Lord of silver ashes row.., p.32
Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood Book 2), page 32
“Kaelar told me a very interesting story about the party you all attended.”
Saffron’s pounding blood stopped with a whimper of his heart. He moved his eyes slowly back to Taran, who just kept smiling.
“Apparently he and Prince Cylvan got into an argument, causing a whole scene. Is that true?”
Saffron gulped. His eyes flickered to Kaelar, who smiled slightly, then back to Taran.
Saffron nodded, knowing there was no point in lying or playing dumb.
“I gave you the ability to speak.”
“… Y-yes, my lord,” Saffron’s voice cracked as the air grew thinner.
“Kaelar said it started because Cylvan was jealous of his behavior toward you. Is that true?”
Saffron glanced briefly to Kaelar again, who still said nothing.
“No, my lord.” Was Saffron’s answer.
“Go on, then.”
Saffron swallowed again.
“L-Lord Kaelar—”
“That’s no way to address your patron-master.”
“… Master Kaelar… compelled me to k-kiss Prince Cylvan, in front of the rest of the party. And then to grope him. It was—it was humiliating for him, my lord, I’m sure—”
“For Kaelar?”
“No, for Prince Cylvan…”
Taran’s smile twitched.
“And that is why the prince sucked the air from the room, assaulting all two-dozen people there? Because he was embarrassed to be kissed by a beantighe.”
Saffron couldn’t breathe, as if silver hands were still pinned around his throat. As if Taran’s voice was made of the same choking magic.
He tried to be distracted by Magnin’s movements, watching as he pressed the bandages into the curve of the silver. Watching how the silver, as if still warm, easily molded to take the shape. How, as it solidified, a shine spread over the surface—
“That’s not the story Kaelar told me,” Taran urged. Saffron closed his eyes. He picked at the skin of his nails in anxiety, but managed to glance back at Taran again.
“I don’t know what Master Kaelar would have told you,” Saffron said, trying to keep his voice calm. “He compelled me to assault Prince Cylvan, and Prince Cylvan retaliated.”
“Prince Cylvan protected you.”
Saffron pressed his lips together, knowing, more than ever, he had to be careful of the words he chose.
“I don’t know if I would call it that, my lord—”
“’Seelie Prince Cylvan allegedly stole the breath of an entire party in Connacht when kissed passionately by an attendee’s beantighe…’” Taran’s response was rehearsed, and Saffron realized why as Taran removed a gossip pamphlet from the inner pocket of his jacket. “’Partygoers say the prince then swept the pretty beantighe into the sky, and they were not seen in Connacht again the following morning or afternoon. Perhaps Prince Cylvan has a taste for humans just like his great-grandmother, Queen Proserpina, once did. Who’s to say whether this beantighe who stole his heart will be the one to also break it, and induce the Night Court promised?’”
Saffron could only listen. When he did answer, his voice shook, though he tried to cover it with a naïve smile.
“Isn’t that—good for you, my lord?” He asked. “I thought you wanted Cylvan’s reputation to get worse. How else are you supposed to be Alfidel’s savior if there’s no villain threatening it?”
He intended it to pose as genuine offer of peace, but the words formed into a sarcastic accusation faster than he could stop them. Taran just kept smiling, then swished the pamphlet between his fingers.
“They did actually mention me by name, here,” he said. “But not as the coming savior. Just like every other gossip column of the past year, they poke fun at the clear lack of affection Cylvan holds for me. This one asks if, perhaps, the reason he is so ‘flaccid in our bedroom’ is because he actually prefers soft, pretty, innocent beantighe servants, instead. And then they have the nerve to claim it no surprise, as ‘the beantighe seen stealing the prince’s heart was described with emerald eyes, knowing hands, and hair like brown sugar. Far from the harsh beauty of Taran mac Delbaith.’ Ah—and here is my favorite part. ‘Perhaps soft loveliness is what the icy prince actually needs to tame his cruelty, rather than the strong hand of a mac Delbaith…’ Isn’t that interesting?”
Saffron’s smile grew more desperate. He shook his head slightly.
