close, barely hearing as Naoill indicated a second one for Sionnach’s view, then took a third for themself.
On the other side of the wall, at first, was only darkness. The ballroom normally swathed in the warm, bright light of crystal chandeliers and candelabras and what he assumed to be a bit of charmed magic—was nearly pitch-black, like a moonless night. Only as his eyes adjusted properly, was he able to make out the undulating groups of shadows that were Avren’s highest-ranking courtiers. Wearing all black, from their outfits to their head-coverings, no different from the Fjornaran oracles who oversaw the ritual. It explained why Adelard and Cormac had been dressed the same.
“Traditionally, Courts of Expectations are held in the oldest woods of one of the four courts,” Sionnach whispered, as if reading Saffron’s mind. As if even they had just finished bingeing a textbook about it, before getting dressed and arriving at the palace. “King Ailir’s was held in the Summer Court, I believe. Perhaps there wasn’t time to decide, with Cylvan…”
“Perhaps they didn’t want to get their suede boots muddy,” Naoill muttered a little further down the wall.
Saffron said nothing, just blinking through the darkness. Attempting to make out a more detailed view, only growing frustrated when his humans eyes did him no favors.
“Icarus, come,” he whispered, and even Sionnach snapped back from their viewing spot in the corner of Saffron’s eye. Saffron still said nothing, until the wolf appeared alongside him. “Go offer me a better look. Don’t let them see you.”
Taran grumbled something, but seemed intrigued at the task, trotting off down the hallway. Just like in the mountains, when Saffron summoned the wolf to witness Ryder’s true name for him, he was able to tap into Taran’s vision in the back of his mind—perceiving without it blocking his vision.
That time, as Taran slipped in through the doors of the ballroom, Saffron even felt the few inches of water blanketing the floor; he smelled the rich scent of shifting lake water and oak wood incense; he could feel the chill in the air as all the windows had been thrown wide open, and the nighttime breeze gently wafted inside. None of the guests clustered amongst themselves noticed the beast moving past like a silent shadow, except the slight brushes against skirts or tailcoats. Amongst them, Saffron recognized the occasional attendee from Cylvan’s suitor galas, or Saffron’s occasional time spent in the palace—but from them, other more familiar guests appeared in the darkness, and even Taran hesitated before keeping his distance.
Renard dé Bricríu stood with all seven of his sons, appearing harsher than ever in their all-black ensembles while exchanging the lowest whispers between one another. Except for one, who remained silent—Copper, who stood slightly off to the side, appearing so out of place amongst his family members despite sharing so many similarities. All sets of their foxlike eyes focused on the center of the ballroom where the altar stood, waiting for Cylvan to arrive.
Alongside them, but not near enough to imply any sort of close ties, Saffron next recognized a cluster of elegant, icy-blonde fey, two of which held the hands of Maeve in the center. Her parents, the dé Bhaldraithes, appeared both apprehensive and humming with pride, clearly aware of how close their daughter had been with the prince in recent weeks. Even if Cylvan was not expected to leave that ballroom with anything more than a curse of Night, even if Maeve was not intended to be his Harmonious Queen like once considered, even they found it in themselves to stand tall with pride.
Anysta Mac Delbaith hovered toward the back of the crowd on the opposite side, silent and upright. The barest light in her eyes indicating her excitement; enough to summon a fiery, angry rush of blood to fill the back of Saffron’s throat. He forced it back down again, instead focusing on the undeniable silhouette of Carce a few yards away from her, standing with étaín held in his arms with her back to his chest. Protective, defensive, surrounded by all of those high fey who’d once spurned her. Looking like an intimidating wild fey in his all black clothing.
Of the other courtiers gathered around, none uttered a word. For the first time in perhaps all of fey history, Avren’s palace ballroom was crowded with people, but not a single word was exchanged. There was only the light splashing and rippling of water on the floor, and the near-imperceptible sound of Taran’s paws as he passed by.
