Emily Wilde’s Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde #3)

30th December

Well! I have a great deal to recount since I last opened this journal, and I scarcely know how to feel about any of it. Hardly a new sensation since taking up with Wendell.

The battleground was an area of moorland beside a marsh, an offshoot of Muckle Lake, I think. Small embers of light floated here and there—the remnants of magic expended during the battle, which looked a great deal like will-o’-the-wisps. [*1] There were also several inexplicable elements, foremost of which was an ivied staircase leading to nothing, and what I can only describe as a giant fox frozen halfway into the process of transforming into a tree. An attentive oak had been cleft perfectly in two, with a neat passage between, though this did not seem to have killed the thing, unfortunately. Occasionally there came a sort of roaring sound, which seemed to emanate from beneath the earth. On the whole I was content not to have witnessed the enchantments that had been cast during the heat of the fighting.

There were no bodies, either dead or wounded. The only movement came from the wind brushing calmly over the ferns that spilled out from the forest’s edge. A great many theories seek to explain what happens to the bodies of the Folk after they die; scholars have documented the remains of a fair few species of common fae—indeed, some are housed in Cambridge’s Museum of Dryadology and Ethnofolklore—but not of the courtly fae. The leading theory among mortuary dryadologists is that, for most of the courtly fae, there is an evanescence of some sort, perhaps after a period of time has elapsed. The stories do not agree on this point, however, and it remains one of the questions that, for reasons likely pertaining to my own weaknesses, I have avoided asking Wendell.

“The worst of the fighting took place beyond that rise,” Wendell said.

“You go,” I said, eyeing Shadow, who had bent his head to drink from a creek. He had been lagging behind for the past hour, requiring us to slow our pace. “I’ll remain with him. I believe he will appreciate the rest.”

“Poor dear,” Wendell said, bending to rub Shadow’s ears. “When I retake my throne, I shall dedicate a fleet of servants to his needs. They shall make for him a velvet bed in every room, with a fire burning beside each one, and the bones of my enemies will be preserved for his enjoyment.”

“That started off well, but I did not care for the ending,” I said.

Naturally, Wendell only laughed at this and set off for the hill. I had one of my moments of existential panic, in which I question everything that has led me to this point, before burying it under thoughts of a more practical nature, as I always do. If I one day erupt into uncontrollable screams and go charging into the woods, tearing at my hair, who but Wendell will be to blame?

I dug out the salve I use for Shadow’s arthritis and rubbed it into the dog’s ankles. He closed his eyes in contentment and rolled onto his side, enjoying the sun on his fur, though this did not lessen my worry. He is too old for such long walks now, preferring to spend the majority of his day napping by the fire.

“All right, my love?” I murmured, rubbing the dog’s ears.

Shadow gave a huff and thumped his tail against the grass.

Our little army did not join me in the clearing, but lurked in the shadows of the forest—I am uncertain if this was preferable for my nerves, but at least I didn’t have to look at them. With the exception of Snowbell, of course, who hopped onto my lap and gave me an expectant look. I scratched behind his ears warily—an enjoyable experience for him, I suppose, but less so for me, given that the fox-faerie tends to tire of affection without warning and lunge snarling at my fingers.

“I know the best way to the castle,” Snowbell complained, flicking his tail. “It would be faster if we went my way.”

“You tell that to His Royal Highness, then.” I knew the creature would do no such thing, of course, and was merely boasting for the sake of it.

“Your coat is marvellously shiny today,” I told him, just to forestall any more tedious complaints. Sure enough, the faerie sat up straighter and hopped onto the ground to preen in a patch of sunlight, the better to show himself off.

I spent a contented half hour or so finishing the previous journal entry. I was just opening my pack to locate a book when Lord Taran came striding into the clearing.

“There you are,” he said in a dismissive manner, as if we had been at tea and I had wandered off for a moment.

