The loophole is obvious in retrospect. Haelwen’s messenger had said she wouldn’t hear his petitiontoday. Yarrow had thought he might have a chance tomorrow or next week. Waiting a month would be even less likely to offend.
But today has passed, and tonight has come.
Perhaps Haelwen always intended to hear him tonight. Or she intended the first message as the rebuff Yarrow took it for, with enough leeway to change her mind. That question is irrelevant. What matters is that Haelwen has agreed to see him now, which means Yarrow has to be ready.
A sobriety tincture would help. “I suppose there’s no chance of stopping by the palace herbalist?”
Nevander’s pace doesn’t slow.
It was worth a try. Yarrow’s innate confidence will have to be tincture enough.
The antechamber is as far as Yarrow got this morning. It’s a stark marble sphere of a room, without corners to hide in. Thick green glass forms the floor, beneath which flows one of the palace’s many rivers. Occasional wisps of light refract through the dark water and glass.
Guards in the same leafwork armor as Nevander flank the door. Ornate scabbards gleam at their hips, making Yarrow itch for his axe. Outsiders can’t carry weapons in Elladar, and the gate guards even inspected the contents of his enchanted carryhold ring.
The great goldwood doors are open, but a shimmering veil obscures the throne room beyond.
Nevander crosses the veil without faltering, but another guard steps into Yarrow’s path. “Halt,” she says, touching a pendant at her throat.
A detection spell tingles over Yarrow’s body. He’s unarmed and carries no enchantments besides the carryhold. “I’m clear, just like last time. Great work, very thorough.”
“Do you know the protocol?” the guard asks.
Yarrow’s still too tipsy to tell whether she’s being considerate or condescending to the wild fae. “Stop before the bridge, bow, keep my mouth shut until spoken to.”
The guard steps aside. “Her Majesty will see you now.”
Entering the throne room is anticlimactic. The veil doesn’t feel like anything, and there’s no proclamation—just as well. How would they introduce him, anyway? Yarrow of that hut outside Auden? Yarrow, son of Crocus and some nameless satyr?
Compared to the antechamber, the throne room is muted. A glass ceiling reveals the purple evening overhead. Thirty feet in, a stream cuts across like a narrow moat. The floor on the other side is meadowgrass instead of stone, and trees obscure the edges of the room.
A goldwood bridge spans the stream. Beyond it waits the queen on her goldwood throne, with Nevander standing guard at her side.
Queen Haelwen is the brightest spot in the room, with a crown of yellow marigolds and hair as blue as a cloudless sky. That’s how minstrels describe Haelwen’s hair, anyway. Yarrow has to agree as he swaggers forward.
He stops at the very edge of the bridge and bows—slightly. He isn’t Haelwen’s subject yet. And if he bows any deeper, he might topple over. More of those magical lights swim in the river, making Yarrow dizzy.
Did his mother stand in this very spot the day she was banished from Elladar?
“Greetings, Yarrow.” Haelwen’s voice carries through the room like a quiet breeze, touching everything. “How do you find the summer court’s mead?”
“Nearly as sweet as the sound of your voice,” Yarrow says without thinking—then winces at Nevander’s murderous glare. “Your Majesty,” he tacks on, which doesn’t help.
Haelwen appears unperturbed by his presumption. “My attendants say you have a petition. What would you request of me?”
Yarrow plants his hands on his hips. He had a speech prepared this morning, but he can’t remember it now. “I want to join the summer court.”
He has all sorts of reasons. He started visiting Elladar ten years ago, because the parties are better and the mead is stronger. There are so many high fae he hasn’t fucked yet. He’d like to test his axe against better warriors, and the royal guard far outshines any monster he’s slain in the wilds.
Most of all, Yarrow’s tired of the damned interrogations every time he wants to visit Elladar. Court fae can wander where they please, traveling between court and village and wilderness. Only the nightlands and the human realm are forbidden to them—which is fine, because Yarrow has no interest in either.
And maybe if he joined, his mother would be able to return. She was banished because of him, after all.
What Yarrow hasn’t figured out is why Haelwen should grant his request. The goodness of her heart is debatable. Yarrow’s skills include drinking, fucking, and fighting—but she has plenty of subjects proficient in all three. Why welcome Yarrow and the unfae blood running through his veins?
“I am inclined to grant your request,” Haelwen says, “if you first complete a task for me.”
Stunned relief hits Yarrow, headier than the mead—followed by a sharp unease. This sounds far too easy. Cautiously, he asks, “What would the task be?”
