Page 9

9

THE STABLE

E relaine, the ‘Mount of the Gods,’ emerged from the landscape like a castle from the sea. Built up the steep slope of a mountain, not unlike that of Avren, it was visible from the windows of the train even with another hour to pass before they arrived at the station. As the city emerged from the horizon, Saffron sat in the quiet car, stomach full of food and rum after Cylvan finally caught his breath.

The prince himself sat in a chair opposite Saffron with a pile of missives on his lap, provided at the last moment in Avren and describing in better detail oracle observations from Erelaine’s event. Every now and again he would share one or another with Saffron, but otherwise remained quiet. He occasionally glanced up, but only when other passengers walked by. There wasn’t a single hint of his previous emotions anywhere in his demeanor, except the small flickers Saffron alone could recognize. At the very least, none of the witchhunters Saffron had watched board in Avren were anywhere to be seen, allowing him to relax.

He didn’t realize Erelaine emerged at first, silently wondering why other passengers suddenly crowded against the window to look. Making the motion of beseeching a Day Court as they did, many praying in whispers that the stop at Erelaine’s station would go without delay so they could continue their journey along. So they wouldn’t have to linger too closely to the newest city cursed by red witches . Those words were what finally grabbed Saffron’s attention, closing his book and getting to his feet.

The closer the train drew to the mount, the more detail every structure demonstrated, until even Saffron had his nose pressed to the glass like just another tourist. Most of the structures collected around the base of the mountain, built from marble and polished stone; painted with gold and inlaid with gems; draped with multicolor fabrics and hanging incense pots, glass lanterns, strings of bells, flowers that came fully into view as they approached.

Saffron had only a passing knowledge of the city, mostly that Erelaine was called the Mount of the Gods for a reason, though it wasn’t nearly as sacred a place as Mag Meall or Ailinne further north. A city for high fey to visit when they wished to make offerings to household deities, family deities, any god who might listen to one particular plight or another. Even Luvon’s family would make the journey at least once a year to pray to Cailleach Bhéara of the Winter Court, and any other number of names who might offer him a fruitful frostfruit crop and keep his wine from turning to vinegar. Saffron himself had never joined them on the trips, but he knew enough just from the stress of the annual preparations and complaints made once they returned back home.

Built up the height of the mountain, layered on top of one another like decor on a tiered cake, temples steadily grew taller, more ornate, some topped with gold shingles that reflected the light of the sunset, others swallowed by ancient trees as tall as the buildings themselves. Clustered all the way up to the peak, the altar-buildings grew more lavish, until at the very top, a single structure sat with a carved marble statue overlooking what Saffron could only imagine to be a view of all of Alfidel from the height.

That was when Cylvan sidled up behind him, resting against an elbow on the window, partially caging Saffron against it in order to see what had him so interested. As he did, the other passengers huddled nearby took one look before quietly scoffing and turning away. Cylvan followed them with his eyes, but said nothing.

“It’s a tiered arrangement,” he said, touching a sharp nail to the glass and drawing a slow spiral upward while explaining. “Smaller, more common deities—demigods, figures of myth, and so on—have their temples built on the lower tier, at the bottom. Niamh, Derdriu, Oisín, folks like those. Any fey, high or low, are allowed to pay respects to those as they please. The goat is most likely to have all of their satyr-gods located in that tier. Don’t look at me like that—I didn’t design it.” His finger inched upward on the glass. “The middle tier venerates more powerful gods, particularly family gods to the sídhe. Such as Lugh, technically, though he’s at the highest point just before the entrance to the upper tier. Generally, only sídhe and special guests are allowed entry there. The highest tier, of course, deifies the most important of Alvish gods—direct descendants of The Dagda, for example. Even Bríghde has her place.”

“But Bríghde is a human goddess,” Saffron whispered. “Isn’t she?”

“Yes, but—still a child of The Dagda. You know, before the War of the Veil—even humans were allowed in the Mount of the Gods. I imagine rowan witches visited the uppermost tiers, too. The Dagda was considered a god of both human and fey, equally.” He leaned closer, whispering just for Saffron to hear. “Myths say The Dagda even preferred humans over fey, which was why they gifted them with magic, then the ability to converse with the veil before ever offering the same to the rest of us.”

