Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(12)
“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?”