Page 25 of The Sun King's Noon

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 wasalready 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 theirhair. 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.”