I started to my feet with a smothered cry, my journal and pen spilling onto the grass, and backed away from him. He stopped and regarded me calmly, cool and collected as could be in spite of the massive sword he carried, its blade dark and wet, not to mention the stains upon his silver-threaded tunic and spray of blood across his pale face. It was abundantly clear that he had played a significant part in the battle in this grove.

I, on the other hand, was far from calm. Lord Taran was not a large man—his height was average for the courtly fae, who tend to be a little taller than mortals—but his presence had a weight to it that made it difficult to look away from him, much as I wanted to. Sometimes, when I blinked, I beheld from behind my eyelids a creature as skeletal as branches, covered in glittering moss like tattered finery. He had reminded me of the Hidden king when last we met, but when I looked into the Hidden king’s eyes, I had seen towering glaciers and snowy wastes; when I met Lord Taran’s gaze, I saw the impenetrable darkness at the heart of an ancient forest.

“I—my apologies, my lord,” I stammered, sketching a hasty curtsy. “I did not expect you to grace me with your—”

“Never mind that,” he said, pushing the dark hair off his brow. “Did our dear departed prince not deign to accompany you this time? Or are you here to make off with another cat? He had only the one, you know.”

There was amusement in his gaze, but it was not a friendly thing—far from it. I sensed a fundamental cruelty in the mordant way he examined me, held in check by something I did not understand.

I did not know what sort of reply would please him, so I simply went with my instincts. “One cat is more than enough for me, thank you. I have come for a throne this time.”

He smiled, and my legs wobbled with relief.

“Have you?” he said. “Well, why not? This kingdom has been ruled by halfbloods and housekeepers; a mortal queen is hardly going to lower us further.”

And just like that, I was on solid ground. Solider, at any rate; whatever else this man was, he was every bit as snobbish as the majority of the courtly fae.

“Why not take the throne yourself, if you are so bothered by the pedigree of its previous occupants?” I asked, which was brazen, but then many of the courtly fae are charmed by boldness in mortals, in much the same way that we coo when a kitten bares its teeth.

He snorted. “I value my neck, that’s why. Which I have managed to keep intact for many centuries—far longer than those who covet power in this bloody wolf’s den of a court.”

This was so far from what I had expected that I was silent for a moment. “Wise of you,” I said.

The malicious amusement was back. “Thank you—I cannot tell you how highly I value the opinions of mortals, particularly young girls who cannot stop themselves from stumbling into violent faerie realms.”

“It’s not necessary to be rude,” I said, nettled. “And for your information, I am thirty-one years old.” I was feeling much calmer now, because I no longer felt it likely that he wanted to harm me; not out of any sense of morality, but because—Isensed—I was providing him with enough amusement to stay his hand.

“We are capable of wisdom, Professor Wilde,” he said. “Some of us. Now, where is Prince Liath?”

I don’t know how I kept my composure at that. Of course I knew that Wendell had another name, but I have never asked for it—I suppose because part of me does not wish to think of him as anything other than Wendell. I also knew, because Wendell had told me, that the Folk rarely refer to each other by name, not even by the shortened form of their true names, which has no magic. [*2] I had inferred from Wendell’s vague explanations that to do so is seen as rude, not unlike a mortal using the Christian name of someone they do not know very well. Instead they prefer to use “Uncle,” “Weaver,” “Lady,” and so forth. It is a fascinating example of faerie etiquette, no doubt springing from their aversion to giving away their true names; I can think of at least four possible approaches to tackling the question in a research paper.

“If I knew where he was, I would have told you already,” I said, after only the slightest of pauses. “I have not been prevented by my enthusiasm for conversing with powerful Folk covered in blood.”

“He will come when you call him,” Taran said, almost gently.

I studied him—I don’t know what I expected to glean from doing so; it was like trying to interpret the motives of a god. I took a breath and shouted, “Wendell!”

For a moment, I just felt silly. A very short moment, because I had not drawn half a breath before Wendell stepped out of a tree.

