Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood, #2)

by Kellen Graves

I will stay with you—so that you may always know there is at least one person who cares for you. Saffron knelt to the floor. He took one of Cylvan’s feet, bracing it on his shoulder and working down the laces of the heeled boot. Pulling it off, he couldn’t stop another tiny smile of amusement when Cylvan sighed in relief. Setting it aside, he addressed the next one. He pulled off Cylvan’s socks, then couldn’t resist leaving a barely-existent kiss on the inside of his ankle bone where the stiff leather had rubbed and left a sore spot.

Caged against the counter, Saffron missed the first part of Cylvan’s hurried words, growing even more alarmed when a cold hand suddenly grabbed his—and pulled it to touch different parts of Cylvan’s body. “Here, here, here, and here,” Cylvan said in a single breath, pulling Saffron’s hand into his throat, the middle of his stomach, the side of his stomach, even brushing between his legs. Saffron’s face erupted into flames, before realizing what Cylvan was doing—he was demonstrating all the places on the body to strike and disarm; Hollow had once offered Saffron the same advice a long time ago.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, Saffron kicked a leg over the saddle—ramming Kaelar in the back of the head in the process—and hopped to the ground. Snagging the reins for himself, he guided the horse back to an actual walkable path through the bushes and long grass, and the animal showed gratitude by munching on his hair.

It was a mirrored image of Morrígan’s Grand Library, down to the columns, the stones steps, the overflowing flowerbeds within the perimeter fence. Though while the Grand Library on campus was a picture of pruned perfection, its twin burst at the seams with verdant tendrils and moss anywhere there was room. It soaked the humid air with perfumes of wet soil and wild buds, and Saffron appreciated every detail for as long as it took Sunbeam to reach him. All the while, goosebumps flushed down his arms beneath the cloak. It made him homesick in a strange way, missing the nights he spent amongst the books, nights spent quietly with the prince, existing with and without one another as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Kaelar is asleep in his bed,” he said flatly. “So you have to leave quietly. I want both of you out of here so you don’t witness what I’m going to do to him.”

will you make me a charme that will make kaylar pyuke every time he gets a boner?

Even after he skimmed the next chapter, and the next, and the next, one of those young faces wouldn’t leave him alone. When he finally realized why, he stared at it for a long time, biting back tears as his hands shook. With long blonde hair woven into two plaits over her shoulders; round cheeks; round eyes; ears that stood out distinctively from her head— It was—Baba Yaga. Nora Everhart. A student of Kyteler School’s first class.

Did the students burned beneath King Clymeus’ final assault spend the nights leading up to it lying awake, too? Listening? Waiting? Knowing it was inevitable, just like Saffron did every night he swore something moved in the corridor outside his room? Cylvan had come for him while slowly suffocating in the trunk—but would he be there every other time? Saffron opened his mouth to speak, never hating the silver choker more than in that moment. He wished to explain. He could see it on Cylvan’s face, confused why Saffron looked at him with such a mix of disdain and heartbreak. They used to teach us. They used to write about us in history books. I might have even been able to enroll, too, had I come a few centuries earlier. Life might have been easier. Life might have been fair.

He just saw the faces of the students. The first class. He saw his henmother, who once trusted him to perform the same taboo magic on Berry. Who never stopped using arid circles on teacups when her beantighe-chicks were ill from the misery of servitude, even though discovery would have resulted in her arrest and execution.

Cylvan attempted to apologize, but in the process of righting himself, accidentally hooked a nail under the edge of Saffron’s nightshirt, sloppily pushing it up to reveal his bare stomach. It made Saffron squeak in embarrassment, trying to shove it back into place, only to accidentally knock Cylvan’s hand away and summon him crashing down again. “Oh, gods, I swear—I’m not trying anything,” Cylvan groaned in frustration, fighting one more time to find his balance. “Fuck—beantighe moonshine doesn’t fuck around. Is this how you feel eating fairy fruits? I swear my bones are—boiled eggs.”

