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

31st December

We reached the castle at dusk.

We had tarried another day in the forest—partly because Wendell needed the time to work, and partly on account of Shadow, whom Wendell and I felt the need to fuss over. Wendell located another standing stone with some helpful brownies living in it, who came racing out with a plate of dog biscuits this time. Shadow devoured the lot and collapsed upon a patch of moss, falling into a deep slumber. When he awoke in the morning, there was a spring in his step I have not seen in years.

We approached the castle from the east rather than the route I had taken in October, through the gardens. Here the path around the lake widened into a broad promenade used by lords and ladies arriving by carriage, as well as the monarchy when they wished to make a grand return from some battle or hunting expedition.

In other words, it was perfect.

When I had explained my idea to Wendell, he began to laugh. “Well?” I said as he wiped his eyes. “Is it that ridiculous?”

“No, Em,” he said, taking my hand. “It is better than anything I could have come up with. And much less work than bursting in on everyone with my sword flashing.”

“You don’t have your needles, though,” I said.

“Of course I do. You thought I would leave them behind?” He snapped his fingers, and one of the guardians alighted on his shoulder, making me start back with my heart thundering. Slung across its back was a leather satchel, and within that was the collection of silver sewing needles that Aud, the headwoman of Hrafnsvik, had gifted Wendell a year ago.

I was not idle as he worked, though my contribution was necessarily limited. Few scholars know any Words of Power, and I have acquired two, one of which—the more ridiculous of the pair, naturally—was well-suited to our circumstances.

I wandered a little way into the forest and spoke the Word. At first, nothing happened. I recalled there had been a similar pause the previous time I had invoked its magic, beside the Hidden king’s tree amidst the snow of a Ljosland winter.

Then something came sailing out of the forest gloom and smacked me in the forehead.

I staggered back a little, more out of surprise than pain. I stooped and picked up the button from where it had fallen among a clump of ivy.

It was a lovely little thing, made from some sort of pale blue crystal that flashed even in the leafy shadow, carved in the shape of a rose. Emboldened, I spoke the button-summoning Word again. This time, I managed to catch the button before it hit me in the face, though I fumbled it immediately, and almost lost it in a hollow. This button was of silver, unadorned but so delicately made that I feared it would break if I held it too tightly.

Snowbell, who had followed me into the trees, watched with interest. “How can a mortal oaf work our magics?” he said.

“Anyone can use the Words of Power,” I replied. “The difficult thing is tracking them down, as many have been forgotten.” I glanced at him, suppressing a smile. “It is true, though; I am only a mortal, and my eyesight is poor. I fear I may lose the buttons as soon as I find them.”

“Hum!” Snowbell’s tail twitched in excitement. “ My eyesight is excellent!”

And so, I spoke the Word more than a hundred times, and after each utterance a different button would come sailing out of the forest. They came from all directions, and some took longer to arrive than others, as if they had crossed a great distance. I managed to catch a few, but most hit me in the head and bounced off somewhere, at which point Snowbell or one of the other fuchszwerge would give a yip of delight and chase them down, snarling at one another as they fought to be first.

“Good Lord!” Wendell cried when I showed him my eclectic little hoard, which I had collected in my skirt. He was leaning over a strange pile of dark fabric that rippled in the breeze, his sewing needle flashing. “Where on earth did you find them?”

“People are always losing buttons,” I said. “The Folk are no different. Of course there would be a quantity of them scattered throughout the forest like dropped coins. I had only to call for them. The question is, are they useful?”

Wendell stuck his needle into the mushroom he seemed to be using for a pin cushion and ran his long fingers over the buttons.

“Oh, Em,” he said quietly. “They’re perfect.”

His confidence in me was heartening, though later I found my confidence in myself on the verge of shattering as we made our way up the promenade with the castle looming ahead.

It was not just Taran’s rumpled little scholar remark—though I will admit that stung—but rather the overall pattern into which it fitted. Perhaps if the majority of my life had not been spent failing to fit in to most environments; perhaps if I were a little less well-read when it came to folklore, and thus a little less aware of how far I deviated from the type of mortal who ordinarily draws the attention of faerie royalty—yes, perhaps then I could have felt some of Wendell’s triumph in that moment, which was, after all, also my triumph. But I was too focused on keeping my head up, and walking with something that I hoped approximated elegance, and, above all, praying that I would not stumble or otherwise embarrass myself. I had decided that I would try, as much as I was able, to make myself into the sort of mortal who would play this role in a story. To that end, I had asked Wendell to place a glamour on my dress—it was now black, to match with him, layers of silk with silver brocade in a pattern of bluebells.