I wish I could say that I have grown used to him doing this, but in truth, I have not, and I had to stifle a childish shriek. There is something about the manner in which he does it that is deeply troubling; perhaps if there were a puff of smoke, or a tremor, or something to denote there is magic afoot, it would not be so bad, but he simply steps out of trees as if they are empty doorframes.

He looked from me to Taran, showing a complete lack of surprise but plenty of hostility. He was holding a sword, which I assumed he’d obtained from the battlefield. “What are you doing, Uncle?”

“Talking, my dear,” Lord Taran said. “What does it look like?”

“It looks as if you are looming over my betrothed with a sword.”

“Wendell,” I said, suddenly alarmed, because his expression had begun to take on a quality I had seen before, a malevolent sort of calm. I was decidedly of the opinion that we did not want to make an enemy of Lord Taran if we did not need to, nor of his friends, who I doubted would appreciate it if Wendell flew into a rage and decapitated him.

But Lord Taran only tapped his sword idly against the ground, looking Wendell up and down. “How touchy you are!” he said. “Your grandmother’s temper has skipped a generation, has it? Your father didn’t inherit it, bloodthirsty as he was at the end. And, of course, your mother was more likely to take her frustrations out on the laundry, like most of her kind. But you prefer swords to brooms, do you? How conventional.”

“Wendell, he helped me,” I said quickly. “He helped us. He showed me a way into the castle. I doubt I could have healed you if he had not.”

Wendell merely gave me a puzzled look, as if unclear why this would be relevant.

“I did, didn’t I?” Taran said. “That was more Callum’s idea than mine, though; he has always disliked my sister for the wars she is so fond of starting. He would prefer to see you on the throne, Prince, despite your youth. He believes that returning to the former king’s line would offer the realm more stability.” He spread his hands. “Now, I prefer to stay out of politics, but as someone who has always valued his neck, I cannot find fault with this argument, and anyway I am generally inclined to give Callum whatever he wants, regardless of whether I see the sense of it. But, ah! There is the little matter of my oath to your father.” He gave a wince that seemed calculated to appear as insincere as possible. “You see, the old king had little love for his firstborn—your eldest brother, Prince—who was rather boorish and stupid, and besides that quite unskilled magically. So the king made me swear that I would not allow anyone to ascend the throne who was not stronger than the king himself. I believe he wished for me to murder his firstborn, so that his second—your eldest sister—would be first in the line of succession. No doubt he was surprised when I stood back and allowed my own sister to murder her way to the throne, but then, I was only fulfilling my oath, was I not? She proved herself to be stronger than her husband, in her own way.”

He heaved a sigh. I had the distinct impression that he was enjoying himself, that cruel amusement lurking behind every sorrowful gesture. “Now we have come to the crux of it, Prince—you see, I cannot let you leave until you have proven yourself stronger than your father. If you return to the castle and win back the throne, I will have broken my oath.”

Wendell did not seem nonplussed by any part of this absurd speech. He appeared lost in thought, his head tilted slightly. He turned and gave me a look I did not understand, something measuring. I know now that he was looking not at me, but my cloak.

“We should—” I began. I don’t know what I meant to say—whether I had any actual advice to offer, or if I simply wished to stall, to give us time to think our way out of this new peril. It didn’t matter, because in the space of a breath, Lord Taran had gone from leaning casually on his sword to driving it towards Wendell’s chest.

Wendell swore and dove out of the way. Even I started backwards, though I was nowhere near the blade—the speed and ferocity of Taran’s movement was unlike anything I’d seen before. Wendell landed in a clutch of ferns, vanishing into the greenery as if it were a deep pool—a fraction of a second later, Taran’s sword had lopped the heads off them.

“Your father could not beat me,” Taran said, turning to scan the glade, for Wendell had not reappeared. “He was the greatest swordsman I have ever fought, yet in the end I always triumphed when we played at swords. So, Prince—simply disarm me once, and I shall consider the matter settled. You will have proven yourself stronger than your father.”