“Erm… imagine my surprise… when I came home for lunch yesterday afternoon, and you were gone, but then I found Hollow throwing away all my lipsticks while pretending to tidy my bathroom…” Cylvan went on with a weary smile. Saffron snorted. “We... we made conversation—and by that I mean, he threatened to kill me unless I answered his questions, pretty ballsy considering I’m a prince, and he’s just a… scoff, anyway—and then you were trying to say his name after I pulled you from Kaelar’s trunk, and I realized… I wanted to know… what was going on. So after dinner tonight, I visited Beantighe Village to chat with him more…”

“I know where Elluin is keeping your henmother,” the prince went on in reassurance. Saffron’s anxiety only quelled slightly. “I actually took Hollow to see her. Erm, admittedly it was after we both had a few drinks, and we were feeling a little dangerous, but… she is safe, Saffron. Oh, she… told me to tell you that I am very handsome and nice, by the way. And tall.”

Shoving away from Cylvan, Saffron broke his cuffs apart. He grabbed Kaelar by the front of the shirt—and slammed a fist into his nose. Hard enough that the bone crunched, shattering into pieces like new teeth.

“That beantighe is the only one who has earned protection from my Night Court,” Cylvan whispered. “And creatures like you would be wise to cower beneath what I am willing to bring in order to protect him.”

Those letters he would carry forever—IMPERTINENCE, SELFISHNESS, AR...—were gnarled like tree bark. Visible from a distance. Discolored and unsightly. He’d been able to ignore them through strategic avoidance until that point, never looking in the mirror, always using a brush to scrub his back in the bath, even wearing one of Cylvan’s shirts when they had sex the first time— But there, in the dark bathroom, they were more visible than ever. He just heard the chanting mockery of the party guests once he was drenched in wine, fabric clinging to every carved mark, read aloud for everyone to hear. His hands shook. He grabbed the blouse back off the floor, quickly pushing his arms back through the sleeves and fastening enough of the buttons that it wouldn’t fall away. He left the pants on, too, realizing he didn’t want to see the bandages around his broken leg, either. Would there be ugly scars there, too? Scars, marks, imperfections he never before ever thought twice about—until mocked by an entire room of perfect people who had never known what it was like to have calloused hands? Saffron sat in the bath, fully clothed, until the hot water turned to ice. He emotionally prepared for the moment he returned to the main part of the room and, after seeing and touching Saffron’s unsettling scars up close, Cylvan would be long gone.

“There are many ways to keep me up all night,” Saffron encouraged, and Cylvan pinched and twisted Saffron’s nipples in agreement. Saffron shrieked, and Cylvan laughed harder than Saffron had heard in a long time. “You’re right,” he finally agreed, lifting his head and resting his chin on Saffron’s chest in order to look at him. “There are plenty of ways to keep a wicked beantighe awake into the early morning hours—but perhaps not how he wants. You’re going to answer every question I have for you.”

“I was terrified of… this,” he finally said. “Of this, of exactly what happened, where you had your memories taken. I was worried some oracle would unweave your threads and learn what I’d been trying to do through them. I suppose… it was a self-fulfilling prophecy of my own hubris.” “I like that word,” Saffron whispered. “Is that the thing that makes you so charming?” Cylvan smiled wearily. “Some people say it’s what makes me so… disagreeable.”

He crunched into his pile of apple-cheese-bread, slurping up a deluge of juices that spilled from the corners of his mouth. “Wow, stunning,” Cylvan mumbled. “Remember earlier when I said you cleaned up nicely? I take it back.” “Hm. We’ll see if you still feel that way in the morning,” Saffron muttered, licking juice off his thumb and giving Cylvan a knowing look. “I’ve been told I’m hard to resist with other things dripping down my chin.” “Al—right,” Cylvan wheezed, hunching over and putting a hand up in defense.

Saffron smiled, licking his lips before taking another bite and promptly dropping three apple slices that disappeared into the blanket. He searched for them between his legs before precariously balancing them back on the cheese. Taking another risky mouthful, he raised his eyebrows at the sight of Cylvan smiling so fondly at him. “What?” He mumbled, mouth full. “I never claimed everything I did to be irresistible.”

“They don’t have much practice being as icy and pushy as I am.” “You are neither icy nor pushy,” Saffron reassured him, biting a black cherry from its stem before popping the pit back to the tray. “No?” “No. You are peppery and withholding. Hm, like Baba Yaga’s cat.”

