30th December #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.