“Wendell, this is ridiculous,” I cried. Shadow, at my side, was growling low in his throat. I stood, trying to work out where Wendell might be. “We can negotiate our way out of this, surely.”

“I’m afraid not.” Wendell reappeared from a tree on the other side of the stream. He was eyeing Lord Taran warily, which made me still, because Wendell with a sword is normally the picture of self-assurance. “His life is forfeit if he breaks his oath.”

Lord Taran nodded. “As I said—I value my neck.”

“Oh, for—” I began, my voice hitching, because I could not believe that it might end here, after everything. Surely there was something I was missing, some other way out—

Taran charged, but this time, Wendell was ready. Their swords met in a flurry of silver, the sun striking the blades and throwing flashes of blinding light across the clearing. Dark spots flitted across my eyes, but I forced myself to watch—little good it did me. They moved so quickly that I couldn’t follow it at all; it was like trying to map the diamond scatter of sunlight on a heaving sea. When they broke apart, Wendell was on the other side of the creek, Taran gazing at him from across the bank.

“You are—” Lord Taran paused. He did not appear surprised—Iwonder if he is still capable of such an emotion—but there was new interest in his gaze. “It is like fighting your father again.”

“No one has ever beaten me at swords before,” Wendell said, almost absently.

“Nor me,” Taran said. “I suppose that is why your grandfather, the old king, named me his general. And his mother before him. Your father tried—but I am done with war.”

He spoke with neither malice nor amusement now, only a fathomless tranquillity, and for a moment I felt I could hear the aeons echoing through his voice. Wendell is uncertain how long his father’s reign lasted by mortal reckoning, only that it was centuries, not years. And Lord Taran had seen at least two monarchs rise and fall before him?

“Wendell—” I tried again as dread settled in my chest.

But again, Lord Taran did not allow me to finish. He was across the water and forcing Wendell back before even the splashes made by his boots had fallen into the stream. Wendell parried and dodged with impossible grace, but he was losing ground. He stumbled, and Lord Taran moved to take advantage of his distraction, but then suddenly Wendell was under his guard, slashing at Lord Taran’s side.

Taran laughed. He fell back, pressing his hand to his ribs. When he lifted it, his palm was red. “Your father’s son, indeed,” he said, and for the first time, there was warmth in his voice.

Wendell was breathing rapidly, his hair in disarray. I had seen him fight before, but I had never seen him fight like this—superficially, he still looked like Wendell, and yet at the same time he seemed to have shed some part of the human facade that he wore. If I’m honest, it was terrifying. There was a moment when some animal part of me lost all interest in who won, and simply wished to be away from these otherworldly terrors.

But it wasn’t enough. Wendell was clearly spent, and needed a moment to rest. Lord Taran did not give it to him.

His sword met Wendell’s with such force that I expected the blades to shatter. Wendell parried, barely, and then leapt into the tree behind him. Lord Taran lifted his sword—

And sliced the tree in two.

It was almost a casual movement. One moment, the tree was whole. The next, its trunk wobbled and began to fall forward. Lord Taran moved aside unhurriedly, already scanning the grove again, and the tree toppled behind him with a thunderous crash. Several faeries about the size of my hand darted out from among the branches, wailing and dragging little satchels of clothing and what looked like tiny drums behind them.

Wendell emerged to Lord Taran’s left, his sword already flashing, and the other man was forced back towards the stream. Momentarily. I had the terrible impression that the character of the fight had changed, that Lord Taran had solved something in Wendell, and was now merely drawing things out for the sake of it.

My supposition was proven correct moments later, when Lord Taran’s sword slashed beneath Wendell’s guard. It caught only the edge of his cloak, but Wendell was truly off-balance this time, and abruptly, Taran’s sword was swinging at Wendell’s head.

I screamed. But before the sword could fall, there was a flash of black, a shadow rising from a hollow in the ground. Orga twined around Taran’s feet, and he staggered, falling onto one knee. His sword sliced harmlessly through the air by Wendell’s shoulder.

