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

19th January, Again

19th January, again

Enough of this. I will force my hand to move, and my mind to think.

We awoke early this morning in our makeshift campsite a few miles from the boggart’s lair, whereupon Wendell wasted no time in tracing a path back to the castle grounds. I suspect he reshaped geography itself, as he reshaped the boggart’s hill, for we reached the castle in less time than it had taken us to travel to the boggart’s tower even with Orga’s shortcuts. When we stood upon the lakeshore only a few hours later, Wendell was pale and trembling lightly, as if he had run a great distance on little sustenance.

“What now?” Lord Taran said.

“Take a boat out and look around, I suppose,” I said, still dubious about the whole thing. I did not believe we would find Queen Arna on the lake, though a part of me also hoped we would not, and I could not be certain where the first began and the other ended. At some point, it felt as if the story had galloped away from me, or perhaps it had galloped away with me, and I was barely holding on. Wendell had led us on a path that ended at the eastern edge of the lake, where a dock lined with glass lanterns—extinguished now, in the afternoon light—stretched out into the water. Alongside it were ten little boats large enough for four passengers each, perhaps, with wooden frames over which had been stretched the skins of animals I didn’t recognize—something with short black fur. Each had two sails, stowed now.

No islands had materialized in the time we had been away. The weather was out of humour, the sky a miscellany of patchy white and hulking grey clouds, all hurrying along as if late for an appointment, and the skin of the lake was wrinkled with tiny waves, which plashed against the shore and set the boats rocking.

“We will go alone,” Wendell said.

“Naturally you will,” Lord Taran said, exasperated. “I do not like this. I do not think it will end well.”

“It will end,” Wendell said, “one way or another.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, I will not have any of that portentous faerie nonsense. We are not going.”

He stared at me. “Emily! It was you who found me a path to my stepmother. Now, perhaps the boggart has led us astray and perhaps he has not; either way, we must search the lake.”

“I do not want—” I stopped, not knowing what I was saying. I did not want to follow the Macan story anymore, that was certain. It was proving too helpful, and now I did not trust it—as Niamh had pointed out, the end was not a happy one. But what could I say? That Wendell should allow his realm to be consumed by his stepmother’s curse? Yet I found myself framing the idea into an argument—we could return to Cambridge, look for another way to rid the realm of his stepmother. The memory of the soft light and leather-and-parchment smell of the dryadology library filled me like hunger. And truly, what on earth was I doing here in these ridiculous clothes, acting the part of a faerie queen in one of their stories?

“I must go,” he said softly, and it took a moment for the meaning to sink in.

“Damn you,” I breathed. “You would leave me behind?”

“Not by choice,” he said, taking my hand. “Never. Em—”

I yanked my hand back, too angry to allow him the satisfaction of an apology. Letting him face his stepmother alone was insupportable. Grimly, I forced my mind back to “King Macan’s Bees.” Had I not thought my way out of such impossible problems before? Had I not faced Queen Arna once already? Why could I not do so again? This was an academic riddle, and who was more skilled at untangling those than I?

Something burbled out on the lake, and a dizzying terror nearly swept me off my feet.

Wendell murmured a few words of goodbye to Orga, whom he held in his arms, instructing her not to follow us. She gave him a sleepy-eyed stare and allowed him to hand her over to Lord Taran, who looked astonished.

“Have we made peace, fell warrior?” he said. I too was surprised that Orga would allow Wendell to leave her behind so easily. The cat gave no sign she was aware of either of us, only watched Wendell inscrutably.

We said no more to Lord Taran, and clambered into the nearest boat. Well, I clambered, nearly overturning the thing; Wendell moved as gracefully as always, and easily righted us. He loosed the sails and we were off, the prow parting the silvery waters and their blurry tree shapes.

There came a yell from the dock, and I turned to see Taran staggering back, clutching his face. Blood spilled through his fingers from a row of deep gashes. And then there was a dark shape sailing over the water towards us in an impossible, gliding leap.

Orga grunted as she landed in the bow, and then she turned to lick her back, cool as anything, as if to imply that gouging Lord Taran had been merely one item on an extensive agenda.

After a startled pause, Wendell began to laugh. The sound was welcome, lightening the dread that clung to me like cold damp.