“Oh,” Saffron breathed, flushing a little bit, but unsure why. He just peeked over at Cylvan with a sheepish grin, and Cylvan smiled back like Saffron was something to eat.

“Maybe I’ll toss you to The Dagda while we’re here, just to see if they have something to say about it,” he threatened under his breath, trailing his nail over the glass to indicate the temple at the very peak of the mount. “Perhaps they will be able to offer us some advice for our current predicament, hm?”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” Saffron gulped, and Cylvan laughed.

“You’re right. We’ll get our chance later, anyway, on our coronation day—the only time Erelaine opens The Dagda’s temple for visitors. I wouldn’t want to send you in alone, without me by your side to declare you mine—what if they try and take you for themself? I would have to go to war with a god. And once I defeated them, I would be a Night God , rather than just a prince… Can you imagine the headlines?.”

“You’d defeat a god for me?”

“I’d flatten an entire pantheon for you with just the word, my prince .”

Saffron flushed hotter, nudging him, but couldn’t resist grinning. The other passengers keeping their distance had no idea exactly what sort of blasphemous, treasonous things their coming Night loved to whisper to his beantighe pet.

Saffron had done a decent enough job keeping his nerves under control from the moment they left the palace in Avren, even after overhearing the words Cylvan spoke to the people crowded on the platform, even knowing there were witchhunters somewhere on the same train where the landscape passed them by; but all of his tempered anxieties came rushing back within a few steps of disembarking the train onto Erelaine’s platform. Illuminated by lantern light in the growing darkness of sunset, a throng of people fought to board the train and flee the city, not caring who they shoved or elbowed or shouted at. His heart jolted in his chest, halting his feet before he could claim more than a few steps, instantly intimidated by all the shouting and flying limbs. Sionnach tripped into him from behind, grappling for Saffron’s shoulders to remain upright. But Saffron’s ears rang too loudly to hear anything they said.

The platform was technically situated just outside the gates of the lower tier of the mount, though equally adorned with wreaths of flowers and bells, trinkets, flags that flapped in the wind and illuminated by rows of hanging lanterns in every color, matching more colorful lights on the other side of the gates, as if according to whose-ever altar one sought to worship at. The air was rich with every type of incense possible to burn—enough that the stench was more nauseating than inviting.

It was a place Saffron could tell had once swelled with opulence—but as he stood there, the once-sumptuous mount rang only with the shouts and cries of high fey attempting to leave. Made ashen by the veil event unleashed upon it just the night before—despite reportedly so small in its actual destruction that it had taken a search party to even find where it occurred. From where Saffron stood, he couldn’t see any sign of the event ever happening—but that brought him no peace. He didn’t want to think that Ryder could open the veil with those six banging knocks wide enough to swallow entire throngs of people—or so narrow that they would simply go unnoticed, except the ashen state left behind.

If Ryder was still there, for whatever reason—Saffron would find him. And watching as the four witchhunters left the train and made their way toward the front gates with the rest of the crowd—Saffron was certain, it wouldn’t be very hard. Even if they told Ryder he was coming, Saffron would not let him get far.

“My sister may likely be here as well,” Taran’s voice ghosted, making Saffron jump. “To shill our family silver to those newly affected by the ashen state.”

Saffron scoffed under his breath. How honorable of her. Do the mac Delbaiths anxiously await disasters like these in order to make money?

“They certainly don’t mourn them.”

Saffron noticed Taran’s choice of words, ‘they’ rather than ‘we’. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Either way,” Taran went on. “I’ll let you know if anything seems amiss.”

How would you know? Saffron thought back, before frowning and adding: And why should I trust ? —

“Because you own me, remember?” the wolf responded, bitterly, sarcastically. Saffron could imagine exactly how Taran’s face would have twisted and sneered if spoken out loud. “And because I don’t want Cylvan getting hurt because you’re not paying attention. Especially since Anysta already found her way into the palace once.”

Saffron glanced over his shoulder just as Cylvan emerged from the train, with Saoirse and Aodhán on his heels. An unexpected uproar of voices overtook the platform in an instant, reminding Saffron too much of the shouts heard as they passed through the crowd gathered outside the palace gatehouse. From those who clustered on the train platform in Avren. Cylvan’s silver horn flashed in the lanternlight as he emerged, and even Taran’s mood soured further.

