46. The Bough
46
THE BOUGH
C rimson tears the moon shall weep.
Saffron could only stare. Unmoving, unbreathing, as the ringing silence of the ballroom suddenly split like a swollen thunderstorm, crashing open and tearing through the air with a resounding uproar. Shrieking and crying, shouting words of calamity and destruction, the wrath of the gods, punishment for what wicked thing the people of Alfidel would allow to step onto the throne.
The crowd oscillated as courtiers stumbled into one another, some clambering for the closed doors to demand release, others shoving against one another in an attempt to rush the grass circle where Cylvan stood frozen. With his head tilted back, craned toward the undeniable, bright red moon floating overhead. A blood moon. A rowan-red blood moon, declared over his coming court.
When he did finally move again—it was to gaze toward Saffron. Saffron, who met his eyes in an instant. Who nearly leapt back into the water to race for him, had King Tross’ hand not lashed out to grab his wrist and keep him back. Saffron didn’t turn to look at him, to demand to be let go. He could hardly think. There was only the red moon, the crowd growing in its uproar, but most unsettling of all—was the calm disbelief on Cylvan’s expression. Gazing at Saffron from where he stood, there was no sign of panic in his own demeanor. His eyes were still, even a layer glazed over, as if stripped of his ghost. As if only his body remained where it stood, like every last hope had been unraveled from his bones, leaving him empty. Saffron swore he mouthed something for Saffron to read—but it was too dark to see. Saffron’s human eyes weren’t sharp enough, even in the unnatural red glow of the blood-moon displayed overhead—but it didn’t matter. In a voice as ancient as the mounds where the Tuatha dé Danann first emerged, a voice spoke in the back of Saffron’s mind, matching Cylvan’s lips.
They who forsake the veil—are forsaken by me.
A rush of air crashed into his lungs the moment Cylvan broke eye contact, even he stumbling back a step and pressing a hand to his head. Just behind him, Adelard was visible in the front of the crowd, illuminated by the crimson light—and also staring straight at Saffron. Knowing the symbolism of a blood moon as well as anyone else who’d ever read the poem on the red cards passed by Ryder’s witches. Anyone who had ever walked the path of Verity and Virtue Holt during the war, or stood against it.
Just behind the professor, another familiar face stood, staring wide-eyed and astonished at the red moon glowing in the void. Anysta mac Delbaith—as if even she could have never anticipated exactly what sort of Night Court was promised of the Prince of Alfidel.
As the vision began to fade, the redness of the moon dissolving away into a brief moment of clear, bright white light, the ink suspended in the air turned into a trickling rain, first only a sprinkle before releasing into nearly a downpour. Rippling across the water carpeting the ballroom floor, staining the shoulders of Cylvan’s pure-white tunic and pants. Soiling every courtier who stood too close, until black ink slithered in trails down arms and faces and soaked through Cylvan’s dark hair.
When the cloud fully dispersed, the chaos only rang louder and more frenzied. Saoirse and the other palace guards fought to keep the crowd at bay, spitting and cursing and throwing out their hands to grapple at the prince who remained motionless in the center of the circle. Just staring at where the shallow bowl had been dropped, floating in the water—until even it was swept up by the head oracle, who swung and slammed it against the side of Cylvan’s face with a shriek of contempt.
Saffron jolted forward, but Tross still had a tight grip on him. That time, he snapped around to demand the king release him—but Tross wasn’t looking at him. Neither was Ailir, both of them sitting stiff and motionless in their thrones, unable to do anything but stare at the unraveling of the court in front of them. Even in the dim light, Saffron witnessed silent tears filling Ailir’s eyes and slipping down his cheeks, into his beard.
“Gentle Aodhán,” Tross said, barely audible over the noise. “Take Saffron away from this.”
