Chapter 11
The Sylari arrived five days before the ball. Dawn had scarcely broken when a breathless soldier came pelting through the courtyard with news of a strange procession approaching the Southern Gate—of goatmen, treewomen, and a black wolf pacing at their side.
They were a full day early—meant instead to be arriving with Frostheim and Naradesh tomorrow—and the news plunged the castle into chaos.
Maids and scullions sprinted through the hallways, hurrying to string up flower wreaths.
Footmen polished the bannisters. And the cooks’ bellowing reached the parapets.
Seamstress Cecily had cornered Richard to fit him into a brown doublet. His green cape, Cecily had embroidered with golden flowers. The extravagance seemed out of place when he was due to greet simple woodland folk, but Cecily had been firm. A king he was, and a king he must dress as.
Now, as he sat stiff-backed in his throne, with midday light streaming through the high windows behind, Richard felt sick.
Both sides of the vast hall brimmed with courtiers, minor nobles, merchants, and servants.
As curious murmurs reverberated, Richard picked at the edge of his thumbnail.
The skin there was already raw, but the sting grounded him against the churning of his gut.
The Sylari had not set foot in High Ardenia for over a century. Not since his grandfather barred the borders and declared their kind unwelcome. Generations of suspicion, sealed by royal decree. How was he to undo it in a single afternoon?
What if the dryads found the castle offensive? What if the pavilion was wrong, the flowers too wilted, the gardens too plain? What if Matriarch Myrafrond of the Highheart judged him lacking? What if the fauns—
Elara leaned over her throne’s armrest and squeezed his fingers. “Breathe, Brother. They shall find you endearing. Who could not?”
Richard had plenty he could list—chief among them being Corwin, disgruntled after Richard had yelled at him for turning up hungover—but instead, he managed a smile. Elara squeezed again, then released him as the distant sound of drums and trumpets rose from the outer courtyard.
At the base of the dais stood Dain and Kaelen, cutting imposing figures in their gleaming armour.
Kaelen stood behind his father, chin raised.
Though he’d waved at Briony and Elara and rolled his eyes at Corwin, he hadn’t once glanced at Richard.
Indeed, since their confrontation two days earlier, Kaelen had been infuriatingly formal.
He bowed low after each report. He trained the recruits with meticulous care.
But beyond that, he refused to even look at his king.
Richard glared at the back of Kaelen’s head. The stubborn wretch.
Before the irritation could fester, the doors groaned open.
Seven dryads walked in slowly, their skin textured like bark—some dark as walnut, others pale as birch.
Veins of luminous green threaded their forearms, and rustling leaves formed their hair.
Their garments were of moss and ivy, while long grasses draped from their waists.
The fauns trotted by them. From the waist up, they were bare-chested men—one even carried reed pipes slung around his neck.
But from the waist down, coarse fur covered powerful haunches and legs jointed like a goat’s, ending in hooves.
Curved horns sprouted from their curls, and their tufted tails flicked as they gaped around.
A few shrieks sounded from the crowd upon seeing the wolf prowling between the dryads and fauns.
It reached an adult’s shoulder, and its coat was a deep, glossy black.
Muscle rolled beneath its pelt with each tread, and its huge paws made no sound on the stone.
Blue eyes swept the room with clear intelligence.
A thrill surged through Richard. Trying not to appear overeager, he descended the steps and stopped before the dryads’ leader. Myrafrond was taller than any woman Richard had ever seen. Her bark resembled oak, and a crown of primroses wreathed her head.
“Matriarch Myrafrond.” Richard bowed his head. “High Ardenia is honoured by your presence. Be welcome in these halls. Every root and branch of this castle’s grounds is yours to call home during your stay.”
“Your kind builds cages of stone and calls them homes. I had forgotten how cold your world feels.” Myrafrond’s words came slowly as though she tasted them before she spoke.
“For your ancestor closed these doors to us long ago. He called us blights upon civilised soil. You would open them again. Why?”
“My grandfather held his reasons,” Richard said. “But this is a new age with new threats, and the old woods’ strength is one I would stand beside, not against.”
Myrafrond stared at him. A beetle scuttled across her face and into her hair. “You speak with the tongue of an older growth.”
Raising a gnarled hand, she reached into herself, fingers sinking past bark-skin, and drew out a flower. It was no ordinary bloom. The petals were pure white, thin as dragonfly wings, and throbbed with a soft light.
“This is my heart. The core of my self.” She extended her hand, the flower pulsing in her palm. “Touch it and know that Myrafrond of the Highheart extends her trust to the Sun King who opened his doors.”
