1st January—Late #2
The woman was more skilled than any other Wendell had fought that day—she ducked and wove like a dancer, her midnight skirts twirling about her.
There was a pause in the fight, and Wendell heaved another sigh.
I realized he had been hoping to win without exerting himself particularly.
When the woman charged him again, he met her with an impossible series of parries, and then—I did not perceive the moment he disarmed her—her sword was sailing over our heads and into the forest. Two courtiers ran after it, giggling.
Wendell put his hand on the raven-haired faerie’s shoulder as if in commiseration.
Then, with his other hand, he drove his sword into her chest.
A strangled sound escaped me. Wendell had angled the sword slightly upwards, the motion calculated and precise, and I realized with a shudder that it must have been to ensure that the woman did not linger. He murmured briefly in her ear and stepped back.
The woman’s face was twisted in a peevish sort of scowl, as if he had done nothing worse than beat her at a hand of cards.
She collapsed against the moss, and her body began to contort, bones snapping and shrinking and feathers bursting through her fine silks.
A heartbeat later, a crow hunched in her place, and then it launched itself into the air, flapping at Wendell’s head before Razkarden chased it into the forest.
As I stared in mute silence at the place where the woman had lain, Wendell plucked a feather from his hair and fell back into his throne.
“She will remain that way for as long as my reign lasts,” he said, twirling the feather idly between his fingers.
“It is her curse, placed upon her by my father long before I was born. The magic releases her from her crow form only briefly to challenge each of my father’s descendants when they ascend the throne.
To break the curse, she must slay one of us, else she is returned to the treetops. ”
Good Lord . It was nonsensical even by the standards of Faerie. “And what was her crime, that your father doomed herthus?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Wendell said. “It was so long ago that most Folk have forgotten. I suppose her fate must have made sense to him; he enjoyed constructing elaborate punishments for those who angered him. I remember him of an evening, chuckling to himself by the fire. Poor thing!”
“I see,” I said noncommittally—the fate of the vengeful faerie woman was appalling, but I could summon little sympathy for her. I found I had trouble focusing my thoughts. It was as if I had been holding my composure in place by a thread, and this final bizarre incident had snapped it.
“What a wearying day!” Wendell exclaimed, though he’d spent most of it lounging upon his throne, sipping an array of coffees supplied by the eager red-faced servants, who seemed to be having a private competition over which blend he would prefer.
He waved away the next petitioner, a faerie woman who pouted prettily at him.
“I’d almost rather be in a lecture hall,” he said.
“Well, I refuse to exert myself further. I look forward to having all of this”—he waved a hand vaguely—“sorted out, so that I can spend most of my days at leisure, as one should.”
“Your stepmother kept herself busy starting wars,” I pointed out.
“Ah, but that was merely her way of amusing herself. My father enjoyed receiving supplicants, but that was because he always liked holding court. He very rarely resolved anything, and often made the situation worse.”
I mulled this over. Kaur has theorized that most faerie monarchs rule through a sort of capricious neglect, and that their true role is as an animus for the magics of their realm, rather than a head of state in the human sense. [*2]
He stood and offered me his hand. “Let’s go home.”
“You wanted a picnic.”
“That can wait. Come—the servants will see the rest of these Folk off.”
As soon as we left the Grove, Wendell led me off the path and through a screen of tall ferns, which thickened behind us, growing so tall they blocked even the lantern light.
“Where on earth are we going?” I groused.
Wendell turned and clasped my hands between his. He looked so anxious and dejected that it brought me up short—I’m not certain I’ve ever seen such an expression on his face before.
“Do you wish to return to Cambridge, Em?” he said. “Because if that is the case, you need only say the word. I suppose I could return to teaching—perhaps I could do both, or install a regent here, to rule in my stead. If there is one thing I will not stand for, it is for you to be unhappy—”
“No, indeed!” I exclaimed. He appeared to have worked himself up into a proper speech, so I put my hand over his mouth. And then—my initial thought was that this would be more efficient than arguing with him—I pulled his face to mine and kissed him.
As I had guessed, he forgot all about what he had been saying, and pulled me closer.
