“Just make sure the Mists are still standing when we come home,” I said.
That earned me a small, quick smile. “I’ll do my best,” said Arden.
“Good,” I said, and walked past her into the open doorway, and the inevitable.
SEVEN
THE SKY WAS A bruised purple as we stepped through Arden’s portal and onto the red brick esplanade outside the castle and ruling seat of the Kingdom of Silences. The blackberry flower and redwood smell of her magic clung to our clothing, announcing us as hers more clearly than a herald ever could.
I glanced up. There were at least six moons visible: we were in the Summerlands, standing on the fae side of the knowe. Evergreens pressed in on us from all directions, creating a verdant barrier between our small party and whatever lay beyond the castle. We moved closer together without saying anything about it. Our position had us totally exposed—any archer who wanted to appear on the castle wall and put an elf-shot arrow through our hearts would have been able to do so without making any real effort.
“Points for ‘I can design an imposing front door,’ no points for ‘people will want to use it,’” I said. “Where the hell is everyone?”
“Did the Queen tell them we were coming?” asked May. “Maybe we should have called ahead.”
Tybalt snorted.
We had all taken advantage of Arden’s changing rooms, although some of us had taken it farther than others. Tybalt, Walther, and Quentin were dressed like something from a production of The Tempest, in tight trousers, linen shirts, and vests. Their styles didn’t quite synch up—Tybalt was more swashbuckler, Quentin more courtier, and Walther a strange sort of combination between scholar and undertaker—but they made a pretty picture, taken as a group. May was wearing jeans and a Golden Gate Park sweatshirt. And I . . . well, I had brushed my hair. That was all the concession they were getting out of me, at least for now.
Arden had provided a small cart for our bags, and had thrown in several trunks of what May assured me were very nice outfits, accompanied by even nicer cosmetics, accessories, and shoes. The look of relief on Arden’s face when May had explained that she was acting as my lady’s maid had been almost insulting. Spike was riding atop our piled suitcases, paws tucked underneath its body, seeming perfectly content.
The evergreens rustled, but no one appeared. I gave Walther a sidelong look. “Any of this look familiar to you?”
“Yes,” he said, shaking his head. “There was no need for a road before. I suppose there isn’t need for one now, either. We’re being watched, you know.”
“Swell,” I muttered. Of the three races that hold most of the thrones in Faerie, only the Daoine Sidhe ever bother to walk anywhere. Tuatha de Dannan can teleport. Tylwyth Teg can fly, given a bundle of yarrow twigs and the space to push off. I gave the brick esplanade a more critical look. It was broad enough that even young Tylwyth Teg would have been able to use it as a landing strip, and the underbrush surrounding the edges of the area contained an unusually large amount of yarrow for the region and the climate.
Walther followed my gaze and shook his head. “They didn’t even bother to replant our gardens,” he said, open bitterness in his voice. “Why should they? We were never coming back.”
“Yeah, well. Surprise.” I planted my hands on my hips, turned my attention to the door, and said—loudly and clearly, but without yelling—“I am Sir October Christine Daye, Knight of Lost Words, sworn to the service of Duke Sylvester Torquill of Shadowed Hills, here in the name of Arden Windermere, Queen in the Mists. I claim the hospitality of your home for myself and my company, who have traveled with me to negotiate a cessation of hostilities between our lands.”
Silence fell. Somewhere in the distant pines, an owl hooted once before getting with the program and shutting up. I tapped my foot against the brick.
“You declared war on us, remember?” I called. “That means we get to take our three-day window to try to fix it. Now let us in. I’m allergic to fresh air and moonlight.”
Tybalt snorted again, this time sounding almost painfully amused. I glanced at him, raising one eyebrow in challenge. He shook his head, fighting to swallow his smirk. That was a good thing, in its way. If he was busy laughing at me, he wasn’t worrying about my imminent demise.
I resumed glaring at the castle. Seconds ticked by, and my frustration grew. Finally, I threw up my hands, and demanded, “Well?”
The great wooden doors began to swing inward.
It was a slow process, so slow that at first I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. But the crack of light that appeared between them grew wider and wider, until glimpses of the wide, open air courtyard on the other side became apparent. The red brick of the esplanade continued beyond the gates. We would have a level surface on which to pull our little wagon. Bully for us.
It took almost five minutes for the doors to fully open. We didn’t move during the process; instead, by silent agreement, we waited to see what would happen next. I was expecting the King’s guard, maybe accompanied by his seneschal, to appear and tell us that we weren’t welcome—that, or show us to our rooms. It all depended on whether or not they accepted that I had the right to claim their hospitality.
But the doors opened, revealing the deserted courtyard. There was a fountain at the center, made of gold, with stylized Sidhe bodies and stags caught in eternal, faceless dance. The statues were featureless enough that they could have belonged to any of the ruling races, but the yarrow branches etched into the stone around the fountain’s edge made it clear that the installation had been originally commissioned by one of the Tylwyth Teg. The walls of the courtyard had been scrubbed as clean as it was possible for granite to be, and there were no tapestries or pennants hanging there, leaving the fountain as the only decoration. It made the little water feature seem sad, almost, like it was trying too hard to brighten a space that was far too large for it to illuminate alone.
Spike leaped from the wagon and trotted over to stand next to my feet, rattling its thorns in a timbre that I recognized as frustration.
“Yeah, I’m feeling pretty jerked around, too,” I said. “Come on, guys. Let’s walk into the big creepy castle and see if we get attacked by something. Doesn’t that sound like fun? I think it sounds like fun.” I began to walk.
“She’s your fiancée,” said May. There was a small rumbling sound as she and Quentin began pulling the cart over the bricks. Maybe having them do the pulling was a little unfair, given that Tybalt and Walther had their hands free, but there was a method to my madness. Quentin was my squire: I didn’t want him being looked at as anything else. And when a knight has a squire, that squire can expect to be put to work doing whatever irritating or unpleasant jobs the knight isn’t in the mood for. May was my Fetch, but she was here as my lady’s maid, and it made sense that if two people were needed to do the pulling, she would be the second one. I’d probably hear about this from both of them later. In the moment, they understood as well as I did how important it was for things to appear normal.
Well. As normal as it was possible for anything about our little group to appear.
We walked through the open, unwelcoming castle doors and into the courtyard. There were no visible doors on this level, apart from the one we’d entered through. I shot Walther a hard look, and he shrugged helplessly. It’s not uncommon for the people in charge to design their strongholds in a way that makes it clear that they make the rules, that anything you do is dependent on their kindnesses. The Mists has always had a lot of Daoine Sidhe in positions of power, in part due to meddling from their Firstborn. As I looked around what was essentially a room with no windows and only one door, I found myself faintly grateful that Evening had been so inclined to stick her nose in. At least Daoine Sidhe had to walk everywhere, and hence built strongholds that were useful to the rest of us.