“That’s just gossip, my lord. It doesn’t mean—”
“And now—” Taran interrupted. “I heard Prince Cylvan intended to return to the Winter Court… with one guest. There’s no name for his intended partner on the itinerary, though. Do you happen to know anything about that?”
Saffron stared at him. His mouth dangled open, waiting for something clever and cunning and perfect to escape—but nothing did. There was nothing for him to say; Taran already knew everything.
Taran crushed the pamphlet in his hand, throwing it in Saffron’s face. Saffron barely flinched, just clenched his fists harder over his knees.
“I—” He attempted.
“Magnin,” Taran interjected. “I think you ought to check the beantighe for injuries, considering the perilous night. Unbutton his shirt and pull it open, will you?”
“That’s not—!” Saffron exclaimed—but Taran leapt from his seat, slamming Saffron back against the wall with a forearm pinned against his throat. Saffron choked, throwing his hands out in an attempt to shove him away, but Taran’s opposite hand was already ripping his shirt through the buttons. They scattered like teeth across the floor, the pendant following suit with a sharp sound before clattering to a halt. Saffron’s open shirt revealed a swathing tapestry of love marks and bruises and bites left by Cylvan’s passionate mouth the night and day previous.
Taran jerked away, staring at them—before grabbing Saffron’s open collar again, and slapping him. Again and again, until Saffron buckled backward with a cry and threw his hands up in defense. The onslaught only stopped when Magnin pulled Taran away, Saffron’s face swelling and burning hot as blood dripped from his nose.
“I told you what would happen!” Taran roared, spit flying from his mouth as Magnin fought to hold him back. “I told you what would happen if you ever touched him again, you useless bint! I knew I couldn’t trust a fucking human to keep its legs closed—I should have ripped your fucking memories out when I had the fucking chance!”
“There’s nothing stopping you now!” Saffron snarled before realizing. “Try me, you ashen cunt!”
“I’LL KILL YOU!” Taran’s hands found Saffron’s shirt again. “And then I’ll kill every beantighe roach living in that dump in the woods! Perhaps then I’ll kill Cylvan to finally be fucking done with it! There is still one more royal sibling eager to marry me, and I will not hesitate—Gods know it’ll be easier to stomach than THIS DEGRADING SHIT! And it’ll be all because of you, beantighe—every single fucking human, your fucking godsdamned prince, will die a horrible death because you couldn’t resist spreading open for Cylvan’s cock!”
The train screeched as it approached a stop on the way. Taran’s frenzied eyes flew to the carriage door as the platform rose into view outside, then came to a halt. The sliding thunks of a dozen carriage doors sounded off.
Saffron lunged for the exit, but Taran grabbed him, first. He slammed Saffron back to the seat, knocking the air from his lungs. Saffron thrashed his arms—but Taran smashed a fist into his jaw, knocking Saffron’s reality loose. His body sagged, thoughts curdling and swarming.
“Fuck!” Taran seethed, raking fingers back through his hair. “Kaelar, come on. Now!”
“Restraint,” Kaelar commanded, and Saffron’s wrists clacked together. He bent over to pick up the amethyst pendant from the floor, all while additional enchantments came. “Be still. Be silent.”
Saffron slumped. Numb, motionless, disconnected as if his spirit had been locked out.
“Oh… it’s warm,” Kaelar chuckled, fondling the pendant before draping it over his neck and appreciating the color. “How pretty.”
Dragged from the seat, Saffron was folded up in the back corner, away from view of the carriage door. Kaelar took Saffron’s place on the cushion, next—and with a nauseating turn of Saffron’s stomach, the fey lord glamoured himself, from head to feet, to resemble Saffron perfectly. All the way down to his messy brown-sugar hair. His emerald eyes. The scar on his cheek. His mouth, his hands. Cylvan’s lovelier choice.
“Whenever you’re ready, your highness,” he said, thick with sarcasm, perfectly sounding in Saffron’s own voice. Taran cursed him, planting a knee between Kaelar’s legs—and pressing their mouths together.
Saffron could barely stomach to watch, witnessing himself wrapped in a passionate embrace beneath Taran mac Delbaith’s hands and mouth, moaning and whimpering in all the most horrifying ways—
Saffron didn’t think the nightmare could worsen— but then the carriage door slammed open, and Cylvan stood on the other side.