“What’s this?” Taran demanded. Then, to my astonishment, he added in a tone of affection, “Betrayal? I kept this one fed during your absence, Prince. I have always liked cats. It seems she has changed her mind about me, though.”

“Orga cares even less for my enemies than I do,” Wendell said unevenly. “After this, you can expect her to spend the rest of her days orchestrating your demise.”

Lord Taran did not shrug this off as easily as I expected him to. In fact, he looked quite disturbed. But then he shook his head.

“So be it,” he said, and their swords clashed again. I thought, for a brief moment, that Wendell had recovered his strength, for he parried with his usual agility—but then there was a flash of light sailing across the clearing, and I realized it was Wendell’s sword, caught in the sunlight as it rotated around on itself.

Wendell stumbled back. For a brief moment, Lord Taran looked disappointed. But then it slipped away, replaced by something ancient and inscrutable, and he was lifting his sword again—

And I was running, yelling God knows what—something about oaths, I think, for I had been scouring my memory during the entirety of the duel, searching for a way out. I had come up with three or four possibilities, the most compelling of which pertained to an Irish tale in which a rural baker makes an ill-advised pledge to a faerie lord in exchange for eternally soft loaves. [*3]

At the same time, Wendell shouted, “Your cloak, Em!”

My mind was like a sword in that moment, honed by terror, moving more quickly than I was conscious of, and I understood what Wendell wanted and why. Lord Taran’s words reshaped themselves to fit the pattern of a dozen stories, and I saw the door in them—the way out.

I wrenched my cloak off my shoulders and flung it at Wendell. He caught it one-handed, and for a moment held it between himself and Taran like a shield.

It was a ridiculous gesture to my eyes, but Taran didn’t seem to think so; he fell back a step, his brow furrowed. Wendell gave the cloak a shake, like the gesture one might make to unroll a carpet, and the hem of the cloak spilled across the clearing, a black and rippling shadow.

Lord Taran recoiled. “What have you done? That isn’t—”

“It is,” Wendell said. He was still breathing unevenly, but he no longer looked liable to collapse from exhaustion. “A fragment of the Veil, which I sewed into the hem. A window, if you like. What better ward is there against the Folk?”

“That should not be possible,” Lord Taran said, which represented perhaps the only moment in which we two would understand each other. He was not looking at Wendell, but at the cloak, tensing each time it fluttered in the wind.

Wendell shrugged. “You said I must be stronger than my father. But you did not specify by what measure, when you made your oath. Indeed, my stepmother could not have beaten her husband in a swordfight—her strength is of the mind. Well, I have the stronger eye for needlework. You no doubt saw the garments my father made and mended—I already know that you never saw the equal to this.”

Lord Taran was silent. He was not so difficult to read now— there was real trepidation in his eyes, and I remembered what Wendell had said about the Veil, and that all Folk fear it. [*4]

Wendell straightened with a wince, supporting himself with a branch. I went to his side to put my arm around him, not caring, in that moment, if Lord Taran decided to slice through me to get to Wendell, because I had noticed that he was bleeding—at least a dozen small slashes along his arms and side.

“He is correct, of course,” I said to Lord Taran. “Faerie oaths have a great deal of loopholes, but yours seems particularly open to interpretation.”

“Yes, yes,” Lord Taran said, sheathing his sword hurriedly. “I am satisfied. You can—put that away now.”

I was not enthused about putting that away; I had known Wendell had enchanted my cloak in myriad ways, but I hadn’t known there was a window to some hellish otherworld sewn into it, and now that I did I was more inclined to light the thing on fire. But Wendell looked pleased, as if Lord Taran had given his workmanship a great compliment, and a part of me felt a kernel of smugness amidst the terror of owning so fearsome a garment, so I allowed him to help me back into it. The hem rippled and shrank until it was once again an ordinary—though immaculately tailored—cloak.

“You could have asked for my cloak first instead of duelling him,” I pointed out. I felt lightheaded with relief, and also as if I might burst into hysterical giggles, which I preferred to avoid in front of Lord Taran.

