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.
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.