“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 soattractive. 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.
Chapter 3
Folly
Folly twists the gold hoops into his ears. Thankfully he’s already dusted the dark powder around his eyes. His hands are shaking too much for it now. The carnival is due to open any minute, and the first customers won’t be far behind. This should be Folly’s time to prepare alone. Not suffer Roland’s interrogation.
“Just two magical objects.” Roland’s disbelief is clear. “I should make you go back tomorrow. You must have missed something.”
Folly’s hip burns with awareness of the coin tucked into his purse. Guilt and grievance tumble like pebbles in his stomach. Sure, Folly’s lying. There were four magical objects this time. But two wouldn’t have been strange. “I’ll go back if you want me to.”
“I don’t want you to go back,” Roland snaps. “I want you to fucking get it right the first time.”
The magenta canvas tent is claustrophobic with Roland inside. There’s barely space for the two of them, and Folly nearly trips over the long red tablecloth as he maneuvers around Roland. He reaches out to steady the magic bowl.
The front flap is tied open, and an armed cashier stands guard outside. But the guard protects against clients and thieves, not the boss.
Folly adjusts one of the hanging scarves. “I’m trying,” he says quietly. He adjusts another scarf and exhales. “The carnival’s open. I should finish setting up.”
If Roland has any good quality, it’s that his hobbies—like toying with Folly’s nerves—don’t interfere with business. “At least you’re good at this,” Roland says. “I wish the acrobats had half your professionalism. And, hey.”
Folly looks up, startled to find Roland far closer. There’s wine on his breath, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s horrible sober too.
“The nights have been chilly for summer.” Roland squeezes Folly’s shoulder, his palm hot and uncomfortable through Folly’s robe. “If your little wagon’s too cold, you can always bunk up with me.”
Folly forces a smile through his revulsion. “My wagon’s fine. Thanks.”
