Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(24)
A chill touched my neck like the brush of a cold breeze. Wendell had never spoken his stepmother’s name. The surprise of it made me feel superstitious, as if saying it might summon her.
“The trouble is, all of Faerie is a hell for mortals,” Niamh said, waving her fork. “We scholars like to rank things; it gives us additional subjects to argue about. Yes, some realms have claimed more lives than others, but the Folk are, at the core, unfathomably powerful creatures governed by caprice. You might as well argue over which sea is more dangerous to the mariner.”
Callum smiled faintly. “As always, I wish I could be as philosophical on the subject as you, Niamh.”
She immediately looked regretful. “My apologies, Callum. Your sister—I did not mean to imply—”
“You didn’t,” he said with a sigh, running his hand through his hair. “Please don’t worry about it, Niamh. I am always quick to quarrel when I have not had much sleep!”
“Your sister?” I repeated, too interested to realize until a moment later that Callum did not seem to wish to discuss this.
Wendell touched his hand again. “Callum’s sister was stolen away by one of the nobility when she was a small child,” he told me. “The Lady of the Clawed Barrow, I believe. He came in search of her, but it was too late.”
Callum had gone back to buttering his roll in smooth, precise strokes. “The Lady abandoned Nora in the forest—she must have tired of caring for a human child. The guardians came upon her. I suppose they were in want of sport that day.” He put the food down and rested his hands briefly on the edge of the table. “I would likely have suffered the same fate, if Taran had not met me while on one of his wanders, and fallen in love with me.”
“The poor child,” Wendell said. “I am glad Taran dealt with the Lady as she deserved.”
Niamh looked unimpressed by this, and gave a huff through her nostrils. “Yes, sometimes justice is meted out,” she said. “If the right mortal is affected.”
“I have come to say that a great queue has assembled in the King’s Grove,” Callum said, and even I understood he wished to leave the subject behind.
“We will change the name,” Wendell said. “The Monarchs’ Grove, as it was known before my mother died.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Callum said after a pause. “As I was saying, there is a great crowd, and they grow increasingly restless. Many have come from far and wide to speak with you—some seeking favours, while others, I suspect, merely wish to fawn or gawk. There are musicians and cooks seeking employment, lords and ladies wanting curses undone, wandering assassins hoping to offer you their services, and various other mendicants.”
“I have no interest in that now,” Wendell said. “What has become of my realm?”
Callum stopped short. “You’ve noticed.”
“I’ve noticed.” Wendell drew one of his knees up as he played absently with a strawberry. “I wasn’t certain, at first. I thought perhaps it felt different because I have been away so long. But this morning, as soon as I awoke, I knew. What has my stepmother done?”
Callum grimaced. “Perhaps you should ask Taran for the story. I don’t know that I understand it well enough to do it justice.”
“What is this?” I said, new dread rising within me.
“There is a sickness here,” Wendell said. “I feel it burrowing into the roots of the forest and heathlands.”
“Good Lord!” Suddenly the shush-shush of the leaves as they brushed the windows took on a sinister cadence. “Has the old queen placed a curse upon the land?”
Callum shook his head. “I know not how to answer that. In the chaos last night, Taran apprehended two members of the queen’s guard who were lurking about the castle grounds, attempting to sow discord. They confessed that the queen lives, though weakened, and is in hiding. Through some dark enchantment, she has transferred the poison in her veins into the land itself, or perhaps she has allowed her own body to be absorbed into the forest, infecting it—I am unclear on the particulars.”
“What is the nature of this sickness?” I asked. “Are the trees dying?”
“In a sense,” Callum said. “They die, but some corruption in them lives on, twisting them out of shape—any small Folk who touch them perish.”
“Fire,” I said immediately, for my mind had been sifting through the stories even as he spoke. Callum stared at me. Wendell smiled.
“Have you tried purging the sickness through fire?” I elaborated. “If it is in the trees—”
“We have, in fact,” he said. “Taran sent scouts out last night, and they located two infected groves. Both were burned, which seems to have banished the corruption.”
“Good,” Wendell said. “But it is not banished entirely—I feel it still, like the chill in an autumn wind.” His gaze grew distant, and then he seemed to shake himself. “Tell my uncle to send more scouts. Where is he, anyway?”
“Rather busy,” Callum said drily. “Your stepmother’s heir—your half-sister—organized an assassination attempt on you last night, which he only barely managed to thwart. It involved several members of the nobility and a few hired thugs. Taran threw the girl into the dungeons for now, but unravelling the web of co-conspirators is taking time.”