Over the glamoured dress I wore my tailored cloak, the train unfurled so that it stretched behind me as a vast, rippling darkness, as if my shadow had been swapped for that of a giant. I had been reluctant to allow Wendell to alter it further, as I like it the way it is, but I knew I had to cut an impressive figure somehow, ridiculous as that is to imagine. And so he had swapped out my old sturdy hood for one with stars woven into it.

I wish I could say that was metaphorical, but Wendell informed me—in as matter-of-fact a manner as he tends to use in such circumstances—that he had gathered up the starlight reflected in a forest pool and stitched it into the fabric. The lights framed my face like a ghostly crown, some constant, others flickering; every few moments, one would blaze across the hood and disappear among the trees, sometimes to a chorus of squeals from the brownie spectators we had accumulated as we went. I tried not to jump when this happened.

Wendell had also insisted that Shadow dress for our arrival.

“Orga will not have it,” he said. “But at least one of them must be appropriately outfitted. They are to be familiars of the king and queen, after all.”

Now, Shadow has never been fond of clothing, but he seemed to sense the importance of this particular imposition on his dignity, and held still while Wendell measured and draped him in iterations of what became a fine coat. It was a soft, velvety black, embroidered with a kingly amount of silver, which Wendell somehow made from a handful of the silver buttons I had found. He had decided to make Shadow intimidating—to which I did not object, knowing this would lessen the dog’s embarrassment—and so he had taken tendrils of fog and attached them to the cloak like billowing ribbons, so that Shadow seemed to carry a mist with him everywhere like the spectral beast that he is. Together with the glitter of the silver, the effect was—well, mythic.

And as for Wendell? I wish I could adequately describe it.

Though I watched much of its construction, I could not say how he made his cloak. At times he seemed to reach down and gather a shadow from beneath a tree, at which point it became a solid thing, or solider, an undulating darkness not unlike my own cloak. Sometimes he would stride into the forest and come back with an armful of pine boughs or birch bark, which would, from one moment to the next, turn into something like fabric. Occasionally he would dip the cloak into the lake as he worked, and when he removed it, it would have taken on a subtly different shape.

The resulting garment was black, of course. But it was like no fabric I’d ever seen before, liquid and faintly glimmering. He had ordered each of his guardians to donate several of their feathers, and these he had woven into the material. They were not visible exactly, except as a suggestion of wings when the cloak caught the wind. It was a garment that needed no adornment, for it was like something snipped out of a dream, and he gave it none, apart from the row of buttons. I would have expected him to pick the finest of those I had gathered, but instead he chose a selection that would represent all the regions of his realm: silver from the Weeping Mines and the lower tributary of the Tromlu River; carved oak from a dozen different corners of the forest; rare bone from the antlers of one of the hag-headed deer; coloured marble from the Blue Hooks. The effect was more impressive than if he had adorned himself in jewels, for together the buttons possessed an enchantment that made strange images flit through my mind when I looked upon them, memories of places I’d never seen. A shadowy grove around a narrow standing stone; a flash of mist-shrouded water tumbling down a sheer cliff.

The train of the cloak was where things became—unsettling.

I had not known he could do this, of course. I had merely said that whatever he created should be frightening. I had thought that perhaps he would weave another fragment of the Veil into it, but instead he had put in something alive . The cloak grumbled and growled, a guttural noise so resonant I felt it beneath my feet. It also had an appetite — according to Snowbell, it had devoured two of his kindred when we weren’t minding it; Wendell had to command it not to eat anybody else. I had no idea what the creature was, and even more disturbingly, neither did Wendell.

“I found it in a hollow log,” he said with the self-satisfaction of a shopper who unearths a hidden gem at a flea market.

I am going to be honest: I tried to avoid looking at it.

Behind us trailed our miscellaneous little army. The trolls were at their most intimidating, stocky and muscular, marching along with their hatchets and scythes over their shoulders—and while I knew these were implements used for their industry, still the picture they presented together made me shudder. Snowbell and his brethren came next, snapping and snarling at anything that moved, a red river made of teeth and claws. And, last but certainly not least, the hideous fauns crept silently in our wake, their dogs, which were closer to dog-sized rats, leashed at their sides.