Holding his breath, Richard brushed his thumb across a translucent petal. The flower shivered. A tingle pulsed through Richard’s finger and up his arm. For a heartbeat, he heard the gust of wind through leaves, and smelled the wet earth after rain.
“It is beautiful,” he said softly. “You honour me, my lady.”
Myrafrond tucked her heart back into her chest. “Will the Sun King allow me to touch his heart in turn?”
Gasps erupted, and from the corner of his eye, Richard saw Dain and Kaelen place their hands on their sword pommels.
“Elara. Corwin. Briony.” Richard gestured. “Come.”
They neared him with wide eyes. Once near, Richard placed Elara’s hand over his own. Then Corwin’s atop hers, and finally, Briony’s, smudged with ink, crowning them all.
Richard held the stack of hands out to Myrafrond. “I have three hearts. You may touch them all.”
Myrafrond smiled. She trailed a long finger up the hands. Elara shivered, touching their mother’s necklace of snowdrop gems. Corwin stiffened and shuffled closer to Richard.
Briony tiptoed to peer at Myrafrond. “Oh, your bark is so beautiful! Does your hair shed in autumn and turn you bald? Do the birds peck at your skin? Can you hear the other trees talking? What do they say?”
Myrafrond’s laugh mimicked a branch breaking. “Your hearts, Sun King”—she tucked Briony’s loose curl behind an ear—“are strong.”
Richard dipped his head and herded his siblings aside as the fauns’ leader tottered forward. Tavrus had soft eyes, almost bovine, and a pair of ridged, spiralling horns. His expression was one of mild bewilderment, as though he had wandered into the throne room by happy accident.
“Chief Tavrus.” Richard inclined his head. “Welcome to High Ardenia.”
Tavrus beamed. “Ah! Yes. The king. You are the king, aren’t you?
Splendid.” He pumped Richard’s hand with both of his.
“We brought wine. Elderberry. Twelve casks. Or was it eleven?” He glanced at the faun with the reed pipes, who held up nine fingers.
“Nine casks! Well, there were twelve, but the journey was long, and we grew thirsty. You understand.”
Richard grinned. “Most generous, Chief Tavrus. Nine casks will be received with great appreciation.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” Tavrus gaped at the stained glass overhead. “Oh, my. What marvellous windows. Do they always do that with the colours?”
“They do.”
“Enchanting. We have nothing like it in the groves, you see. Only fireflies.” Tavrus ambled back to his people.
“Brother.” Briony tugged at Richard’s sleeve and pointed at the black wolf, who watched the proceedings calmly. “May I pet him?”
Corwin seized her shoulder. “It is hardly a tame dog, you silly thing. Why, it may take off your arm with one bite.”
The wolf’s ears twitched before it padded forward.
Kaelen and Corwin made to draw their swords, but Richard’s sharp gesture forced them to still their hands.
This was no feral wolf, Richard was sure, but he nodded at Elara to be ready as the beast stopped before Briony. Her flames were swifter than any sword.
For one taut heartbeat, no one moved. Then the wolf lowered its great head and nudged Briony’s cheek with its nose.
Briony giggled and threw both arms around the wolf’s neck, burying her face in the thick fur.
“Oh!” she squealed. “You are softer than my winter blanket!”
Richard stifled a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Master Wolf,” he said gravely to the creature, “for sating my sister’s curiosity.”
The wolf gave him a slow blink. The air around it shimmered, and its fur rippled. Bones cracked and reformed, and the lupine frame unfolded, lengthened, rose—paws stretching into brawny hands, haunches rearranging into long, thick legs, the muzzle receding into a square jaw.
Where the wolf had been, now stood a man.
He was ruggedly handsome, as tall as Kaelen, broad through the shoulders, and slightly older. Bright blue eyes stared, deep-set and patient. His black hair fell past his shoulders, and a trimmed beard adorned his face. The tunic he wore was plain, and at his throat hung a fang.
Richard gawked.
A druid.
He had read of them, devoured every scrap of lore as a boy. Shapeshifters. Walkers between the skin of man and beast. Richard had traced their illustrations in manuscripts and asked tutors whether the druids truly existed or were merely myths.
None had given him an answer. And now one stood barefoot before him.
The druid bowed.
“Sun King.” His voice was low and unhurried.
“I am Orric, a druid of the Greyhide pack. My Chief-Mother disapproves of my attending but granted permission. I have come partly from interest, and partly in friendship.” He reached for Richard’s hand, his grip calloused.
“I am gladdened to have made the journey. It is rare for a human to show such respect for the olden ways. It speaks well of you, Your Majesty. It speaks very well indeed.”