Kaelar gasped innocently, hiding behind Taran who snapped at Cylvan to leave. Cylvan inhaled sharply to say something—but then stopped short. He stared a moment longer, as if memorizing every detail of the sight in front of him. Saffron under Taran. His mouth kiss-bruised, shirt pulled open to reveal his bare chest. Flushed and breathless. Taran’s knee pressed between his legs—
Cylvan took a step back. He put a hand to his mouth, furrowing his brows—then turned, and took off into the sky.
“No!” Saffron cried through clenched teeth, tearing against Kaelar’s enchantment like a hardened shell. “No—! Cylvan!”
But Cylvan was already gone. And as soon as he was, Taran stepped back, wiping his mouth before spitting on the floor.
“How was I?” Kaelar asked, still wearing Saffron’s face and fluttering his eyelashes, licking his lips, opening his legs. Taran just smacked him on the shoulder and told him to shirk the glamour before he was sick.
Saffron just strained his neck toward the window, asking, begging why—why Cylvan would ever think Saffron would—
Why wouldn’t he say anything, do anything—
But then Eias appeared in the open doorway. They peeked inside, meeting Taran’s eyes and bowing their head slightly.
“Perfect timing,” Taran complimented, and Saffron thrashed again beneath the weight of the enchantment pinning him. He tumbled to his side on the floor, and Eias glanced at him for only a second, before averting their eyes again. They glanced at Magnin, instead. Saffron glanced at Magnin, too, but—he wouldn’t meet Saffron’s eyes, either.
Saffron had to wonder—if it had been planned all along.
Queen Proserpina, who sought comfort in Wolf King Clymeus following the betrayal of Adone, her human lover…
Seelie Prince Cylvan, the coming Night King, heart broken by a human, just like his great-grandmother—who only a descendant of Clymeus could comfort and control…
“What did you tell him, Eias!” Saffron pleaded, voice cracking. Eias still wouldn’t look at him. Behind them, the train horn announced its departure from the station. Saffron threw his body in every direction, fighting to rip through what remained of the numbness in his bones, desperate to fling himself from the train car, to call out for Cylvan in the open sky—
But Taran stepped to where Saffron lay, grabbing Saffron’s open shirt and dragging him to the middle of the floor. He took Saffron’s chin and forced their eyes to meet.
“Take as long as you want to bring me my fruits,” he started, but Saffron spit in his face. Taran sighed, wiping it away in annoyance. “You’ll want to listen to me, beantighe. You’ll regret it, otherwise.”
Saffron’s fighting stopped. Frustrated tears filled his eyes.
“Take as long as you want to bring me my fruits,” Taran repeated in a low, cruelly sensual voice, “but every evening I don’t have them until Ostara… I kill whatever beantighe is assigned to work in Danann House that day. Starting with Hollow. Tomorrow.”
“You can’t—!” Saffron jolted, but Taran just smiled, shoving him back down. He grabbed his cloak and threw it over one shoulder.
“Is there room in your car with the daurae, Eias? We better hurry,” he said, and Eias stepped out of the way as Taran exited. “Magnin, get the beantighe’s leg all fixed up. We want to make sure he’s got the best chance to do what I ask, after all. It’s only fair. Kaelar will help if there’s any more trouble.”
Kaelar said something. Magnin said something. Taran said something else. Eias said something last. The carriage door slid shut. Latched. The train blared again, and the ground shifted. Saffron’s reality closed in.
What did you say to him, Eias?
What could you possibly say—for Cylvan to ever think…?
Saffron stared at the ceiling. Choking on his own breath, even without the collar to squeeze him.
Falling from a great height, the wings on his back were nothing but melted wax and scattered feathers.
He never should have flown so close, no matter how warm and decadent Cylvan’s light had been.
41
THE FINAL WORDS
Saffron’s cuffs were restrained once more when they arrived outside Morrígan. The collar was returned to his neck. He was pulled onto Taran’s lap on the back of his horse for the journey, arms dangling around the back of Taran’s neck. Chest to chest. Sensing the fey lord’s hot breath on his skin the entire time.