In the center, the water lapped at a wide ring of muddy, grassy sod, encircling a shallow bowl on a stand made of roughly-stripped posts tied together in what Saffron thought to be rather haphazardly thrown together. He had to resist mumbling something in frustration, reminded of what Anysta had said in her study. He had to keep reminding himself that the odds of any part of that ritual being genuine were slim, considering how premeditated every other aspect of it had been.
The moment a low, chanting hum emerged from the Fjornaran oracles standing around the outer rim of the sodden grass, one at the head of it gently plucking the strings of a wooden harp, Saffron whispered for Taran to return. Rather than sneaking all the way back, the wolf merely vanished into the shadows already engulfing him, and Saffron felt the moment his intangible weight nestle back into his mind.
What do you think? Saffron asked. Not sure why—though knowing he was far more restless than he allowed himself to admit.
“I think they are going to get the court they’ve been hoping for,” Taran said venomously. Saffron knew that much, as well. There was no doubt.
The doors at the head of the ballroom opened, and while Saffron could not see who entered first from his vantage point, he knew by the wave of bowing courtiers that it must have been the kings. Ailir and Tross, who walked so elegantly alongside one another they barely disrupted the water glazing their ballroom floor, soon passed into Saffron’s line of sight. Asche walked on their heels, also donning all white as they watched their feet pass through the water. The kings reached their thrones, Asche positioning themself to the side of Ailir’s out of view—when King Tross’ eyes met Saffron’s through the pinhole, and Saffron’s heart thumped. They way they lingered, he couldn’t shake the feeling the king was trying to tell him something.
“… When in all of this do they intend on sharing our engagement?” Saffron asked. “Cylvan said I would be announced before the ceremony began.”
Naoill gave him a look, before grimacing.
“At the last moment, the head oracle of Fjornar thought it better to wait— ah , good, I was hoping you’d disagree,” they grinned as Saffron immediately pulled away from the gap in the wall. Naoill even put out a hand for Saffron to take, sweeping him out of the corridor as Sionnach hurried along behind in surprise.
It wasn’t a far distance to where the main entrance to the ballroom was crowded with more black-clad guards, oracles, lower-tier courtiers—but despite the small throng blocking most of his view, Saffron spotted Saoirse over all of them. He spotted Cylvan’s horns, the broken one newly replaced with a black cap that contained no hint of opulent silver at all.
“Your highness,” Saffron said as they approached, compelling everyone crowded around to turn in surprise. He couldn’t see the expression on the head oracle’s face beneath their veil, but Saffron knew it must have wrinkled in annoyance. Cylvan, meanwhile, looked at Saffron with a rush of pale relief, like even he had only been told a moment prior that there had been a change of plans.
Saffron was not going to allow that to happen, and he made sure of it by pulling away from Naoill to go straight for where Cylvan stood, hooking an arm through his. Cylvan’s arm tightened around his in return. Refusing to let him go. The people of Alfidel wouldn’t need a long speech to announce their engagement, then—they would simply understand the moment Saffron entered the prince’s court with arms woven protectively around one another.
In Cylvan’s opposite hand, he held a single lit candle with a trembling flame that indicated his barely-subdued nerves. Saffron offered his hand while still wrapped in Cylvan’s, and Cylvan passed the candle over. Holding it between them, at the same time. Allowing the dancing light to settle, flame stretching long and tall on its unflinching foundation, supported between the both of them. Together.
Entering the ballroom arm in arm, into a sea of darkness. The shallow lake of water instantly soaked through Saffron’s shoes and pulled on the train of his dress. They entered into a dreamlike sphere of whispered chanting song and a plucking harp, soon joined by the surprised, muted gasps of courtiers as they recognized Saffron walking tall and arm-in-arm with the prince. Saffron felt the weight of the reveal on his shoulders. He felt the sharp, vitalizing squeeze of satisfaction knowing he and Cylvan had decided for themselves what would be written in gossip columns the following morning, despite the oracles’ attempts to hide Saffron away just a bit longer. They should have known. If they’d ever shared a single word about him with the witchhunters they claimed to no longer be associated with—they should have known better. Saffron was not the witch to snub; Saffron was not the Rowan Witch to leave his Night Prince to face the darkness alone.