As for the guardians, they flew overhead, close enough for me to feel the wind from their wingbeats. Razkarden rested on Wendell’s shoulder.

We were noticed instantly, of course. Soon after we emerged from the forest onto the promenade, we encountered a castle guard on horseback. I barely saw him, so startled was I by his mount’s enormous size and thundering hooves that I staggered back. He was more alarmed by us, though, for he gave a shout and fled immediately—back towards the castle.

“Your horses are too large,” I commented inanely—my heart was still racing. “Thornthwaite would be delighted.”

Professor Thornthwaite specializes in all manner of faerie horses, the stranger the better. Why I was bringing up Thornthwaite then, I didn’t know—I suppose it was because Cambridge felt so distant in that moment, painfully so, that I wished to cling to any thread of connection, no matter how tenuous.

“You needn’t worry about our horses,” Wendell promised. “You will ride a drayfox—they are slow, elegant creatures used by much of the nobility. In fact, I was thinking that I would give you Red Wind, whom I learned to ride as a boy. I hope she still lives.”

“I will ride a fox,” I repeated distantly. “Well, of course I will.”

Wendell had been walking along at a leisurely pace, entirely at ease, stroking Razkarden’s beak and occasionally exclaiming over the fruit trees that lined the promenade or the view of the castle through the branches. Now he turned his gaze upon me and stopped.

“Em,” he said, taking my hand. “You will not have to ride Red Wind if you do not wish it. In fact, once I have retaken my throne, you will not have to do anything if you do not wish it. If you desire to sit in some corner of the castle hunched over your books and notepaper, bestirring yourself only to demand a tour of some brownie market or bogle den, then it will be done.”

I let out a trembling breath. “And what sort of queen would that make me?”

He looked perfectly earnest as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Mine.”

I could not help laughing. My heart was still galloping, but I felt a little calmer. “Perhaps we should secure your throne before I go about demanding any tours.”

“Oh, yes,” Wendell said. “First things first.”

And so, that is what we did.

I had expected more complications, I confess. Particularly given Lord Taran’s warnings. But then, Lord Taran had not known about our army, or Wendell’s ability with a sewing needle.

We continued on our leisurely stroll, coming upon several more guards, all of whom reacted much as the first had—I felt almost sorry for the former queen, that her loyal servants should be so lacking in courage. But then we rounded a corner, and the castle came into view, windows gleaming in the twilight like coins. The gate was so obvious that I wondered at my inability to locate it on my previous visit, but then I had been without Wendell’s protection, muddled by the magics of Faerie.

Even now, though, I felt as if I were not fully grasping the castle, somehow. Oh, I could see its towers and parapets well enough, and the forested hillside behind it, several of the treetops connected with silver bridges. But I found I could not hold on to the image when I looked away—the memory blurred like a dream.

I could not stare long at the castle, though, for three of the queen’s guards had been braver than their fellows and regrouped to await us.

We had attracted an audience at this point. Not only brownies, but courtly fae had begun to line the forest paths that ran parallel to the promenade. They were mostly in shadow, but the silver glitter of their finery gave them away. It was difficult to determine if the overall mood of the crowd was friendly or hostile; its character was perhaps best described as inconsistent. A handful of Folk screamed and fled as we passed; there were several cheers; some called Wendell’s name in tones ranging from delight to fury. One man shouted “Murderer!” and “The queen will have her vengeance!” over and over until Razkarden chased him shrieking into the woods. The larger percentage simply stood and gawped.

“Wendell,” I said as we neared the guards. They sat atop their massive horses, brandishing their swords and generally looking terrifying— I certainly did not wish to draw any nearer. But before Wendell could reply, a curious thing happened: the horses began to tremble, and the lead guard fumbled his sword. They backed up, keeping pace with us as we advanced, and then as one they turned their horses and thundered chaotically into the woods, nearly crashing into one another in their haste. As they fled, they knocked over an entrepreneurial little brownie balancing a reed basket atop its head that held a variety of cheeses and biscuits, which he seemed to be selling to the spectators. A seed biscuit bounced into our path, and Shadow snapped it up with a pleased whuff.

