I was still laughing as we climbed out of the car and into the cool evening air. I wasn’t wearing a human disguise: I didn’t need one. Between the storms and the warding spells, no humans were going to come within a mile of Muir Woods tonight, unless they were being compelled by some outside force. I was wearing a nice pseudo-medieval blouse that May had dug out of the back of my closet in my mother’s tower; it was black spider-silk and red samite, and while I felt like I was in danger of having my clothes wear me, rather than me wearing my clothes, May had insisted. Instead of jeans, I had black spider-silk pants that clung like they were made of Saran Wrap. I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with that. I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with any of this. Just to gild the lily, my jewelry was tarnished silver and garnets, and all of it was real, estate sale stuff Jazz had found in the back of her store. No amount of dispelling my illusions would change a thing about my clothes.
Spider-silk is expensive. I was wearing the equivalent of more money than most changelings would see in their lifetimes. It made me seriously uncomfortable—although there was something to be said for the amusement factor of standing me next to Quentin. He was the pureblood, but he was wearing blue linen trousers, a white peasant shirt, and a vest in the pale shade of daffodil favored in Shadowed Hills. His attire was a quiet reminder of who technically held his fosterage, even as mine was a reminder that I was my mother’s daughter, and bleeding around me would be unwise.
I would have felt better if May and Jazz had been there, rather than dressing me up like a giant Barbie and throwing me to the wolves. May was concerned that her whole “I’m a Fetch, howdy” routine might cause problems with some of the visiting nobles, and wasn’t planning to come to the conclave until night two, when everyone would presumably be too preoccupied sniping at each other to notice that she wasn’t supposed to exist. It was logical. It was sensible. It still left me feeling like I didn’t have as much backup as I really, really wanted to have.
Quentin looked at me gloomily across the roof of the car. “I’m glad you think this is funny.”
“Somebody should,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go embarrass ourselves in front of the nobility.”
He snorted, but said nothing as he followed me out of the parking lot.
The stretch of land known as Muir Woods is one of the last remaining semi-virgin redwood forests in California. The giant evergreens used to cover the entire coast, towering over anyone who stood before them. These days, they’re tourist attractions and the vegetative equivalent of zoo animals, hemmed in by cities and protected by laws that do too little and started doing it too late. Mist swirled around the trunks of the ancient trees as we walked into their shadow, following the trails human rangers had cut through the underbrush. Some fae would have no need for those little wooden paths. Tybalt could have stalked across the forest floor and never disturbed a leaf. Grianne, a Candela in Sylvester’s service, could have walked across the surface of the ponds without a ripple. Sadly, some of us were more limited, and some of us were very grateful to the parks service for their help.
Pixies appeared in the trees as we climbed the hill toward the entry to Arden’s knowe. Some of them flew down to perform loops around us, leaving trails of glittering pixie-sweat in the air as they passed. I smiled. The pixies were no more than four inches tall—most were closer to three—and came in every color of the rainbow. They were some of the smallest members of Faerie. The health of the local pixie colonies was a good indicator of the health of the realm. Judging by the looks of this group, the Mists were thriving under Arden’s rule.
Lowri was in full armor, standing beside the open doors to the knowe, with a Cornish Pixie in matching attire standing on the other side. Lowri was Arden’s Captain of the Guard, and had served as temporary seneschal while Madden was asleep. Presumably, Madden had his job back now. I tensed. If she held a grudge about my helping Arden wake Madden up so early . . .
“Sir Daye,” said Lowri, smiling brightly. Her Welsh accent broadened her consonants and flattened her vowels, adding a lilt to her words. “And Quentin. You’re looking awfully formal today, young master.”
“It’s a conclave,” said Quentin. He looked at his feet, shoulders tense. I elbowed him. If he didn’t want to blow our cover, he needed to stop acting like we were going to be caught at any moment. Lowri knew him as my squire, and a minor noble at best. She wasn’t going to figure out that things were any different just because we were here.
“It is, and you’re properly early,” said Lowri. Her smile faded as she turned back to me, replaced by grave concern. “You . . . do understand the company you’re to be keeping these next few nights? There are some who won’t like that you’re allowed inside, much less permitted to have a voice in the proceedings.”
“I’m not here to have a voice,” I said. “I’m here because the High King of the Westlands wants me to be, and because I had something to do with the whole ‘let’s cure elf-shot’ thing succeeding in the first place. Which reminds me. You were sworn to the Yates family before Rhys took Silences. Are you going to go back when all this is done?”
Lowri gave a quick, decisive shake of her head. “No,” she said. “I loved my lieges when I served them, but that part of my life is over, and my oaths are sworn to Queen Windermere in the Mists. I wish the Kingdom of Silences well. Their recovery will be performed without me.”
“Good,” I said. “I’d miss you. Quentin, come on. We need to check in.” He hurried to dog my heels as I walked through the open doors into the long redwood entry hall. Carved panels on the walls around us showed stylized scenes from the history of the Mists, including Arden’s crowning and a figure who looked suspiciously like Walther pressing a bowl to the lips of a man who looked like Madden. More and more, I was coming to suspect that the knowe did its own carving. Fae craftsmen were good, but I didn’t see how the best of them could have finished that panel and put it in place among the others in only three days.
A new doorway opened off the end of the hall, revealing a secondary hall that curved away from the receiving room where Arden normally held Court. We walked down it. Voices drifted back to meet us, until we stepped into a gallery as grand as any theater. I stopped dead.
“Whoa,” I said.
Quentin didn’t say anything. He just blinked, his thoughts apparently mirroring my own.
The room we were now in had two stories—there was an actual balcony section, which wasn’t something I’d ever expected to see in something that wasn’t a theater. There was a stage at the far end of the room, flanked by gray velvet curtains, like someone was trying to use stagecraft to create an impression of the mist across the Bay. I couldn’t be sure how many people the space would seat, but I was guessing somewhere between a hundred and fifty and two hundred, depending on how deep that balcony was.
Arden was on the stage conjuring balls of witch-light and tossing them up to join the others that were already bobbing among the rafters. With each ball, the light in the room got a little brighter, twilight melting into day. She looked toward the sound of my voice and smiled, although it didn’t remove the lines of strain around her eyes. “The bookstore used to host a lot of author events,” she said. She didn’t seem to be raising her voice, but it carried, clean and clear, to the back of the gallery. There must have been amplification charms on the stage. Neat trick.
Arden continued her thought as we walked toward her: “Usually, we just had to move a couple of shelves and set up folding chairs, but it could still get pretty intense. Genre authors can attract some weird crowds. So I’m trying to think of this as if it were that. We’re hosting like, Stephen King and J.K. Rowling at the same time, and the weirdoes are going to ride, ride, ride.”