Do you think…? Saffron started, unsure how to ask without sounding foolish. Unable to think as clearly as he wished with the sudden cacophony from the crowd. Could the horn have an opulent ability that we should be worried about?

“I would not be surprised if it did,” Taran answered. “However—I also would not be surprised it if truly is just meant to help aid regrowth. My family is not known for playing such tricks, especially through their silver.”

Saffron wasn’t sure if that reassured him, or made him more skeptical—but the ruminations of Taran and the witchhunters and everything else whisked away the moment Cylvan spotted where he stood, and made his way over.

“Come,” he whispered, placing a cordial hand on the small of Saffron’s back to lead him into the lingering crowd, many of whom held their quills and parchments. “Stay close, I fear what will be left if any of us fall into this sea of sharks.”

Saffron grimaced, but did as he was told, walking close as Saoirse took the lead of the group and barked orders to stay back while approaching the crowd that called out insults and demands for Cylvan. The noise of the throng mixed with the shrieking of the train’s whistle, the groan of the steam engine as the metal beast shuddered on the tracks. It conglomerated with the thick, sticky cloud of incense in the air that didn’t help Saffron’s growing headache, nor how, despite their best attempts at parting the crowd, they were still constantly knocked this way and that, more than once almost entirely off their feet as more and more demands were made, growing in vitriol as Cylvan bowed his head and hurried through the wave rather than stopping to address them like he had in Avren.

“Prince Cylvan, Prince Cylvan!”

“Have you come to bear witness! Have you come to plead to Queen Morrígan for deliverance!”

Saffron turned his head, but Cylvan’s hand on his back drew him forward again.

“You’ve brought this with your Night Court, Seelie Prince!”

Saoirse shoved someone away ahead of them, who’d lunged forward, red-faced and spitting curses. In their hand, they clutched a fistful of a printed gossip column from that morning.

“May Queen Morrígan swallow you whole, sluagh!” They screeched. “Do not bring your cú sídhe from her academy to the ruins of her temple, beast!”

“Get gone, seelie sluagh! Do not bring your curse upon us!”

“Stay clear of our gods, else you damn us all!”

“Go! Be gone!”

Something whistled through the air—then crashed against the side of Cylvan’s head, sending glass and wine raining down over him and Saffron by his side. On instinct, Cylvan threw his arm up over Saffron, covering him with the side of his cloak and pulling him closer as Saffron nearly lost his footing in shock. Aodhán rushed the undulating crowd that time, drawing their sword as Saoirse did the same at the head of their group, compelling the unruly fey back with threats of each blade.

Gazing up through the bend of Cylvan’s arm, Saffron could see the prince’s face—with his jaw clenched, and eyes wide. Like even he hadn’t anticipated such a violent reaction to his arrival; all the while clinging to Saffron so tightly, he would surely leave bruises on Saffron’s ribs.

Arriving at the carriage house, the stablemaster waved the group inside before closing the door behind them, effectively cutting off the rush of people who attempted to follow. Fists slammed against the wooden doors, faces appearing in the glass windows, shouting and demanding Cylvan witness them and their grievances. Every time Cylvan turned to look, pale and unsure what to do, Saffron felt the instinct to reach up and touch his face. Drawing him back, meeting his eyes. There was nothing for him to say. And if he went out there to address them—Saffron didn’t know what he would do. The sight of Cylvan’s hair soaking wet and stinking of wine, the small cuts on his forehead from where the glass nicked him, was enough to make Saffron want to tear open the veil and swallow the crowd on his own. If they were given a chance to do something worse—Saffron might swallow Alfidel entirely.

“Stay with me,” Saffron whispered instead, voice tight as Cylvan’s face remained turned toward him, but his anxious eyes continued to flash in the direction of the doors, the windows. “With me, Cylvan...”

Saoirse worked with the stablemaster to organize getting their horses off the train and into the paddocks. Aodhán and Maeve positioned themselves near the doors that rattled against the beam holding them closed, just in case. Even Maeve had her sword drawn, holding it like she was prepared to skewer anyone who pushed through.

“Just ignore them, don’t listen,” Saffron continued, touching Cylvan’s face once more before gently picking small shards of glass from his dark, wet hair. “I need you more than they do.”