“Good!” Wendell said, evincing only vague satisfaction at the terror he was striking in our onlookers. “I have no appetite for swordplay tonight. How wearying travel is! Even through one’s own realm. I think I shall do everything on horseback from now on. Look there, Em— that is the bridge that leads to the Royal Observatory, a balcony where one can see for miles and miles, all the way to the Singing Caves. Now, I doubt I will have much success in convincing you of the merits of sunsets, but…”

He continued to chatter excitedly, pointing at this or that, and I believe I may have made some reply, but in truth I barely heard him—my attention was otherwise occupied.

Before the castle gate was a broad courtyard of cobblestones lined with ivy-wreathed lanterns and benches around the perimeter—from which lowlier Folk could admire the nobility as they paraded about, I assumed, but nobody was sitting there now. One of the many disturbing qualities the Folk possess is that, when one encounters them en masse, they appear to blend together, as if one is seeing them through mist, or through the interpretation of a painter who has chosen to give only the impression of a crowd. Perhaps it is my human inability to comprehend their strangeness, I don’t know—Inoted several beautiful faces, some wild-eyed with panic and others twisted into a hungry sort of delight. There was also a musician dressed all in grey who set a massive harp upon the cobbles and began strumming a merry tune—it formed an odd contrast with the fraught quiet of the courtyard, which was a susurration of crying, mutters, and occasional half-stifled screams.

One woman in particular made me start—she wore layers of dark silks like the gradient of a winter twilight, and her hair was a river of black feathers down her back. She was frowning at her pocket watch but seemed to sense me staring; she looked up, smiled wickedly, and faded back into the crowd.

Then the castle doors swung open, and out strode Lord Taran. At his side was Callum Thomas, whom I had also met before, and I nearly fainted with relief. It was not Callum himself—I barely knew the man—but rather the sight of a mortal face amidst the wonder and horror of Faerie. I had not known, until that moment, the strain it placed upon me.

Lord Taran might not have been at all conscious of the current of panic surging through the crowd, nor of our intimidating retinue. To me he seemed bored, though this was mostly hidden behind an expression of polite deference. The boredom vanished abruptly, though, as Orga came charging into his path.

As she drew between him and Wendell, she seemed to grow. And grow, until she was a monstrous shadow towering over Lord Taran—a shadow with only the barest of shapes, that being mostly mouth, yawning with fangs. I gave a choked cry.

“The Beast of the Elderwood!” someone shrieked. There was a little stampede as some onlookers to our left decided their curiosity had been adequately sated, but most of the Folk stayed put, riveted to the scene unfolding before them—the return of their exiled king, met by their ancient general, brother of the old queen. Which way would it go? I was as helplessly fascinated as any of them.

Orga shrank back to her customary size almost immediately, settling at Wendell’s feet, whereupon she began to wash her face—I suspect she’d merely wanted to make Lord Taran flinch. He had fallen back a step, his hand upon the pommel of his sword.

“I would prefer not to spend the remainder of my existence looking over my shoulder for you, dark one,” he said, giving the cat a scowl. “Perhaps this will redeem me somewhat.”

He swept his cloak aside and knelt at Wendell’s feet, pressing one knee to the ground and laying his sword across the other. Callum did the same after flashing me a quick, bright smile.

Lord Taran’s gesture moved through the crowd like a sigh after a long-held breath. Folk fell to their knees, some more energetically than others. A few more screams ensued, and another clamour of footfalls, though it seemed to me that less than a handful actually fled—those who deemed their necks most at risk, I suppose, or perhaps they had especially nervous dispositions. The only person who did not change his position was the harpist, who strummed louder, his playing taking on a sanctimonious character. The cheese-wielding brownie returned and began circulating among the courtly fae as they rose to their feet, joined by another wearing what looked like a lily pad for a hat and clutching a basket of roasted chestnuts.

Lord Taran made a gesture and a half dozen Folk—a mixture of courtly and common, all dressed in silver-threaded grey—emerged from the shadows of the castle, each dragging a small wagon behind them. These were covered with silk, hiding the contents, which rattled over the cobblestones.

One of these Folk bowed to Lord Taran and passed him a hand mirror. It was wrought from pure silver, its frame an intricate and uneven scalloped pattern, as if it had lain upon the sea floor for years and accumulated all manner of shells and barnacles. With another bow, Lord Taran gave it to Wendell.