“No!” Saffron snarled, tearing his wrist from Tross’ grasp. The king didn’t react—he didn’t turn his head from watching Cylvan in the center of the room, where Saoirse had already gone to his aid. Tross didn’t even lower his hand from where it newly grasped at air where Saffron had been. Even Naoill struggled to pull their eyes away, clearly torn between what they wished to do and what they knew would be best—finally turning and stiffly placing a hand to Saffron’s back.
“You should go,” they said. Their voice shook. “Cylvan wouldn’t want you to see this.”
“I can help—” Saffron attempted, but cut himself short as he understood as well as Naoill didn’t that no , he couldn’t. That was not the time to reveal his magic to all of those people. Not when he’d just been revealed as Cylvan’s fiancé, not when the prince had just received an unprecedented message from the gods. Cylvan did not need Saffron to jump to his rescue at that moment, to risk making everything worse. Hating that anything could be worse still than what unfolded in front of him.
But Saoirse was there with him in the center of the room; the other guards were keeping the rest of the crowd at bay. Ailir had finally turned to speak in fast, hushed whispers to Tross, preparing what he wished to say in the next moment when he would stand and command his court to silence. Saffron had to go.
“Stay with him,” Saffron said, gently tucking Naoill’s arm away. “Tell him he can find me in his bedroom. I’ll be waiting for him, alright?”
“I can’t let you go alone?—”
“I know all the secret passages,” Saffron said with a weak smile, eyes flashing to where Asche stood alongside Ailir, white-knuckling the king’s hand as they visibly fought against tears welling in their eyes. Fighting to keep their expression flat, stoic, while forced to witness the vicious backlash against their brother. “The daurae made sure to show me, a while ago. No one will see me.”
Naoill searched Saffron’s face, but it was clear how badly they wished to do as he asked. Saffron knew it. He offered them a bow, then turned to slip behind the kings’ thrones, where he knew there to be a beantighe passage through the wainscoting. He would go straight to Cylvan’s bedroom. He would wait for him there. And Cylvan would know it.
Saffron didn’t want to go—he didn’t want to leave Cylvan, not in that state. He wanted to rush to meet him, to take his hand and threaten anyone else who dared step close, but—there were eyes on him. And Cylvan was keeping his composure. Even against his will, he was forcing himself to remain calm so no one would have anything to say the following morning. There would be nothing to write about, except his astounding calm in the face of a warning from the gods.
He must have felt so lonely, standing there in the middle of that crowded room, surrounded by hungry wolves waiting for any reason to bite him. He must have been so lonely, and—Saffron had to leave him there, to suffer it in silence. He had to.
Saffron would wait for Cylvan in his room, to be there the moment he returned. To hold him. To tell him everything would be alright, just like the last time. To wash the ink from his face and clothes and hair, to hold him tightly. To kiss every inch of him and tell him everything would be alright. To tell him how much he loved him, how Saffron would be there with him for whatever came next. To hold his hand, endlessly, no matter how dark the night that came.
Slipping through the wainscoting hidden behind the kings’ thrones, Saffron barely closed the panel behind him when something grabbed his arm, twisting it backward and shoving him roughly into the wall. Grunting, he attempted to shove off on impulse—but something cold and metallic clasped around his throat. Two sharp prongs bit into his skin.
“Easy, your highness,” Ryder growled, as amused as he was furious. “I only came to wish you congratulations on your engagement.”
The grip he held on Saffron’s forearm pressed into the small of his back was harder than steel, breathing heavily as he tucked his chin into the curve of Saffron’s shoulder. Pressing his nose to the side of Saffron’s neck and breathing him in.
“I wanted to give you your gift. Something just for you. I’ve got it out in the back garden. Come on, before something else finds the poor thing and pounces.”
Saffron threw his weight backward, managing to break free of Ryder’s grasp just long enough to twist and slam an elbow into the man’s jaw. Ryder spit blood into Saffron’s face, grabbing and slamming him back against the wall a second time. That time knocking the air from Saffron’s lungs, making his world spin as the silver collar squeezed around his throat. Filling him with an incomprehensible dread; sending him all the way back to Danann House’s attic, where he sat in silence. Nothing more than a ghost.