“I thought I could win,” Wendell said. He did not seem put out by his defeat, but almost cheerful. “And anyway, I have always wanted to duel my uncle. He is said to be the best swordsman in the realm. It’s been a while since I had so much fun.”

“He nearly decapitated you!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, but besides that, Em,” he said patiently.

Lord Taran retrieved Wendell’s sword and handed it to him, hilt-first. Wendell accepted it with a look of regret.

“I would like for us to do this again,” he said.

“God,” I muttered.

“Not to the death, obviously.”

“As you wish, my king,” Taran said. He pronounced the word with a grimace, as if it had a sour taste. “Back to the rule of housekeepers, it seems.”

“Shall we have some refreshments?” Wendell said, and they strode back to the stream, talking of tea, as if they had not just been trying to kill each other.

Orga, though, was not so easily appeased. After Lord Taran had settled himself elegantly on a flat stone, she crept up behind him and slashed at his ankle.

Lord Taran swore, pulling up his trouser leg to reveal a line of bright red. “Yes, it is clear that our friendship is at an end,” he said, sounding regretful. “Not that we were ever the best of friends; I can recall only two occasions when she deigned to let me stroke her. Come to think of it, you are the only person I know to have formed such a bond with the cat sidhe. ”

Wendell waved a hand. “My Emily has a grim.”

Lord Taran examined me, and then Shadow at my side, new interest sharpening his gaze. “A mortal?”

“Are you so astonished by my mortality that you must mention it every other minute?” I said, because, like Orga, I was not so ready to forgive him. “Your husband must find this tedious.”

Lord Taran laughed. I did not have the sense that the cruelty in him had faded, only that he had sheathed it somehow, as he had his sword.

Conscious of the absurdity of the situation, I removed the leftover scones from my pack, as well as the teacups from the faerie stone. There was a third cup in my pack now. I handed one of the scones to Lord Taran.

“Thank you,” he said. “These look excellent.”

Wendell scooped water from the stream into one of the cups and handed it to Lord Taran. I watched very closely, but still I could not pinpoint the exact moment when it turned into tea. It seemed as if a shadow had fallen upon it, and then it began to steam.

“Ha!” Lord Taran took an appreciative sniff. “That’s the one. Your father used to call for it on Harvest Market mornings.”

“Now, tell me,” Wendell said, once we all had our tea. “What has become of the rhododendron meadow?”

I could not believe he was asking about flowers, what with everything else we had to worry about, and opened my mouth to tell him so, but he only touched my hand and said, “It’s an important matter, Em.”

“You know my dear sister hated the place,” Lord Taran said. “She ordered the gardeners to neglect it. And, well—I’m afraid it’s been claimed by the Deer.”

“One more thing for the to-do list,” Wendell said with a sigh.

“What on earth does that mean?” I said.

Wendell looked apologetic. “All lands claimed by the hag-headed deer are—unfriendly places. They have a tendency to go feral.”

While I contemplated what feral rhododendrons might look like, Lord Taran said, “Enough small talk, Your Highness—you must satisfy my curiosity. We have heard all manner of rumours about you over the years. You are employed at a mortal school as a common labourer, some say; others, that you have been in the north, harassing one of the winter kings.”

“Oh, that,” Wendell said, and launched into an account of our adventures in Ljosland, the bulk of which consisted of hyperbolic descriptions of snow and cold. Lord Taran seemed particularly interested in the concept of glaciers, and asked a number of questions. I waited, tamping down my impatience, until there was a break in the conversation.

“Whom were you fighting before we arrived, sir?” I asked, using a respectful form of address for the courtly fae, which they use to address one another, but not the most respectful form, which is used by brownies and the like. If Lord Taran took issue with this, I did not particularly care. The word has no direct translation, but shares a root with the Faie word for musician, an intriguing quirk that has been the subject of much scholarly debate.