Passing through the crowd, Cylvan would have never bowed his head or hid his face in that circumstance—but Saffron felt how even he moved with a swift confidence, a renewed sense of authority, arm interwoven with Saffron’s as they carried the candle between them with an infallible flame.
The courtiers, despite resorting to silence at the start, began to whisper—and some even reached out to gently brush fingers through the white chiffon cape at Saffron’s back. As if unsure he was real; wishing to see if they could feel him, or if he was merely a ghost. Lord Saffron, who rescued Daurae Asche from their horrible fate—is the chosen fiancé of Prince Cylvan of Alfidel.
At the circle of sodden grass, Saffron followed Cylvan’s lead. He bowed toward the altar bowl in the center, before releasing the candle for the head oracle to take and place in a small cup on the rim of the bowl. Then, Cylvan turned—and bowed to Saffron, eliciting another muted gasp from the crowd. The prince bowed, then took Saffron’s hand to kiss the back of it, meeting Saffron’s eyes.
Time froze around them one last time, hand-in-hand in the darkness, a thousand words passing between their eyes, never having to be spoken to be known. A thousand promises, a thousand certainties for the future—all stemming from one single geis made in the Aon Adharcach suite of Morrígan Academy.
Saffron’s emotions stirred. The backs of his eyes burned, and despite his wish to remain stoic and intimidating in front of all those people—he couldn’t help but offer Cylvan a small, reassuring smile. Everything will be alright. I’ll be right here if you need me. Just turn to look .
Cylvan knew it. Saffron could see it in his eyes, as he smiled back so minutely that only Saffron would ever recognize it. Even as he straightened up again and extended an arm for Saffron to turn and join the kings by their thrones, Saffron could see that shift in Cylvan’s demeanor. Sure of himself; almost optimistic in his unwavering presence. The next king of Alfidel stood in front of Saffron, and all those people, even draped in darkness—and they all would know it.
Saffron joined the kings at the head of their thrones, smiling and nodding at Asche alongside Ailir as he offered all three of them a deep bow, before finding his place at Tross’ opposite hand. A thousand eyes followed him his every movement, meaning they also saw how King Tross reached out to take and squeeze Saffron’s hand for the briefest moment. As if to compliment him, for recognizing something was amiss. Saffron squeezed back before letting go, a silent thank you for the hint.
In the center of the room, the head oracle crossed the grass circle into the center. They took the shallow bowl in their hands, raising it over their head as the rhythmic chanting continued. They beseeched the Dagda in a language Saffron only recognized to be Old Alvish due to its similarities to Gaeilge, even recognizing a handful of the chosen words. God, welcome, bless, protect, they invited the god of the mounds to join them, before the chanting died down, and the harp music slowed.
Cylvan stepped into the circle with them. He leaned over the surface of the bowl containing a dark liquid, seeming to breathe it in a long moment before straightening up again.
“May the Dagda draw the stars as we are meant to read them,” the oracle spoke aloud. “May they counsel our sights, and address our shortcomings. For the coming reign of Crown Prince Cylvan dé Tuatha dé Danann, of Day King Ailir and Harmonious King Tross, and Progenitor Mother Naoill dé Fianna dé Tuatha dé Danann—we beseech the Dagda to concede what they know.”
The head oracle threw the contents of the shallow bowl in an arc over their head. But rather than raining down across the attendants—the ink hovered in an opaque bloom, before spreading. Crawling in every direction until it formed a broad, black cloud of nothingness, even darker than a moonless night sky.
Saffron held his breath. He nearly took a step forward in anticipation, waiting for something to come, waiting to see what the gods would say—only for his heart to stop the moment a deep, crimson-red moon appeared through a split in the darkness.