No, no, no—he wouldn’t become a ghost. Not again. He had to be there for Cylvan, he had to be there when Cylvan finally emerged from the fray. He wouldn’t let Ryder get his way again, he wouldn’t?—
“There will be no fox fey to help this time,” Ryder hissed. “And you and I both know—I’ll kill that satyr if you don’t behave like I expect you to.”
Saffron’s blood froze in his veins. He stared at Ryder with wide, panicked eyes, only bringing the man to grin.
“That’s right,” he whispered, cupping under Saffron’s chin with one hand as if briefly appraising him. “Come on, then.”
Saffron thought Ryder might let up on his grip once he submitted to walking down the hallway, but it remained domineering. Even as they passed beantighes hurrying by, who gasped and jumped back, but remained silent. Staring at Saffron, glancing at Ryder, then shying out of the way as Ryder hissed at them to move along .
“Summon me,” Taran whispered. Even he sounded panicked, distressed, like he knew as well as Saffron that he couldn’t. Saffron didn’t know how to, without a vocal command. He could only roll his tongue over in his mouth, which had gone dry in his focus to remain upright. His desperate fight to remain calm.
As soon as I can , he offered in return.
“I will be here,” Taran responded, as if there was anywhere else he could go. “I am right here, the moment you can.”
Saffron could barely breathe as it was, spit building in the back of his throat and choking him with every sharp breath. Fighting the hot, icy panic rising and falling in his chest. Forcing it back down, screaming at himself to keep his wits. He had to keep his composure. He had to make sure Sionnach was alright. He had to get back to Cylvan. He had to do— something.
He knew exactly how far the palace gardens were from the ballroom. He practically knew how many steps it would take to get there, but the distance had stretched into eternity as they went. As Ryder’s hand bruised the skin of Saffron’s wrist, as fresh drips of blood slipped from the prongs of the silver collar around his throat.
Through the back door into the gardens, the air outside was icy. A storm brewed over the distant sea, as if ringing out for all to know exactly the result of Prince Cylvan’s Court of Expectations. It brought a chilled wind with it, whipping through the wisteria trees and scattering petals across the path Ryder forced Saffron to follow.
At the end of it, within a thicket of trees and right alongside the creek ribboning down the center—Saffron choked at the sight of Sionnach on the ground. Arms and legs tied behind their back, a bloody gash soaking through their pale hair. They gazed at him with half-lidded, blurry eyes, lips parted slightly as if desperate to call out for someone to help.
Saffron reeled with a flood of rage, slamming himself backward into Ryder, throwing his feet out as the man’s arms wrapped around him in return. Gripping him with enough strength to nearly snap Saffron’s ribs, attempting to sedate him, finally kicking Saffron’s feet out from under him and pitching him to the earth. Saffron landed with a heavy thud, rolling immediately onto his stomach and scrambling to where Sionnach remained unmoving on their side. He reached for their face—only to be grabbed by the collar and wrenched back just before he could.
“Draw the circle,” Ryder told him, throwing a tin of charcoal to him. The lid popped open as it bounced against the grass, a cloud of black dust staining the front of Saffron’s fine clothes. “The summoning spell. Not with your wand, either—I want to exactly what you do. Then you’re going to tell me what you see, when you perform it right fucking here. Tell when what I want to hear, and we’ll leave your friend in peace. But either way—you’re coming with me.”
Saffron lobbed the charcoal back at him. Ryder swiped it out of the air, then reached into the back of his pants, pulling a pistol that reflected the stormy moonlight and set Saffron’s nerves alight. Making his heart pound hard, in a different way—in the same way it once did when he was first taken back to the human world. With Luvon, where he was meant to be re-introduced to his parents. When his father pulled a gun just like that one, threatening to put a bullet in him if Luvon ever tried to bring Saffron back again.
Saffron raised his hands slightly, on instinct. They trembled, caked in black charcoal as his mind raced. He couldn’t remember the markings, for a moment. There was nothing in his mind except cold, paralyzing fear. Begging it to only be a dream; a horrible dream he’d wake from soon enough, safe in Cylvan’s bed. In his arms.
