Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(25)
Wendell sighed. “Good Lord! How tedious children are. I suppose I must work out what to do with her.”
“You must meet with the Council first,” Niamh said. “Most of the queen’s Council has fled or been killed in the chaos following her defenestration—I recommend you summon those who live, as well as your father’s senior councillors.”
“More important than the Council is tracking down the queen,” Callum said. “Also, the realm is at present in a state of instability, with invaders from conquered realms crossing our borders. Nobody is doing anything about them, because most of our soldiers have abandoned their posts.”
Wendell fell back against his chair, looking faint. “What a mess! And I am to deal with all this today? It is not possible. For one thing, I was planning to take Emily to the Broken Meadows for a picnic.”
I recognized the desperate gleam in his eyes and said quickly, “The challenges are not insurmountable provided they are set in order and dealt with accordingly. I agree that we must hunt down your stepmother; she must not simply be allowed to lurk—I doubt I need point out that this never ends well, in the stories. Your uncle will send more scouts. In the meantime, you must be seen by your subjects, and you must appear intimidating—that is the best way to discourage more assassination attempts. We will visit this Grove and hear our supplicants.” I paused. “Tonight we will have our picnic, if there is time.”
Wendell’s face broke into a smile so bright it was as if his former distress had never existed. “Em, you will adore the Broken Meadows. It is a veritable garden of streams and wildflowers. The coirceog sidhe[*] live in great numbers there, which means endless brownies for you to interrogate. The honeymakers have strange and secretive ways.”
He began to tell me about them, with occasional asides from Niamh, and so we talked no more of dark things that morning, nor of the manifold dangers lurking before us, and in every corner and shadow.
SKIP NOTES
* A species with which I was wholly unfamiliar, though eventually I recalled a passing reference—the only one in scholarship, I believe—in The O’Donnell Brothers’ Midnight Tales of the Good Folk (1840), specifically, “The Midwife’s Lost Apprentice.”
1st January—late
The place once known as the King’s Grove is located in the forested hillside behind the castle, accessed by a lantern-lined path, one of many that winds through the royal forest. It comprises a half-dozen massive oaks, including one taller than any tree I’ve seen, with great spreading branches that form a little clearing around its circumference. Between roots that rise from the earth like the ribs of a terrible giant are two thrones, both relatively unadorned and made from strange, twisted bundles of wood, which I eventually realized were more roots that had forced themselves up through the earth from unknown depths. I did not enjoy sitting upon my throne, though it was made comfortable with several cushions, in part because I could not help envisioning those roots eventually growing tired of bearing a tedious mortal like me and dragging me into the earth. The throne smelled of deep, dank caverns and icy springs that have never known sunlight.
I had wondered if Wendell might feel strange issuing commands to his subjects; at Cambridge, he generally relied on charm and deception, rather than his position of authority, to get what he wanted. But I need not have worried. He delivered his judgments with an offhand and good-natured sort of imperiousness, seeming to have accepted his new role—which, I suppose, was not entirely new, as before his exile he’d held the throne for a brief period—as easily as he accepted any other luxury that came into his life, whether it was a sumptuous feast or fine garment. Namely, as if it were as natural as the earth beneath his feet.
Yet while Wendell’s mood started off cheerful, as the day wore on, and the queue of supplicants seemed barely to diminish at all, he began to indulge in a great deal of sighing and rubbing at his hair.
And there were all manner of supplicants.
These included courtiers, of course, who mostly came to bow and congratulate Wendell on ridding the realm of Queen Arna, whom, the courtiers assured us through simpering smiles, they had always abhorred. I did not trust a single one of them, though Wendell accepted their allegiance carelessly. And there were also brownies and trooping fae with complaints, many revolving around the invaders who trampled their homes and disturbed their industry, though some had other concerns that I could not understand—one seemed to be involved in a dispute with the morning dew?—because of their thick dialects. One of these was a dishevelled little clap-can who seemed to have lost all but one of his bells.[*1] His feet were covered in a sticky grey substance like the webbing of some oversized spider. Upon his skin were several weeping scabs that made Wendell swear and leap up from his throne. He healed the faerie with a single touch, but the creature would answer no questions after, merely muttering in a desperate voice, “Must keep going,” before fleeing into the forest.
“Bloody invaders,” Wendell said to me, rearranging himself on his throne in a slouch.
“You think they were the cause of his injuries?” I said.
“I’ve never seen a wound like that in my realm.” Wendell shook his head. “They have strange magics in Where the Ravens Hide.”
I opened my mouth to question him further, thinking of Queen Arna’s curse—and yet, hadn’t Callum said the poisoned groves had been burned? But then the next faerie was coming forward, and I was forced to redirect my thoughts.