“Thank you,” Wendell said. He gazed into the mirror, then turned towards the crowd, absently tapping the glass against his opposite palm. The motion scattered diamonds of reflected light across the courtyard. It was odd, but he reminded me then of the first time I had watched him present at a conference. Had it been five years ago, or six? The subject had been the folklore of Provence, and while I had been skeptical of his claims and annoyed by the offhand showmanship with which he delivered them, I could not help being awed by his effect upon his audience. For Wendell in such moments has a gravity about him that has nothing to do with enchantment, and nor is it like the Hidden king’s; it is something warmer, good-natured, which makes one wish to lean in, not cower away.

“What’s this about?” I muttered.

“Oh—just a little tradition. To mark the passing of the throne from one monarch to the next,” he said, his gaze roaming hungrily over the castle and the hillside beyond.

“Look, Em,” he said, pointing to the drifting lights overhead. “Fireflies! Yes, I remember—they always came out at this time of the evening.”

“You’re enjoying yourself,” I noted.

“I am.” He turned to kiss me. “My dearest Emily! I am home at last. And all because of you.”

“You had a bit to do with it,” I said drily, though it was difficult to stop myself from smiling. I have often found Wendell’s happiness infectious, particularly now; it seemed to radiate from him like morning sunlight.

He laughed. “Now all I want is a good, hearty meal and my own bed. But let us give them a show first, hm?”

He stepped forward, still emanating good cheer, and I sensed the crowd relax further. I wondered if they’d expected him to simply unsheathe his sword and start beheading people—probably. Violence came as naturally as drawing breath to monarchs of the Silva Lupi.

“My stepmother is dead,” Wendell said in a carrying voice. “Or will be, soon enough. To those who loved her: know that she served our realm well, with courage and devotion. To her enemies: I invite you to celebrate with me tonight, and with your new queen, who slew her with her own hand.”

Folk grinned at this, their teeth flashing in the lantern light, and I suppressed an urge to step behind Shadow. A woman with a hedgehog perched on her shoulder burst into hysterical sobs.

Wendell turned to me, holding out the mirror. “Would you care to do the honours? It is our custom to smash all mirrors in the castle when a monarch passes, so that we are rid of everything that bore their image. This was among my stepmother’s personal possessions.”

“You do it,” I said, for I was a little thrown by this and did not want to misstep somehow.

Wendell nodded. He drew Shadow out of the way, then hurled the mirror against the side of the castle. It shattered into a hundred tiny shards, which transformed into fireflies and soared into the air to join the others.

The crowd erupted into cries of delight—even those who had seemed most afraid were cheering now, and several more harpists joined the first. The frisson of terror began to melt, and the evening swelled with music and laughter.

Lord Taran made another motion, and the silk coverings on the wagons were removed, revealing an assemblage of mirrors of all shapes and sizes. Above the tumult of the crowd, Wendell shouted, “Who will celebrate?”

Folk surged forward, snatching up mirrors from the carts, some common fae hoisting mirrors larger than they were and stumbling about clumsily under their weight. There was a great deal of pushing and shoving, and small fights broke out, for there were not enough mirrors for everyone. The sound of shattering glass sparred with the harps’ strains, and innumerable fireflies floated into the night. The silver faerie stones amidst the treetops began to glow like floating lanterns. Folk went charging through the gate, shrieking with excitement.

“They will roam the castle tonight, searching for mirrors,” Wendell told me. “As I said, it’s a very old tradition. Some get carried away—no doubt a few windows will also be shattered, particularly those in my stepmother’s rooms.”

I drew towards him, overwhelmed. I could not tell if my fascination outweighed my fear in that moment. “I—” I began, though I did not know what I meant to say.

“I know,” he said quietly, his arm encircling my waist.

He led me towards the castle gate, an unnervingly massive thing with doors of heavy oak several times my height and carved with what I had taken for an abstract floral scene, but which, up close, was revealed as a head encircled with brooklime, leaves spilling from its eyes and mouth.

Lord Taran stood to one side, Callum to the other. The auburn-haired man gave me a smile as Wendell and I passed.

“Welcome back, Professor Wilde,” he murmured. “Or should I say Walters? You certainly know how to make an entrance.”