“Enough of this, Finn.”
Ryder whipped around, and Saffron flinched behind his hands. From the darkness, someone stepped from the path with their own hands raised—and Saffron recognized Adelard, just as a second pair of feet hit the earth on the other side of the creek a few yards away. Saffron barely turned to look, seeing only the silhouette of Cormac. Standing tall and intimidating, eyes glowing a pale yellow with broad wings like those of a bat furling in behind him.
Ryder held the gun pointed at Adelard for what felt like an eternity, as he clearly looked the human professor up and down. Saffron wished to tell Adelard to run , knowing Ryder wouldn’t hesitate to kill him of all people, as unimportant as he was to everything Ryder wanted—but then Ryder turned a little more, to better face Adelard head-on. He never lowered the gun, but he tilted his head slightly. Curious.
“Haven’t heard that name in a bit,” he said, trailing off as the wind whistled around them. Thinking. “Only a handful of folk used to know me by it. Why don’t you come a little closer? Let me see you clearly, hm? Refresh my memory.”
To Saffron’s horror, Adelard obeyed. He threw his hands out, attempting to cry out to him, only for the collar to tighten and choke him. Ryder barely twitched, just watching as a nearby lantern better illuminated Adelard’s unassuming demeanor. Another torturously long moment passed, despite only being a few seconds. Saffron glanced back to Cormac, silently demanding to know why he didn’t do anything while Adelard stood in such danger?—
Ryder clucked his tongue. Saffron turned back slowly, noticing how, that time—Ryder’s grip on the gun quaked slightly.
“Take that glamour off, friend. Let me see you honestly.”
“You already know who I am,” Adelard asserted back, voice firm. In the low light, something about him was off; there was nothing meek, sheepish about him. He nearly made chills race down Saffron’s spine. “Do as I say, Finn, before you do something you regret.”
“I’ve already done plenty of things I regret. What’s a little extra?” Ryder asked. Saffron knew he meant it to be playful, but even his words carried the smallest jitter. His thumb moved on the pistol, clicking a piece of metal at the end of the barrel. Saffron jumped; behind him, Cormac shifted his feet. But Adelard raised a hand to both of them. “Tell me who you are, or I’ll pull the trigger.”
“You really don’t recognize me, Finn? My glamour isn’t even particularly elaborate,” Adelard insisted. That time, he smirked. Goosebumps raced down Saffron’s arms. “Come on. You’re still an embarrassment, even after all this time.”
“You shut your mouth,” Ryder said, but he still didn’t answer. His grip on the pistol flexed, knuckles white as a vein popped beneath his skin.
“Last one to figure out Harper’s secret; still too stupid to figure out mine. I hear you’ve been searching high and low for something I took from you, too, tearing up the veil just like the veiled bitch,” Adelard went on. Saffron no longer recognized his voice. Angry and threatening and—completely unwavering. “Like mother, like son. Oh, if only Verity were here to see you. The things she’d have to say would make you cry—just like all those times before.”
“Take off your fucking glamour!” Ryder exclaimed. His finger flinched on the trigger, firing a round into the trees over Adelard’s shoulder. Tears filled Saffron’s eyes, overwhelmed, confused, desperate for Adelard to turn around?—
But Adelard remained where he was. He said nothing else, just reaching up to pluck off his glasses. He pulled the chain entirely from his head, folding the ear pieces and hooking them over a nearby branch.
Even in the darkness, Saffron saw how the the man’s glamour fell away. Professor Adelard, the short, timid, nervous human who taught anthropology at Morrígan Academy—suddenly gained a few inches of height. He lost the roundness in his face, gaining freckles that dotted his cheeks. His brown eyes shifted into a pale blue, blonde hair growing dark and taking on a curl, lengthening into a short ponytail at the base of his neck. Handsome, but ordinary in every way—except a look in his eyes that made Saffron’s blood chill. An ancient, formidable look that cut straight through Ryder like he were made of rice paper. Even the wind whistled louder through the trees, thrashing the branches; even the veil suddenly surged to life amongst the falling wisteria petals, swirling along the earth and circling Adelard like he was an old friend it’d lost track of.