The bottom of his nightshirt was pushed up his spine, draping from the curve of his back—and a hot tongue found the base of his hips, before curling lower, circling his entrance and making Saffron whimper. He moaned and gasped into the pillow, moving his hips desperately, silently begging for more. Cylvan’s hand found his bandaged thigh, caressing it, but Saffron barely felt the tightness of the muscle. He felt nothing but Cylvan’s tongue. Cylvan knew how to tease him, and Cylvan enjoyed every moment of teasing him—and nearly brought Saffron to climax with his mouth alone, opposite hand leaving Saffron’s thigh to stroke between his legs until he was trembling and helpless. Cylvan tore three of his sharp fingernails away using his teeth, then dripped floral oil taken from the bathroom the night before over his fingers.

On the opposite nightstand, an additional surprise waited for him, and Saffron plucked it up before sinking back into the pillows with a long exhale. Smiling to himself, he touched the front where his name was written in Cylvan’s handwriting, opening the card and wiggling his feet in glee. Stay where you are. You are safe. If you wake before I return, I deserve punishment without mercy. The inn attendant left the room not much later, though Saffron noticed how they glanced last second back to where he rested, disheleved, useless, exhausted in the bed. Saffron almost smiled at them in reassurance, but they turned away again too quickly—and made the sign of beseeching a Day Court as they went. As soon as the door closed behind them, Saffron frowned, making his own for a Night in response.

“I thought you were a prince,” Saffron whispered, and Cylvan’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring in a rush of genuine anger. Saffron didn’t mean it, feeling the first flicker of uncertainty pinch in his chest—but he just pulled Cylvan down to kiss him again. And then again. When Cylvan still didn’t respond, Saffron shook him stubbornly. “Say something, your highness. Or am I making you angry?” “Yes.” “Do you still want to take me away?” “Yes.” “Even when I make you angry?” “Yes.” Saffron cracked a weary smile. “Do you understand… what I’m trying to say?”

“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!”

A cold hand suddenly pressed against his, and he opened his eyes to tell Asche to stand back—only to find no one there. No one that he could see, though he could still feel their touch. As if drawn by a familiar memory, even if it wasn’t theirs—and their vicious emotions flooded him. It wasn’t grief—it was anger. Resentment. Hatred. Squeezing his eyes closed, Saffron swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m here to help, Arrow,” he whispered. “Sorry it took so long.” Show me what Taran did to you.

“I know… there’s a reason Cylvan is so infatuated with you.” The words dragged along the ground as Taran descended. “I know… you’re controlling him, somehow. Why else would he have been so brokenhearted—and then so angry? I’ve never seen him so angry before, beantighe, it really was quite a sight… and the whole time, he just asked me over and over and over and over where you were, what I’d done with you… I know you have something he wants… you have something to offer. Cylvan dé Tuatha dé Danann does not bend over… and play someone’s pet… unless there’s a reward on the other end. So tell me what you’ve promised him, and I won’t spill your entrails across the road.” “You…” Saffron still couldn’t believe it. “You really think I have something a prince could want?”

“But even an ashen Sídhe lord—has more pull in this world than a worthless beantighe. It doesn’t matter what you do now, because Cylvan is mine, no matter how much you cry and bitch. You’ve taken advantage of my mercy long enough—and I’ve run out of patience.” Saffron nodded, but his eyes were locked on the crimson veil approaching. He met the beannighe’s eyes—and she smiled at him. He couldn’t help but smile back, a rush of pure thrill devouring him like the flames did the library. Her wolf king. The beannighe would finally get her wolf king. “You’re right,” he agreed. “I am definitely worthless—but I know the thing you’ve been hiding.” Taran bared his teeth in agitation. Saffron’s mouth twitched into another smile. He flexed his legs to run. “I know those bones don’t belong to you, Taran—and I know whose they really are. And…” He could hardly keep the splitting grin of anticipation off his face. “I know someone who has been looking everywhere for you, wolf king.”

Danann House was alight with the fete Asche requested as a cover, overflowing with students come to eat, drink, fuck—and, in Saffron’s case, to burst from the trees, screaming Cylvan’s name.