“Oh, it was invaders from—” He used a word I had not heard before. The rough translation is Where the Ravens Hide .

“One of the realms conquered by my stepmother,” Wendell explained. “Scholars call it the Silva Orchis. Unpleasant place—bloody mountains everywhere.” He looked thoughtful. “I wonder if I could order the mountains in my realm to depart? We have hills enough—what more does one need?”

Lord Taran shrugged, evidently not much interested in the matter. “Anyway—the battle began with the invaders. But then some of the queen’s soldiers leapt into the fray—her personal guard remains loyal to the death and have generally been making a nuisance of themselves. They organized a performance last night in the castle gardens in which a dozen singers and flutists serenaded us with tedious ballads about disloyalty being the seed of decay; traitors must be put to death, etcetera. They kept at it all night; I slept very poorly. So I formed an alliance with Where the Ravens Hide and slew the moralizers instead.” He paused, seeming to consider. “I wonder where the invaders got to afterwards?”

“Good Lord!” Wendell said. “Flutes and minstrels—could they not have hired a harpist or two?”

“That’s just it—one cannot expect good taste from the warrior class,” Taran said.

“Who holds the throne now?” I interjected. Navigating the conversation was beginning to feel like swimming against a tumultuous and mercurial current.

Lord Taran sipped his tea. “Yesterday, it was one of the old king’s advisors. The day before that, the head of the queen’s guard tried to make himself regent in the queen’s absence. Thankfully, he was slain before he could make us sit through any ballads. Today—oh, who can say?”

“And where is my stepmother?” Wendell said.

Lord Taran spread his hand. “Dead, I presume. Well, she was dying when last I saw her. The poison caused a rapid deterioration in her health—you were perhaps overgenerous in your dosage, my dear.” He gave me a smile that I did not find pleasant. “She had her guards spirit her away somewhere before she could actually expire—I expect it was to spite you, Your Highness. You would have had an easier path to the throne if her death was irrefutable; now, though, those loyal to the queen will have an excuse to stay loyal.”

Wendell looked downcast at that, but then he shrugged. “I will fight them, I suppose.”

“And you will win,” Lord Taran said. “Of that I have no doubt. But there are so many contenders for the throne that it will be a long and tedious business. Many of the queen’s inner circle, as well as the old king’s, share my opinion that you are too young to rule. Others dislike you for the same reason they disliked your mother, the old queen—they do not wish to be ruled by one descended from the small Folk, particularly the oíche sidhe . It is unnatural.”

“Actually,” I said, as I leafed through the stories in my mind, organizing them like papers on a desk, “the real worry is that your enemies may not attempt to fight you. Instead they will smile and bow and make pretty speeches, and behind your back hire assassins or poisoners. It is, after all, one of the things your court is known for.”

Wendell groaned and rubbed a hand through his hair. Then he seemed to take note of something in my voice. He examined my face, and began to smile. “You’ve had an idea, haven’t you, Em? Please say yes.”

“I think,” I said slowly, “that we need your court to fear you. Enough that they will be too afraid to stand against you.”

“Well, of course; everyone is afraid of children,” Lord Taran said. “And what a fearsome reputation this one has! They say he was almost always the last to leave a party. Now he returns with a rumpled little scholar at his side! His enemies will be quaking.”

Wendell had not taken his gaze off me. “How?”

“Your trick with the cloak has given me an idea,” I said, resisting the urge to straighten the wrinkles out of my skirt.

Lord Taran’s smirk vanished. “You cannot think to throw us all into the Veil, my lord. You will have no one left to rule over. Well, spare me, at least—I am on your side.”

“Are you?” I snapped. “Forgive me, sir, but you do not seem much enthused by the idea of Wendell taking the throne.”

“Oh dear,” Lord Taran said. “It seems we’ve misunderstood each other. Indeed, I believe my nephew will make a terrible king. We might as well offer the throne to one of the gardeners and see how they fare. But I couldn’t care less who the king is. I am on your side because it will make Callum happy.”

