1st January—Late
The place once known as the King’s Grove is located in the forested hillside behind the castle, accessed by a lantern-lined path, one of many that winds through the royal forest. It comprises a half-dozen massive oaks, including one taller than any tree I’ve seen, with great spreading branches that form a little clearing around its circumference.
Between roots that rise from the earth like the ribs of a terrible giant are two thrones, both relatively unadorned and made from strange, twisted bundles of wood, which I eventually realized were more roots that had forced themselves up through the earth from unknown depths.
I did not enjoy sitting upon my throne, though it was made comfortable with several cushions, in part because I could not help envisioning those roots eventually growing tired of bearing a tedious mortal like me and dragging me into the earth.
The throne smelled of deep, dank caverns and icy springs that have never known sunlight.
I had wondered if Wendell might feel strange issuing commands to his subjects; at Cambridge, he generally relied on charm and deception, rather than his position of authority, to get what he wanted.
But I need not have worried. He delivered his judgments with an offhand and good-natured sort of imperiousness, seeming to have accepted his new role—which, I suppose, was not entirely new, as before his exile he’d held the throne for a brief period—as easily as he accepted any other luxury that came into his life, whether it was a sumptuous feast or fine garment.
Namely, as if it were as natural as the earth beneath his feet.
Yet while Wendell’s mood started off cheerful, as the day wore on, and the queue of supplicants seemed barely to diminish at all, he began to indulge in a great deal of sighing and rubbing at his hair.
And there were all manner of supplicants.
These included courtiers, of course, who mostly came to bow and congratulate Wendell on ridding the realm of Queen Arna, whom, the courtiers assured us through simpering smiles, they had always abhorred.
I did not trust a single one of them, though Wendell accepted their allegiance carelessly.
And there were also brownies and trooping fae with complaints, many revolving around the invaders who trampled their homes and disturbed their industry, though some had other concerns that I could not understand—one seemed to be involved in a dispute with the morning dew?
—because of their thick dialects. One of these was a dishevelled little clap-can who seemed to have lost all but one of his bells.
[*1] His feet were covered in a sticky grey substance like the webbing of some oversized spider.
Upon his skin were several weeping scabs that made Wendell swear and leap up from his throne.
He healed the faerie with a single touch, but the creature would answer no questions after, merely muttering in a desperate voice, “Must keep going,” before fleeing into the forest.
“Bloody invaders,” Wendell said to me, rearranging himself on his throne in a slouch.
“You think they were the cause of his injuries?” I said.
“I’ve never seen a wound like that in my realm.” Wendell shook his head. “They have strange magics in Where the Ravens Hide.”
I opened my mouth to question him further, thinking of Queen Arna’s curse—and yet, hadn’t Callum said the poisoned groves had been burned? But then the next faerie was coming forward, and I was forced to redirect my thoughts.
Several Folk, including one bedraggled member of the queen’s guard, who looked as if he had not stopped drinking since Wendell’s return, challenged him to duels.
Wendell won each of these handily, though he refused to fight the drunken guard, and merely lifted his hand and turned the man’s sword into a stick, at which point the guard broke down sobbing and had to be led away by two servants.
I wished to take notes, but restrained myself.
It was not required of me, of course, for Niamh sat to Wendell’s left, tapping away on a braille typewriter.
The matter-of-fact clack-clacking of the keys was calming, but on the whole I felt awkward and uncomfortable for the entire afternoon.
I wore the simplest of the dresses the servants had offered me, deep green with small yellow flowers embroidered into the bodice, beneath my star-strewn cloak, but naturally this did not make me feel any more a queen of Faerie.
I sat up straight, feigning equanimity, trying to behave as mortals in such circumstances do in the stories—they are generally portrayed as plucky, down-to-earth creatures unimpressed by the glitter and elegance of Faerie.
I do not believe I had much success. Most Folk, if they looked my way at all, eyed me with disdain or suspicion.
Wendell, on the other hand, could not have looked more like a monarch of Faerie.