Richard swallowed hard, a flush climbing his neck as Orric’s steady gaze pierced through him.
“I—” His voice cracked. He coughed and tried again, though his words remained strained. “That is. I mean. The honour is yours—no, I mean—mine. The honour is mine.”
“The tales say you have a scholar’s mind and a warrior’s hands. A rare pairing.”
“I—yes. Quite.” Richard’s ears blazed hot. “Well, the journey—you must be weary from the journey. I hope the gardens we have prepared—there are trees. Many trees. In the gardens. Which is where trees—where they tend to be.”
Stop talking, a voice commanded from the back of his mind. By the gods, stop talking this instant.
“Your hands are warm,” he heard himself say.
Richard closed his eyes and willed someone to slit his throat.
“Brother!” Corwin grabbed his shoulder, wrenching him from Orric. “You have been poisoned! Someone fetch Lady Selwyn!”
“I have not been poisoned.”
“Brother?” Briony appeared at his elbow. “You have gone red. Are you ill?”
“I am quite well,” Richard said tersely, glancing at Elara, who wore a wicked grin.
Corwin clamped a hand to Richard’s forehead. “I think you’ve been touched by the sun.”
“Corwin,” Richard hissed, very much aware of the court’s gaping, “if you do not remove your hand this instant—”
Over Corwin’s shoulder, past the cluster of fauns, Richard caught sight of Kaelen.
The knight’s jaw hung open, and his brows climbed so high they nearly vanished beneath his hairline. A wounded bewilderment wrestled across his features, as though he’d drunk lemon juice he’d believed to be honey. He looked terribly funny, and Richard almost laughed.
Their eyes met, and Kaelen’s mouth snapped shut. With a scowl, he jerked his gaze away.
Richard blinked. Why? What had he done now? Why did Kaelen have to become irritated over the most obscure matters? With a frown of his own, he yanked free of Corwin and straightened his doublet.
“Orric of the Greyhide,” Richard said, recovering his solemnity.
“I—we—are glad of your presence.” He clasped his hands behind his back.
“Lord Byrom shall see you and all the Sylari delegation to your lodgings. We have prepared the back gardens, with a pavilion for the fauns and the grove for the dryads. Should you prefer something different—”
“Earth and sky will do, Your Majesty,” Orric said, his eyes crinkling into a smile.
“Excellent. Good.” Richard tugged his ear and forced his hand down. “Wonderful.”
Lord Byrom bustled forward, clutching his sheaf of notes. Several fluttered loose and spiralled to the floor as he bowed to the Sylari.
“If you would follow me, esteemed guests! The gardens are just this way—” A faun stepped on one of his dropped pages, and Byrom dove for it. “Ah, careful, if you please, those are the dietary requirements—”
The delegation moved towards the side door on the left. Tavrus wandered in the wrong direction before the faun with the reed pipes yanked him back. Myrafrond’s dryads followed behind.
Richard watched them go, his attention drawn by Orric’s elegant tread and the shift of his dark hair. A druid. A real, mythical druid from the stories, who had not only accepted his invitation but also praised him. How utterly—
The herald’s trumpet blasted.
“Announcing Her Highness, Princess Penelope of Estara!”
Richard stiffened. Slowly, he swivelled to face the great doors. A small procession entered in a sweep of blue. Estaran guards with their antlered helmets, attendants, and in the middle of them all, the princess.
Penelope.
In the year since she’d last visited, her freckles had faded, and her face had grown gaunter than the rosy-cheeked girl he remembered. Still, her frizzy bob remained the unmistakable red that marked the Estaran royal line, and her buckteeth revealed themselves as she gave him a nervous smile.
Richard did not smile back. Penelope was not meant to be here. Estara had not formally accepted. To show without such notice was a terrible insult.
“Princess—” he began, stepping forward.
But Penelope had already seen Elara. Her face crumpled, and with a broken cry, she gathered her skirts and all but flew towards the dais, ignoring her attendants’ barked admonishments, shouldering past Richard.
Elara froze, looking lost, but as Penelope reached for her, she raced down the steps.
They met in a tangle of gowns and desperate hands.
“Oh, Penny.” Elara cupped Penelope’s cheek and hugged the woman’s waist. Penelope choked a sob as Elara kissed her on the forehead, murmuring words of comfort.
The court’s mutterings swelled. Amongst them, Malgrin was stroking his beard, looking pleased, no doubt already planning a match.
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose.
This, he thought grimly as Penelope sobbed against his sister’s shoulder, was now a new complication.