Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(11)

“What’s this?” Taran demanded. Then, to my astonishment, he added in a tone of affection, “Betrayal? I kept this one fed during your absence, Prince. I have always liked cats. It seems she has changed her mind about me, though.”

“Orga cares even less for my enemies than I do,” Wendell said unevenly. “After this, you can expect her to spend the rest of her days orchestrating your demise.”

Lord Taran did not shrug this off as easily as I expected him to. In fact, he looked quite disturbed. But then he shook his head.

“So be it,” he said, and their swords clashed again. I thought, for a brief moment, that Wendell had recovered his strength, for he parried with his usual agility—but then there was a flash of light sailing across the clearing, and I realized it was Wendell’s sword, caught in the sunlight as it rotated around on itself.

Wendell stumbled back. For a brief moment, Lord Taran looked disappointed. But then it slipped away, replaced by something ancient and inscrutable, and he was lifting his sword again—

And I was running, yelling God knows what—something about oaths, I think, for I had been scouring my memory during the entirety of the duel, searching for a way out. I had come up with three or four possibilities, the most compelling of which pertained to an Irish tale in which a rural baker makes an ill-advised pledge to a faerie lord in exchange for eternally soft loaves.[*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.”