His lips tasted like the salt the servants had sprinkled onto the coffee—quite agreeable.
I stopped thinking, something I rarely do, and for a moment there was only the hum of crickets and rustling of night creatures in the trees.
He drew back and touched my cheek, his dark eyes searching mine. A flickering, moon-coloured glow had appeared above us—he had summoned a light.
“I mean it,” he murmured. So not quite so forgetful, then.
The light caught on the silvered flowers in his hair and made him look even more inconveniently otherworldly than he already did, but I found that when I focused on small, familiar things, like the way his mouth came up slightly higher on the left side, and how his green eyes leaned more yellow than blue, I was able to disregard this.
“I know,” I replied. “I have brought myself here, Wendell—Iam not some poor maiden who stumbled unawares through a ring of mushrooms. You can trust me to tell you if I change my mind.”
“All right.” He swept his gaze over me, then pulled me into his arms almost matter-of-factly. “That’s enough of that.”
“Enough of what?”
“You’re shaking.”
To my astonishment, I realized that I was, and had been for some time. He held me until I was still, gently combing through my hair, and I leaned my forehead against the curve of his neck. I could smell the wildflowers in his hair.
“I don’t know what I should call you,” I mumbled into his shoulder.
He gave a breath of laughter and drew back. “You haven’t been worrying about that, have you? It doesn’t matter what you call me, Em. You may choose whichever name you like. You said you didn’t want my true name.”
“I still don’t,” I said. The idea of having that sort of power over him filled me with disquiet. In the stories, whenever a mortal is granted such power over the Folk, she will always be forced to use it. “I would prefer to call you Wendell.”
“Good!” He kissed me again. “Do you know? That name is more comfortable to me now, after all these years, than Liathis.”
I felt suddenly worried that I hadn’t been understood.
“It’s not that I dislike your name. I don’t dislike your realm, either—quite the contrary.
But even after all my studies, after all I’ve learned over the years, this is so much— What I mean is, even to compare it to the Hidden king’s realm, it is, well—”
“So much,” he finished.
I let my breath out. “So much.”
“I thought it might be,” he said. “Let me show you something.”
He seemed so pleased with himself that I was instantly apprehensive. “Please let it not be a dress that mutters to itself, or contains anything other than fabric.”
He laughed. “Far better than that.”
We returned to the castle, where we were met by servants who trailed unobtrusively behind us.
I found that I had a firm grasp of the layout, as if I carried a map in my head, despite my also knowing, somehow, that it was likely to shift at the whims of its occupants.
The main level was a series of large galleries, some empty and moss-floored, others elaborately furnished sitting rooms or displays of art and statuary.
In one gallery, a group of ladies sat at tea, twilight streaming through the windows as tiny brownies serenaded them with reed pipes.
They beamed at us when we passed and waved us over, but Wendell merely called out a merry greeting and swept me along.
In another room, several mortals admired paintings of village scenes that seemed human-made, beautiful but mundane.
Throughout the place, the light shifted oddly, and shadows of leaves and wind-tossed branches scattered the floor, as if it were haunted by the ghosts of the trees that had stood there before the castle was built.
We mounted the largest of the five staircases to the uppermost floor, where we found Shadow sprawled across the landing, keeping a woebegone eye on all who passed. As soon as he saw us, he leapt upon me, then Wendell, tail lashing so hard he generated a breeze.
Lord Taran awaited us in Wendell’s reception room, perched upon one of the window seats and looking resentful.
“It has been a very long day, Your Highnesses,” he said in a complaining tone, gesturing towards the small crowd of courtly fae gathered at the other end of the room, who eyed us nervously.
At the centre of these was a woman with brown skin and tangled white tresses that trailed upon the floor, woven with bits of grass and leaves.
“I have no doubt of that,” I said, before Wendell could speak. Recalling what Callum had said that morning, I added, “Thank you, Lord Taran. For everything you have done forus.”
This seemed to bring him up short, and he blinked at me for a moment. “Yes, it is a great deal of work, keeping you two alive,” he said. “I wonder if it is worth the effort.”