“Right…” Cylvan breathed, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows for a moment. “I’m here, Saffron.”

The stablemaster barked at his beantighe to take everyone to the back office where they could sit in peace, offering Cylvan his apologies for the people’s behavior as they passed. Cylvan just lifted a hand with a polite smile as the fey man insisted the excitement would die down as soon as the last train left for the night, after which they should be able to move safely to their lodgings in the city.

All the while, Saffron just kept his arm wrapped through Cylvan’s, not caring if it looked too intimate. He couldn’t get the shouted words out of his head, he couldn’t stop seeing the look on Cylvan’s face when the prince’s instincts begged him to turn and defend himself against the slander being thrown. As if he thought another address would cure the ire storming in a tempest on the other side of the door. Worse than anything that had ever thundered in Avren. Cylvan must have sensed Saffron’s own urge to shove through the doors and fight anyone who shouted such terrible things, because he kept a firm grasp around his waist in return. A silent plea to stay with him, even if everything else barked at him to get up and do something .

Settling into the cramped stable office, the master’s beantighe was eager to give Cylvan and the others anything they wanted, offering hot tea and whatever snacks they had on hand—which weren’t many, but she seemed equally willing to run to the nearby shop to buy anything they requested. It wasn’t hard to guess why when, every time Cylvan politely smiled and accepted her offerings, she blushed bright red and hot enough to practically change the temperature of the room. It was almost enough to mask the bruising around her eye, the puffiness of her cheek. Even her arms were bruised, hands bandaged as if her knuckles had been lashed. Saffron shifted uncomfortably where he sat, trying not to stare as he was certain everyone else noticed as well.

“What’s your name?” Saffron asked instead as she poured cups of tea for them all, seated in a circle around the makeshift table. Cramped in close enough that Maeve and Aodhán constantly elbowed one another, and Sionnach flinched when Saoirse accidentally stepped on their tail. The beantighe girl’s eyes flashed to Cylvan, then back again before meekly answering:

“My name is Moth, my lord.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Saffron said with a smile. “Is the stablemaster your patron fey?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How long have you been a beantighe for him?” Cylvan asked next, while sipping at his tea.

“Oh—only a few months. Before this, I worked for another family in Avren.”

Saffron had to resist asking if Ryder’s business in Avren had anything to do with Moth being sent away. The temptation was so great, he had to physically bite down on his tongue to keep it at bay. Instead, he found something else to take its place: “Moth, did you happen to see what happened last night?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, jolting back and nearly burning herself with the pot. Even Cylvan tensed next to Saffron, his hand moving on instinct to block any boiling water from splashing him. “No, no! I can’t—I’m not allowed to share anything I might overhear, of course. And beantighes aren’t allowed past the gates except when running errands for their patrons, and the stablemaster has never asked me for anything like that…” she trailed off, glancing up at Cylvan again, before looking away. Like every one of her instincts fought to obey her master, while also wishing to appease the prince. “Erm, but… I suppose… in the middle of the night, I woke up to this this tremendous sound. Like drum beats, one after another. Then the earth shook, and another sound like the train had gone off its tracks. At first I thought that was exactly what had happened, except there were no trains expected until morning.”

“It happened in the middle of the night?” Cylvan asked, despite already knowing. Clearly wishing to encourage her. “Do you know what time?”

“I-I’m not positive,” she stammered as soon as Cylvan addressed her. “A little after midnight, maybe? I had just put the horses down and finished my other chores. I was already asleep when the drumming started, so I can’t be more specific…”

“The gossip papers say it occurred in The Morrígan’s Temple,” Sionnach spoke up from the other side of the table, and Moth turned to look at them. “Where is that, in relation to here? Do you know?”

“I don’t,” Moth said with a nervous smile. “I apologize.”

“Was it particularly crowded yesterday? With people visiting the temples,” Saffron went on. “Erm—even just from what you could see from here.”

“The stables were all full, so I assume so.” She nodded. “The fey were eager to leave first thing this morning, that’s for certain.”

Saffron’s eyes trailed over the beantighe’s bruises again, but Cylvan spoke first: “Were they rough with you, in their panic?”

