2. Yarrow

Lilting music weaves its own subtle magic across the courtyard. As fae spin around each other and wisps of light waltz overhead, Yarrow pours another goblet of mead. He offers it to his companion with a shameless wink. "Have you ever fucked a wild fae?"

Beneath the stars, it's safe to take food or drink without direct invitation. Yet there's a promise nonetheless when the high fae lordling accepts the goblet.

"Is it very different with a wild fae?" the lordling asks with an answering grin. His green hair hangs loose around veiled shoulders, and silver bangles chime around soft wrists.

Yarrow points with his own goblet. "That wasn't an answer, my lord."

"Nor was that," the lordling counters, and Yarrow laughs.

Too loudly, maybe, but he's drunk and doesn't care. Each sip of shimmering gold eases his dark mood. The floral breeze feels good through his shirt, which is unbuttoned halfway to his navel.

The green-haired lordling appears to appreciate the show of sturdy muscle.

Today has been a disappointment, but tonight will let Yarrow forget that till dawn. Perhaps the lordling will even let Yarrow tie him up, though likely not. Few partners trust him enough for that. The lordling might think Yarrow's just trying to steal his bracelets.

Yarrow fits in just fine at this courtyard banquet. He may not be good enough to join the summer queen's court, but he's good enough to drink her mead and tumble her subjects into bed—or onto the nearest garden bench. He isn't picky.

The queen wouldn't even hear his petition.

Yarrow takes another sip of mead. The sweetness warms his lips. Focus on the drink, and the green-haired summer fae leaning closer. Getting laid will cheer him up even better than the drink. One night in some flower-draped bower, some rope play if he's lucky, then back on the road.

"You're thinking about my horns, aren't you?" Yarrow tilts his head so they gleam in the floating lights. The bronze horns are impossible to miss, curving back above his white hair. "I'll let you touch them if we?—"

A flicker of presence cuts through Yarrow's foggy attention, moments before a cool voice says, "Yarrow."

It's a voice that demands respect. Obedience. The green-haired lordling freezes, clearly nervous. Reasonably so. Some royal guardians might be fun at parties, but Yarrow's never seen this one let loose.

Yarrow turns with a lazy grin. "Hello, Lord Nevander. Did you want to join us? It's the horns, I know. They're irresistible."

Nevander's expression is so unaffected, Yarrow would be insulted if he weren't too happily drunk. Nevander may be the perfect emblem of the summer fae, all long golden hair and green leafwork armor, but his face is cold as winter.

Hard to believe he once played in Spiritwood with Yarrow and the other young fae. Or maybe it's easy to believe. Childhood was so long ago—though it feels closer, memories brought to shore on waves of sweet liquor.

"Queen Haelwen has agreed to hear your petition," Nevander says.

Yarrow nearly drops his goblet, memories shattering into the present. "She has?" Yarrow sets the goblet aside before he flings it on someone and incurs a blood-debt. "That's fantastic. When will she see me?"

Ignoring the green-haired fae sidling away, Nevander says, "Now."

"Now?" Yarrow repeats, rubbing his ear. He heard Nevander clearly, and fae can't lie, but surely Queen Haelwen can't expect…

Without another word, Nevander turns on his heel and heads for the nearest door. Apparently, Queen Haelwen can expect Yarrow to drop everything for a royal audience, drunken daze and all.

The lordling has fully sidled away, so Yarrow skips the farewells and follows after Nevander in some semblance of his usual swagger. No flowery bower for Yarrow tonight. Just a sway in his step, and honey-sweet liquor bubbling and popping between his thoughts.

Fuck. Yarrow wanted an audience with the summer queen, but not like this.

The halls of Elladar Palace are bright as day, even as twilight shrouds the world outside. Disoriented by the change, Yarrow focuses on the gold and white stones beneath his feet. Elladar mead is strong, but Yarrow's no lightweight. He can do this.

The loophole is obvious in retrospect. Haelwen's messenger had said she wouldn't hear his petition today. 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?"

"A shapestealer named Moriath has been causing havoc in my realm these past few months," Haelwen says. "Your task would be to slay him."

Slaying monsters is well within Yarrow's purview, but a promise to the summer queen isn't lightly made. "Why send me instead of your own soldiers?"

"Moriath has crossed into the human realm." Haelwen purses her lips. "It is inconvenient to send my soldiers after him."

Makes sense. Probably. "How powerful is this shapestealer?"

"You wonder if I send you to your death." Haelwen smiles. "I do not. I believe you are capable of slaying this shapestealer. I want him dead, and my aims are best served by your success and survival. Should you accept, Nevander will provide you with a talisman to travel to and from the human realm."

Yarrow's shoulders loosen. The queen is the most powerful fae in all of Summer, but she's bound to the same basic rules as the commonest village fae. She can only twist and spin her words. She can't lie.

A trip to the human realm should be exciting. Yarrow's never been before. Brief visits between realms are safe enough. A fae would have to stay in the human realm for half a year before risking realm-sickness. Living too long in the wrong realm is dangerous—unless something powerful binds them to their new home.

"Then on condition that you reward me with an invitation to your court," Yarrow says carefully, "I accept this quest."

Haelwen rises and spreads her arms, palms turned towards the darkening sky and the rustling trees. "I vow to you, Yarrow, that if you slay Moriath, I will invite you to join my court."

The promise twists around Yarrow's heart, like a feather in the wind. If he concentrates, he can feel the tickling.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Yarrow sweeps a bow. Deeper this time. His feet are steady, and anticipation drums against his ribs.

If all goes well—and how can it not?—Yarrow will soon be back in these halls, with his axe on his back and a brand-new story to impress the curious high fae with. He's already so attractive. How much more ass will he get with a new tale of heroism?

Haelwen's eyes narrow, and she folds her hands. "Nevander."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Take him to the palace herbalist before you send him off."

Nevander would never do something so crass as sigh at his queen. He just stiffens slightly. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Yarrow barely, bravely suppresses his grin.