Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(100)
“Em,” he said, “if your aim is to convince me to allow this murderous lunatic to run free through the realm, you need not importune me further; it shall be done. But do not ask me to see the wisdom of it.”
“Your Highness,” Niamh said, looking as if she had been suppressing objections that could not be held back any longer. “Your stepmother has done great harm. Are we truly to accept her assurances that she will not try for the throne again? I agree she should not be tossed back into the Veil, but surely she should be held in the dungeons at least.”
“How much simpler it would be to kill her,” Lord Taran said from behind me. I had not noticed he was there—he had blended into the nebulous crowd of Folk—and turned to find him regarding us with a droll expression.
“Simpler, perhaps,” I said. “But not necessary. Now that she is caught, surely you can set enchantments upon her that will circumscribe her movements. Her powers may also be bound, though given that she is no longer queen, those must be greatly diminished already.”
Arna only shrugged at this. “What need have I for magic when I can have the smell of trees after rainfall, the melody of water tumbling over moss and stone, the warmth of a summer’s day, and the quickening chill of an autumn twilight upon my skin?”
“Good Lord,” Wendell said.
“And I shall not run free anywhere,” Arna went on. “My aim is to take up a quiet little cottage somewhere out of the way—you may choose the place, Your Highness, and have me spied upon at all hours if you wish. The Veil has taught me wisdom, where before—I know now—I had only canniness. I wish to pass this wisdom on to other Folk.”
Wendell’s only response to this speech was to turn back to me with a look of aghast disbelief.
“I believe she may be sincere,” I said. “After a fashion.”
“Very well!” he said. “If you wish to make a pet—or, as I suspect is more likely, an object of scientific study—out of the greatest villain our realm has ever known, I shall not stand in the way. I should have known you would appreciate such an opportunity more than any material gift I could give you.”
“Your words are pretty, sister,” Lord Taran said, “even unexpected—I say that as one who knows you better than any other. But I don’t believe you have changed, myself, for you have nothing to gain from it, and everything to gain from pretending. No doubt in time you shall manage to convince other Folk, enough to make some of them forgive you, perhaps. As you know, there is a way out of every enchantment, if one looks hard enough—and if one cultivates the right allies.” He looked at Wendell and me. “She will never stop being a threat if she is allowed to live.”
“Perhaps that is the way it should be,” I said. I wondered if it was the lack of enemies that drove Macan the Second mad—if it is the cause of other instances of madness among faerie monarchs. Perhaps being too powerful, too unopposed, is a curse in and of itself, leading to boredom and dissipation, and the invention of imaginary enemies whose powers to torment are less limited than those of flesh and blood. Another paper there, I suppose.
Lord Taran glanced from me to Wendell and shrugged. “You are listening to the whims of your wife, and for that I cannot fault you.”
“Whims!” I exclaimed, but Taran had already turned away, seeming uninterested in pursuing the argument. I knew that I had not convinced him at all, or rather I had not convinced him for the reasons I had intended.
Wendell gave me an anxious look, as if fearing some discord remained between us. “You are certain you are happy here? You have no idea how the question kept me up at night.”
He was so worried that I could not help teasing him. “Only one thing shall make me happier.”
His anxiety seemed to increase. “Oh, yes? Please let it not involve my stepmother this time.”
“You still have not given me a tour of the kingdom,” I said. Despite the continued annoyance presented by our audience, I felt the relief of homecoming, the anticipation of rest and familiar comforts, wash over me like sunlight. “Was I not promised a map to every province and a key to every door?”
“Oh, Em.” A smile broke across his face. “I believe you were.”
19th February
Tonight we dined at Lilja and Margret’s—overdue by several days, for I knew they had been anxious for news. Wendell tells me I should stop thinking of the cottage as Lilja and Margret’s—they will be leaving soon, after all, and though they have already promised to return in the summer at my insistence, the cottage will soon be my domain alone. I do not know how much time I will spend in the mortal world, but I can’t deny that having the option of escaping the absurdity of Faerie is comforting; it is one of the best gifts Wendell has given me.
On the subject of gifts, Wendell informed me as we made our way down the hall to the faerie door that he had a surprise for me that evening.
“Is that necessary?” I said with a sigh. “You know I prefer not to be surprised, as a general rule.”
Wendell paused to speak to the small brownie who had run up to him clutching a mug of coffee—these days, Wendell is rarely without a retinue of common fae, who trail after him bearing delicacies and gifts they have made. I am unconvinced that all this fawning is good for his ego, but it is a remarkable thing nevertheless; the small Folk are more accustomed to hiding from the courtly fae, particularly in this realm. Wendell is kind to them at least, and if this kindness remains mixed with some amount of condescension, this is still more improvement than I expected from him.