No one expected him to even be so straightforward, even Saffron, who looked at the prince in surprise. Not realizing Cylvan had even noticed them, as it was more of a beantighe instinct of his own. Moth herself stared at him like she thought she’d only imagined it, before closing and opening her mouth with stammering reassurances that everything was fine, there was nothing wrong, then apologizing if her appearance was off-putting. Cylvan only put his hand up with a polite smile.

“I did not mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said. “I was only wondering, though…” his voice went low, holding Moth’s eyes with an intense look Saffron was far too familiar with. “If you find your time here to be unpleasant , you should know you can always send a bird to the palace. Patrons are not allowed to abuse their servants—but the servants have to be the one to report it.”

Moth stared at him. All the color in her face had drained, as if once again wondering whether or not she’d only imagined that. Saffron, meanwhile, slid his hand under the table to spread over Cylvan’s thigh in acknowledgement. A silent thank you, in a way. He hadn’t been expecting to hear anything like that, either, but—it made his heart race.

“Your tea has been a welcome comfort, Moth. I will be sure to remember it,” Cylvan added lastly. The girl blushed hot all over again. She blabbered, stammered, then raced off to brew more. Immediately, Maeve teased Cylvan over his clear preference for cute little humans, to which Cylvan sneered and teased her right back. Back and forth, across the table, Saffron’s companions chuckled and chatted like everything had finally settled back to normal again—but Saffron only sipped at his own tea in silence. The surface twitched with his unsteady hand. It wasn’t anxiety that buzzed in his muscles—but returning anticipation.

When the crowd still had not dissipated by the time the last train left the station, Saoirse decided it best to remain where they were in the stablehouse. There was a single bed that belonged to the stablemaster to the side of the office, which would be reserved for the prince, and the rest of the traveling party would have to make do elsewhere for the time being. There was hardly an expression not draped in annoyance once the head guard made the call, but no one outright complained. Especially as shouts continued calling through the doors.

Saffron particularly didn’t mind finding the stall where Boann lazily munched on straw, throwing down his cloak and curling up on the ground. Imagining the look on Tross’ face if he knew exactly how Saffron used his beautiful cloak as a bedroll; knowing at the same time, it was surely crafted well enough that a little straw dust wouldn’t hurt.

It reminded him of sleeping in the loft of the barn in Beantighe Village, or piling up old blankets and pillows in the attic while resting his head on Hollow’s bare chest after an hour of stolen intimacy. Even Fiachra had no complaints, unsurprising considering her nest at Mairwen consisted of one of Copper’s school blazers and other stolen trinkets from every corner of campus. She even kept herself busy chasing field mice up and down the walkway on the other side of the stalls while Saffron cobbled the little bed together for himself. Never once swooping over them like a proper hunter, insisting on chasing on foot with the sound of her talons on the wood intermingling with the crunching of horses.

Eventually, even the pounding on the front doors ebbed into silence, though Saffron’s nerves told him it didn’t mean the people had gone. The thick smell of incense never ceased, the distant sound of bells and flags in the wind never died out, either, as if the gods forced a constant breeze in order to revel in their offerings. Perhaps there was a reason Erelaine closed its gates once the sun went down—that was the period when the gods emerged from the mounds to inspect the offerings made during the day. To dole out blessings to any patrons who had come to give gifts and beg on their knees.

“Remind you of home?” Cylvan’s ghostly voice emerged from the shadows, making Saffron lift his head in surprise. Squinting through the darkness, he smiled at the faint silhouette of a leanan sídhe hovering at the gate of Boann’s stall, clearly having snuck away from his chaperoned cot.

“A little bit,” Saffron answered in a whisper, not wanting to alert anyone else. “It’s missing something, though.”

“Hmm, let me guess,” Cylvan smiled, unlatching the gate and inviting himself inside, just as Fiachra clattered by on the walkway.

As Cylvan knelt to the stable floor, Saffron lifted a corner of his cloak, inviting the prince to crawl in alongside him. He moved over so Cylvan had somewhere to lay his head, though the pillow wasn’t any more than a pile of loose straw. Cylvan didn’t complain, still smiling as he slid close and wrapped his arms around Saffron beneath the makeshift blanket.

“Are you alright?” Cylvan asked under his breath.

“I meant to ask you that, first,” Saffron answered, pinching a piece of Cylvan’s hair still damp from rinsing the wine out. “Does your head feel alright?”