Something inside of Taran had snapped, and Saffron wasn’t the only one who saw it.
The moment they arrived at Danann House, Saffron shoved away. He hit the dirt with a thud, then pushed himself to his feet and raced through the door. It was almost effortless with the silver braces compressing his leg, opulent silver infiltrating his bones with healing magic—but by the time Saffron made it to the top of the servant’s stairs, it still ached. It throbbed like it’d snapped all over again.
He just had to get Taran’s memory threads. Baba’s grimoire. His new arid books. Anything.
There had to be something in any of them Saffron could use. He had no other choice. He had nothing else—
Before rushing into the room where he hid his things, though, he realized his own bedroom door hung ajar.
Inside, a windstorm had blasted through. Books were scattered across the floor, ink spilled over the top of the desk and dripping off the side. The window had been thrown open from the outside, latch torn away from the wood. The good luck charm for his friends was knocked to the floor, scattered across the chaos. He thought for a moment it had been Taran to rip through his things while they were away—but then saw exactly what was on the desk, half-smothered in ink. His heart stopped, and brought the world to a halt with it.
The Alvish-Gaeilge book, given to him by Pimbry Scott, was spread open over a piece of brown paper. One covered in feda markings diligently scribbled down from everywhere in the house.
Alongside each mark, a nightmare unfolded in the form of Cylvan’s handwriting.
NO BURN.
NO HEX.
SHARP CUT.
NO POISON.
SEALED AIR.
NO ATTACHMENT.
FRESH SCENT.
NO LEAKS.
ONLY INTENDEES.
OUT OF SIGHT…
Cylvan’s translations grew more frantic as they went. More and more, until the nib of the quill tore through the page, slicing an arch across the wood underneath and hurling the inkpot against the wall. Kitchen spells; housekeeping spells… they weren’t actually Saffron’s final words.
Saffron had known that all along; god, he’d even forgotten about them entirely amidst everything else happening—but they were the first place Cylvan went. The first thing he sought out after whatever Eias told him, after what he saw on the train. The last words of the person he lost.
And Saffron, without ever realizing how badly a heart could hurt, had let him believe it.
Silent tears dripped from his eyes. He just stared at the words, at the familiar handwriting, at the ink plipping with every drop to the floorboards. Below his feet, something bumped.
Cylvan was in his room. Cylvan was right downstairs. If Saffron could only explain, if he just told Cylvan everything, including that he never lost his memories, was never lost at all, not a single part of him—
Saffron needed something to prove himself honest, especially after what Cylvan thought he saw on the train, especially not knowing what Eias had told him. Saffron threw himself out the door again, into the neighboring room where he ripped up the loose floorboard and yanked out his leather bag containing his sketchbook, Baba’s grimoire, Taran’s threads, and—the Greek myths. The ones Cylvan started annotating for him, the ones Saffron continued. If Cylvan didn’t believe Saffron when he said he’d never lost his memories—the book would prove it. A lying, threadless beantighe would never know all the things he wrote inside.
He removed Cylvan’s ring from the spine where it broke through the pages of Icarus, and pushed it onto his finger.
Rushing from the room, Saffron knew exactly where to go to push through the third floor wainscoting, but he still almost lost his way. The panic, the adrenaline, the fear—all of it, blown out by the repeating image of Kaelar glamouring himself to Saffron’s visage; how it felt to watch him caress and kiss Taran so sensually; Cylvan meeting who he thought was Saffron’s eyes through the train door. How Saffron couldn’t move the entire time. How neither Eias nor Magnin would meet his eyes, after. Taran’s final threat—
Saffron shoved through the wall panel, only to crash into someone rushing up the stairs on the other side. Daurae Asche hit the floor with a grunt, before scrambling to gather the random crystals and notebook they’d dropped. Saffron barely had the patience to help them back to their feet before hurrying by—but his wrist was grabbed last second, pulling him back.
“Wait!” Asche croaked. Saffron tried to pull away again, staring straight at the Aon-adharcach door, ears ringing—“I said wait, beantighe! Cylvan isn’t going to listen to you, you’re just going to make it worse!”