Ryder barked a shrill, fractured laugh, louder than glass breaking.
“You really haven’t changed a bit!” he cried with crackling amusement, pulling back the hammer on the pistol. “Just like I remember you, Virtue. With your hair that long, I could almost confuse you for your sister—so sorry about her, by the way. I don’t think I ever had the chance to apologize.”
Cold hands gripped Saffron’s lungs as tightly as the queen’s silver squeezed his throat; the prongs burrowed deeper against his windpipe, dripping more blood into his collar.
Professor Adelard—had been Virtue Holt, brother of Verity, and redeemer of humans during the War of the Veil, the whole time Saffron had known him. Living his simple life as a human professor at Morrígan Academy, where every day he’d skirted Saffron’s pleas for information in order to protect himself and an attempt at a quiet life. Saffron didn’t know if it was hot betrayal that filled him to the brim—or despair, to think it was his fault the man had instantly lost all of that in exposing himself.
“You know I am not someone to trifle with, Finn,” Adelard—Virtue—responded, voice as piercing as his gaze. “Put the gun away. Leave these poor folk alone.”
“Funny—you used to love trifling with me, after everyone else was asleep,” Ryder cooed. “Does your new boyfriend know that? Does he know all the things we used to do? All those times I had to cover your mouth, to keep the others from hearing how you moaned?”
For the first time, Virtue’s expression twitched. Ryder smirked, nudging the end of the gun toward where Saffron remained on the grass behind him.
“Tell me where you’ve put my mother’s memory tapestry, and I’ll consider letting this all go,” Ryder said.
“There’s nothing she can tell you that I cannot,” Virtue answered. “She doesn’t wish to have anything to do with you, still , even after all this time—why else would she have ignored your efforts, and called out to a beantighe instead? I hope her soul writhes in humiliation, knowing a rowan witch has been hearing every pitiful cry she’s made.”
Ryder glanced at Saffron over his shoulder. Saffron glared back at him, wishing he could speak. Wishing he could confirm everything Adelard said—to tell him exactly how the queen’s tapestry had indeed preferred to call out to him, rather than her own son. He, who owned her beloved king’s bones.
“Well… that changes things, doesn’t it?” Ryder said. He kept his eyes on Saffron as he did; the calm in his voice, that time, made Saffron’s breath catch. “Seems you really are as special as I always thought, Saffron. No wonder your prince is so obsessed with you, despite having no idea how to best use you. But I do. I have so many uses for you, even now. Even if you refuse, even if I have to force you…”
He trailed off, turning back to Adelard. To Virtue Holt. Ryder’s opposite hand flexed at his side, as if picking at a hangnail. Turning something over between his fingers—but Saffron’s eyes quickly flashed away, back to the gun as Ryder lowered it.
“Virtue—be sure you tell the prince, to his face, that your refusal to give me what I want is the reason I’ve done this. Send him my regards—and Saffron’s.”
“Adelard!” Cormac shouted, pushing off from the grass with wings flared. He slammed into Virtue, shoving him away—just as Ryder turned on heel, lunging for where Saffron instantly threw himself over Sionnach, clinging to them.
In the light, four pixie rings glimmered on Ryder’s fingers. The same number the veil had warned him to avoid being touched by while they fought in the Winter Court.
Knock, knock, knock, knock —the veil swallowed them whole. With it, all that remained—undone, flaring across Alfidel like a lesion in skin. Butterflied open and ringing through every inch of Saffron’s being—telling him exactly what it meant, the moment he crashed to the wooden floor on the other side, an instant before all of his own magic left him.
Ryder had finally plucked the last seam, stealing Saffron through against his will—and with it, the veil was no more.