“I’m alright,” he said, bowing his head to demonstrate. “I think it bounced off my horn rather than my skull. You think my head is hard enough to break glass?”

“Yes, actually.”

Cylvan feigned insult, making Saffron laugh. He scooted closer, until their chests and stomachs and legs pressed together, pulling Cylvan down to kiss him on the forehead.

“Those things you said to Moth, earlier—that was kind of you.”

Cylvan was quiet a moment, chin tucked into the curve of Saffron’s shoulder. He pressed a soft kiss to the side of Saffron’s neck.

“It reminds me of you, when I see beantighes like that,” he whispered. “At least—it reminds me of what I should be looking for, when I interact with beantighes. That I should be aware of what they show me, even if they can’t speak it. I hate that I cannot do anything unless she herself requests an investigation, but I couldn’t stop myself from sharing at least that much…”

“Why can’t you?” Saffron whispered. He brushed fingers through Cylvan’s hair, picking out pieces of loose straw. “I wonder if a stern implication to the stablemaster might change his behavior.”

“A stern implication from the visiting Night Prince?—”

“From the future king,” Saffron corrected softly. Cylvan considered that, before exhaling a sigh that made goosebumps grow over Saffron’s skin.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he whispered. “I’ll speak to the stablemaster in the morning, before we leave for the city gates.”

Saffron continued brushing fingers through Cylvan’s hair as silence, darkness enveloped them. Fiachra continued hunting up and down the walkway; a few stalls over, Maeve and Sionnach were whispering to one another about the best way to layer a sleeping cushion over a bed of straw, while Aodhán smoked something aromatic by the far window.

“I’m sorry,” Saffron whispered, though not sure exactly what for. Cylvan didn’t ask, just closed his eyes and buried his face further into the side of Saffron’s neck. Breathing him in.

“Thank you,” he responded in the same way—not clear exactly what for. Saffron didn’t ask, just smiled to himself. He held his arms protectively around his raven, keeping him right where he was. Warm, safe, comfortable, even when sleeping on straw.

Saffron held Cylvan close while they slept. Closer than he’d been able practically since the Midsummer Games, nearly having had it again while curled up on the train, but still not as entangled as he craved to be. Like they used to. Perhaps their souls inched slightly nearer than even the day before, but Saffron could still feel it. That distance Cylvan kept himself at, whether he knew it or not. A distance Saffron felt like a valley as deep as the one that separated the royal palace from the rest of Avren—except there was no ribbon-thin bridge to carry Saffron to where Cylvan hovered out of reach.

The prince had hidden it away so well, even Saffron couldn’t find it. He’d moved all the ways anyone had ever been able to cross into him—so desperate to protect himself, he’d accidentally cut Saffron off as well. Whether he knew it or not. Compelled by the constant vitriol and insults thrown whenever he passed in public, even bottles of wine thrown in hatred. Saffron had always known the people had a distrust of Cylvan, but never to such an extent—never to the point of needing an armored guard to guide him through a crowd, else they tear him apart limb from limb.

And while Cylvan tried to act like it didn’t bother him, he was used to it, it was simply part of his role as the crown prince—Saffron saw every tiny shift in his expression. The shared anger, vitriol, resentment. Even as they laid there in the straw over his fine cloak, wrapped in each others’ arms, Saffron could sense every time his raven’s heart beat a little out of rhythm. Every time his breaths changed. He could sense when something was off about his prince, no matter the distance, no matter how small, and Cylvan was left hardly functioning in his body.

But Saffron would never say that. Saffron would never let Cylvan know. He would just hold him, all of his pieces, keeping him together as best he could, in hopes it was enough to maintain his shape. Saffron only needed to find Ryder. To find Asche. To bring the daurae back, and all of Cylvan’s misplaced pieces would click right back into place. Just like he’d once faced the wolf in Danann House, as his prince crumbled into pieces in front of him—Saffron only needed to face the new beast that tormented them.

His arms tightened around Cylvan at the thought. His heart thumped steadily. He hoped Cylvan could hear it. Even in his dreams, he hoped Cylvan could hear it. Saffron was there, he was close, holding him. Prepared to do whatever it took to keep his raven’s own internal Night at bay.

Saffron wouldn’t let Cylvan lose anything else.