Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(17)
Before the castle gate was a broad courtyard of cobblestones lined with ivy-wreathed lanterns and benches around the perimeter—from which lowlier Folk could admire the nobility as they paraded about, I assumed, but nobody was sitting there now. One of the many disturbing qualities the Folk possess is that, when one encounters them en masse, they appear to blend together, as if one is seeing them through mist, or through the interpretation of a painter who has chosen to give only the impression of a crowd. Perhaps it is my human inability to comprehend their strangeness, I don’t know—I noted several beautiful faces, some wild-eyed with panic and others twisted into a hungry sort of delight. There was also a musician dressed all in grey who set a massive harp upon the cobbles and began strumming a merry tune—it formed an odd contrast with the fraught quiet of the courtyard, which was a susurration of crying, mutters, and occasional half-stifled screams.
One woman in particular made me start—she wore layers of dark silks like the gradient of a winter twilight, and her hair was a river of black feathers down her back. She was frowning at her pocket watch but seemed to sense me staring; she looked up, smiled wickedly, and faded back into the crowd.
Then the castle doors swung open, and out strode Lord Taran. At his side was Callum Thomas, whom I had also met before, and I nearly fainted with relief. It was not Callum himself—I barely knew the man—but rather the sight of a mortal face amidst the wonder and horror of Faerie. I had not known, until that moment, the strain it placed upon me.
Lord Taran might not have been at all conscious of the current of panic surging through the crowd, nor of our intimidating retinue. To me he seemed bored, though this was mostly hidden behind an expression of polite deference. The boredom vanished abruptly, though, as Orga came charging into his path.
As she drew between him and Wendell, she seemed to grow. And grow, until she was a monstrous shadow towering over Lord Taran—a shadow with only the barest of shapes, that being mostly mouth, yawning with fangs. I gave a choked cry.
“The Beast of the Elderwood!” someone shrieked. There was a little stampede as some onlookers to our left decided their curiosity had been adequately sated, but most of the Folk stayed put, riveted to the scene unfolding before them—the return of their exiled king, met by their ancient general, brother of the old queen. Which way would it go? I was as helplessly fascinated as any of them.
Orga shrank back to her customary size almost immediately, settling at Wendell’s feet, whereupon she began to wash her face—I suspect she’d merely wanted to make Lord Taran flinch. He had fallen back a step, his hand upon the pommel of his sword.
“I would prefer not to spend the remainder of my existence looking over my shoulder for you, dark one,” he said, giving the cat a scowl. “Perhaps this will redeem me somewhat.”
He swept his cloak aside and knelt at Wendell’s feet, pressing one knee to the ground and laying his sword across the other. Callum did the same after flashing me a quick, bright smile.
Lord Taran’s gesture moved through the crowd like a sigh after a long-held breath. Folk fell to their knees, some more energetically than others. A few more screams ensued, and another clamour of footfalls, though it seemed to me that less than a handful actually fled—those who deemed their necks most at risk, I suppose, or perhaps they had especially nervous dispositions. The only person who did not change his position was the harpist, who strummed louder, his playing taking on a sanctimonious character. The cheese-wielding brownie returned and began circulating among the courtly fae as they rose to their feet, joined by another wearing what looked like a lily pad for a hat and clutching a basket of roasted chestnuts.
Lord Taran made a gesture and a half dozen Folk—a mixture of courtly and common, all dressed in silver-threaded grey—emerged from the shadows of the castle, each dragging a small wagon behind them. These were covered with silk, hiding the contents, which rattled over the cobblestones.
One of these Folk bowed to Lord Taran and passed him a hand mirror. It was wrought from pure silver, its frame an intricate and uneven scalloped pattern, as if it had lain upon the sea floor for years and accumulated all manner of shells and barnacles. With another bow, Lord Taran gave it to Wendell.
“Thank you,” Wendell said. He gazed into the mirror, then turned towards the crowd, absently tapping the glass against his opposite palm. The motion scattered diamonds of reflected light across the courtyard. It was odd, but he reminded me then of the first time I had watched him present at a conference. Had it been five years ago, or six? The subject had been the folklore of Provence, and while I had been skeptical of his claims and annoyed by the offhand showmanship with which he delivered them, I could not help being awed by his effect upon his audience. For Wendell in such moments has a gravity about him that has nothing to do with enchantment, and nor is it like the Hidden king’s; it is something warmer, good-natured, which makes one wish to lean in, not cower away.
“What’s this about?” I muttered.
“Oh—just a little tradition. To mark the passing of the throne from one monarch to the next,” he said, his gaze roaming hungrily over the castle and the hillside beyond.
“Look, Em,” he said, pointing to the drifting lights overhead. “Fireflies! Yes, I remember—they always came out at this time of the evening.”
“You’re enjoying yourself,” I noted.
“I am.” He turned to kiss me. “My dearest Emily! I am home at last. And all because of you.”