He was luxuriously but simply attired in all black, a row of small silver buttons the only adornment on his tunic, which naturally he had tailored to perfection himself, and a pair of sharp-toed riding boots.
In place of a crown, leaves and flowers had been woven into his hair, plucked fresh that morning and then glazed by the royal silversmith, a particularly extravagant tradition, as the process needed to be repeated each day with fresh flora.
(I had refused a similar headpiece, knowing my hair would resemble a bird’s nest by day’s end.) He had on his terrifying cloak, of course, the hem draped over the arm of the throne and onto the forest floor.
Occasionally, it would stir and grumble to itself, or slither towards a terrified courtier, growling, before Wendell yanked it back.
Completing the picture was Razkarden, who perched upon the back of Wendell’s throne, his many legs digging into the wood as he fixed his ancient, malevolent gaze upon the assembled Folk. He attempted to settle on my throne once, but Wendell, with a quick glance at me, called him back.
I could not stop my gaze from sliding to Wendell throughout the day.
I am used to him in mortal clothes, against mortal backdrops, and while he was even more beautiful in his native context, I also at times had the impression that he had faded into the wonders around me, becoming part of them, as if something about him had lost its definition when seen through my mortal eyes.
At one point I realized I was fantasizing about seizing his hand and dragging us both back to the mortal world.
It was partly homesickness for Cambridge, I believe.
It kept jabbing at me like a knife. Particularly the memory of my office: the snug proportions and neatly organized papers and bookshelves; the morning light streaming over the desk and the tidy greenery of lawn and pond beyond the window.
As I was contemplating this, he met my gaze, then waved the courtier before us away.
“I’m all right,” I said.
“Em,” he said, leaning close, “even the most fire-breathing of dragons is allowed to tire of its occupation sometimes. I’ve had enough of this. Haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, sighing with relief. To my astonishment, the sky was beginning to take on a lavender hue, the afternoon blurring into twilight, and the lanterns along the path were flickering to life against the dark trees.
“Where have the fauns got to?” I asked. The fuchszwerge I caught glimpses of here and there, watching us from the trees, while the trolls, I understood, were building themselves a series of workshops somewhere down by the lake, but the fauns had disappeared the previous evening.
“Oh, I have given them a new assignment,” he said.
I frowned, suspicious. “What new assignment?”
He laughed. “Nothing terrible, I promise. Not that they wouldn’t deserve it, the little beasts. Now, shall we—” He stopped, his gaze drifting back to the Grove.
A woman of the courtly fae had stepped out of the trees, ignoring the still-lengthy queue, the foremost members of which grumbled and glared at her.
Her eyes were much too wide-set and her nose too large for her face, but she was beautiful, the unusual, arresting variety of beauty that many of the Folk possess.
Her hair was a spill of dark feathers, her dress a dozen shades of black.
I remembered her immediately—she had been one of the more disturbing members of our audience last night.
“Your Highnesses,” she said, bowing at us both, before rising with a malicious smile. She carried a sword at her side.
“You again,” Wendell said, frowning. “You will have no luck here, Lady. I advise you to put your sword down and return to the trees uninjured.”
“But I have waited an age,” the woman replied in a voice much older than her face. “My hunger for vengeance grows like ivy, strangling my heart with each passing season. I thought your stepmother had denied me my chance.”
“Very well,” Wendell said. “I would lift your curse, if I could—but I can see no way through my father’s magics.”
“I want nothing from you,” she spat. “Only your blood on my sword.”
I had no idea what was going on, but this faerie looked every bit as unhinged and dangerous as she sounded. “Please tell me you are not going to fight her,” I said in disbelief.
“Don’t worry, Em,” he said, for naturally this was exactly what he was about to do. “This poor wretch will not trouble us long.”
Sighing, he stood and picked up his sword.
He and the raven-haired faerie circled each other for a few moments—Wendell did not seem enthusiastic about another swordfight.
Eventually, she charged, sword flashing.
The Folk in the queue, as well as the various courtiers who had gathered in the forest shadows to watch the proceedings, cheered and clapped.