Cylvan stared at him for a long time—then rose to his feet, as if it was all too much. He paced the room, intertwining fingers behind his neck, searching for whatever crushed his back. “… Damnit,” his voice cracked, dragging his hands down his face. “Damnit, godsdamnit… oh, gods…” “I’m going to kill him,” Nimue’s words were harsh—but spoken out loud, she was breathless, like she’d been kicked in the chest. “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill that fucking bastard for using me—for making me think—and for hurting you…”

Over the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, they compiled a list of potential ways to escape Morrígan Academy. Saffron hated that such a list was the first time Cylvan witnessed his improved handwriting.

Following a map sketched alongside Saffron’s chosen spell in Baba Yaga’s grimoire, he and Cylvan found a break in the ruins’ fenceline and crossed through hand-in-hand. Cylvan wore Asche’s woven bracelet for the iron sickness, though still complained as they passed through. Once they were clear of the gate, Saffron asked him to do some magic and test the barrier, and Cylvan summoned a small gale to nearly blast Saffron’s shirt over his head. It made Saffron laugh, shoving Cylvan into the grass before taking off running through the trees while chased by a wild fey lord.

“This certainly seems like a lovely place to have my true name stolen,” Cylvan went on, digging the toe of his boot into the grass. Saffron sighed, flipping the page again in a final attempt to memorize every detail of Baba’s old handwriting. Bridging a true name (rowan witch). A spell that, according to the description, would allow Saffron to take the benefits of Cylvan’s true name, and at the same time, be the only other person who could use it against him. Like a living patron ring, according to Baba’s spell.

“There are three ways to initiate the peak of the spell,” Saffron read aloud, still perched in the crook of Cylvan’s arm and using his horns as a bookrest. “It depends on our preferred method of emotional climax—sexual, physical, or metaphysical.” “That is definitely the most creative way you’ve asked me to fuck you.”

“What do you wish of me?” Cylvan asked, pushing up Saffron’s shirt to kiss a line up his stomach, and Saffron’s amusement melted into small gasps. “I wish…” He gulped, arching his back and resting his head backward. “I wish… to never be apart from you, ever again.” “Don’t wish that,” Cylvan argued, tongue finding one of Saffron’s nipples and making Saffron shiver. “I will give you that freely.” “It’s all I want—Cylvan.” Cylvan’s hands pressed into the inner curve of Saffron’s waist, pulling his hips up to tilt against the tops of his thighs. It curled Saffron’s back, opening his legs for Cylvan to nestle between, and Saffron had to fight to catch his breath. “Then I will grant it,” he promised. “Once you own my name, we will only ever be apart if you command it.” “I’ll make you mine,” Saffron breathed. “My king of the forest, Day or Night.” “Then do so,” Cylvan kissed him again, and Saffron pulled him into it before pushing out to turn Cylvan onto his back and straddle his stomach.

Flattening his hands against Cylvan’s chest, he smiled again in promise. “I’m going to make you only mine.”

Plucking a cluster of berries, Saffron smiled down at his prince who watched in curiosity. Saffron couldn’t resist, leaning forward to kiss him one last time. “Don’t kiss me again,” he breathed upon pulling away. “Unless you want your tongue to burn.” “I would do more for worse,” Cylvan promised, making Saffron smirk, before palming the berries into his mouth.

“Will you still feel that way if I truly mess it up? What if I turn you into a toad?” “Every arid witch needs a familiar,” Cylvan reassured.

The beannighe turned back toward the circle, breathing in a deep sigh. She then proceeded to undress herself, unbuttoning the shirt that was once part of her uniform, then the skirt, the bloomers underneath, even doing her best to pick leaves and twigs out of her hair. Without another moment of hesitation, she spoke. “Until thine bones return to mud; call yourself, rowan blood.”