I did not trust him one bit. “That’s all?”

He smiled. “Naturally that is all, because what else matters in life?”

Wendell was nodding. “I am glad there will be another mortal at court. In fact, I believe I will invite others to join us. Perhaps we should have an equal number of them on our Council, Em. What do you think?”

“You say that as if it is out of the goodness of your heart,” I said with a snort. “Really it is because you find mortals easier to charm than other Folk.”

He gave me an amused look. “Ah, but there you’re wrong—Iprefer the company of those who are difficult to charm.”

Lord Taran finished his tea and stood, setting the cup carefully on the rock. “I will go on ahead. Naturally, everyone is expecting you to appear at some point, and so a number of the queen’s soldiers are lying in wait for you at various places around the castle grounds. I will get them out of the way, at least. Then you can sweep in and terrify us all with your sewing kit, my lord.”

I glared at him, and he raised his eyebrows innocently. “No? Broom collection, perhaps?” And, laughing at my expression, he marched off into the forest.

“Good riddance,” I muttered. I turned to find Wendell smiling at me fondly.

“We are fortunate to have my uncle on our side,” he said. “He is sometimes called Eldest, for he is possibly the oldest person in the entire realm, and widely feared.”

“He is insufferable.”

“He’s also correct,” Wendell said, unperturbed. “It is no easy task to frighten my court. We are too used to monsters. And none of them have ever viewed me as a fearsome figure.”

“Your magic is growing stronger,” I said bluntly. “I have been watching you. You have never used it so freely, and it does not seem to tire you.”

“I—” Wendell blinked. For a moment, he looked as he had when he stood at the threshold of his door—slightly lost. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I believe it is a good sign,” I said. Also an unnerving one, but I did not bother to mention this. I had not accompanied him to Faerie only to lose heart and sit quaking in some corner, had I? Shoving my anxiety to one side, I sat up straighter and continued, “Several of the oldest stories suggest that the realm recognizes its rightful lord or lady. I can only hope your court is ready for an unorthodox display of power.”

Skip Notes

*1 Possibly the most widely misidentified faerie species. Even experienced dryadologists have been known to mistake natural phenomena, fireflies, or indeed other forms of faerie activity for will-o’-the-wisps. Found in old-growth forests throughout the world, these nocturnal trooping faeries are barely two inches in height, and most of that is their mothlike wings, which dwarf their tiny bodies. They were once believed to be bioluminescent, but Sofia Wagner’s 1822–24 field study in Belgium demonstrated that, in fact, each wisp carries a glass lantern with a tiny flame inside it, which Wagner posited is used for communication (a theory supported by Brendan O’Reagan, whose 1906 book, Fireglass, attempted to decode this language of magical Aldis lamps). Contrary to popular belief, stories of errant mortals led into the wilderness by drifting lights can generally be attributed to bogles, not wisps, which are notoriously shy; if they perceive they are under mortal observation, they will usually flick their lights off and vanish into the nearest knothole.

*2 “Rumpelstiltskin” is, of course, the most famous story of a faerie foiled by his own name, but plenty of others exist, notably “Old Erenondalen” (Norway) and “Lammy Boggs” (Britain). Due to the rarity of scholarly encounters with the courtly fae, and the offence many common fae take at enquiries regarding their names, little is known about the actual power these have, and whether knowing a faerie’s full name would be tantamount to holding them in thrall. Those few common fae who have entrusted scholars with their names have given them only a piece, sometimes the first half and others the second, and sometimes, as with Lewis Hartland’s henkie, Wattle, a childhood nickname.

*3 “The Laughing Stove,” which can be found in J. P. Gillen’s Anthology of Irish Folklore from the Viking Era: A Cross-Cultural Analysis, 8th ed., 1908.

*4 After an exhaustive search, I have come to the conclusion that no academic literature exists concerning this mysterious “Veil,” a Faerie realm that only monarchs may access. I believe I am the only scholar to learn of it, or at least the only surviving scholar.