“Devour the flesh, the root of the other; breath to breath, exchange your charter…” The beannighe found the exact center of the circle, kneeling to the floor. With her back to him, Saffron stared as, carved into her back, there were wounds older than he was. Perhaps older than even Baba Yaga. Impertinence. Impatience. Belligerence. But, above them, like a brand at the top of her spine, there was a circle with two lines drawn horizontally through the middle. Saffron knew that mark—it was one of the feda letters he’d memorized. Was that her mark of the oath, the one Elluin meant to find in the previous trial? Would he have one just like it by the time the sun rose? “Into the mounds the way you came; stripped of your magic, both the same.”

“Myndol,” he said calmly, and the courtier staggered backward in shock. Saffron claimed and sipped a third drink in consideration. “Myndol, pour this glass of wine on Taran mac Delbaith.”

“Despite the warning, the boy thought quite highly of himself and his abilities. Thrilled to be free of captivity, he soared into the sky, wanting to be the only one who owned the air, wanting to be above everything and everyone he thought himself better than. But, just like his father warned—the heat of the sun melted the wax of his wings… and he plummeted to his death with no one to catch him. It’s a story of opportunity, ruined by one thing…” He met Taran’s eyes again. Taran had gone still. “Arrogance.” Saffron grinned. The scars on his back tingled as rowan magic surged in his body. “Do you know what his name was, my lord?”

“This is the person I choose as my fiancé,” Cylvan declared, tucking a piece of hair from Saffron’s eyes. Saffron had never heard an answering silence as shocked, as heavy as the one that fell following those words. Cylvan spoke into it again, owning every presence, every ghost in that clearing. Forcing them to hear without question. “And should my future Harmonious King die before dawn…” The mounds tugged Saffron deeper. Attempting to pull him from Cylvan’s arms, as if knowing the warning that came. As if knowing the danger of what Cylvan would declare, knowing exactly what would happen if— “… All of Alfidel will learn exactly what it means to despair beneath my Night Court.”

It’s a heavy burden. Gasping for breath, Saffron turned back to the wolf in the path—only barely leaping out of the way as it lunged toward him, snapping teeth before landing crouched over Taran’s motionless body on the road. Snarling, bearing its teeth, Saffron just threw his hands up—then watched in horror as the thick cloud of crows suddenly plummeted from the sky, surrounding the beast and tearing it apart. Ripping away fur, then skin, then flesh—leaving only silver bones. And when they were done—the birds turned to him, beaks still wet with viscera. They’ll eat you whole.

“You and I both know high fey can’t lie.” “You and I both know that’s bullshit, actually…” Cylvan smirked against the back of Saffron’s hand. He just kept smiling. Kept smiling. Kept smiling—until heat flared in Saffron’s cheeks, and something akin to a death rattle tumbled from his mouth. “N-no!” He wheezed, and Cylvan grinned brighter. “No—no! Cylvan! Damnit! I’m not—! I can’t—!” “Not what? Can’t what?” “I can’t be king!” Saffron nearly shrieked, and Cylvan leapt to cover his mouth. Saffron just continued in a near-hysterical hiss. “Is that even allowed!” “What, for me to choose?” “I’m a human!” “And a rowan witch.” “That’s—!” But Cylvan just leaned forward, pulling Saffron into another gentle kiss.

“You can’t!” Saffron took Cylvan’s face, begging him. “You can’t, Cylvan, not me—!” “Only you,” Cylvan insisted.

But, Saffron, you’ll enroll in classes. And sit in lectures. And you’ll have dry, soul-sucking homework, and stay up all night studying for tests, and cheer for me at hurling matches, and spend all the time you could ever want in the library.

“But—how will I have time?” “Time?” “Between my chores, and—” Cylvan burst out laughing, and Saffron punched his arm in annoyance. But Cylvan just laughed more, mussing up Saffron’s hair as he nearly broke down. “Chores! Oh, perhaps this will be harder than I thought.” “Stop teasing me—Cylvan!”

Luvon might be right alongside them; he also left me with quite a threat yesterday morning. Something about how, if you ever get hurt for my sake again, he’ll stuff me full of frostapples and tie me up to one of his trees in the dead of winter, until my eyes pop out and he can squeeze them into wine… Oh, should I have told someone about that…?”

My beta readers, new and old, who provide such valuable insight into the plot and characters; I know every time I promise “I’m not gonna change much in the final version” but I have once again done exactly that and for that I apologize!!