Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(37)

I turned to look at the lake; we stood beside a path that rambled down to its shore, where there was a beach of sand and stone. Sun sparkles danced blithely upon the water, as if it too were laughing at me.

Wendell finally emerged from the stables. Behind him came two servants, one of which was leading a creature that, it was only too clear, was my intended mount.

“Oh God,” I said faintly.

The fox was smaller than the faerie horses—not a comfort, I assure you, given that it was still far larger than any fox had a right to be. Its coat was a rich auburn, lighter on the chest and belly, and its massive ears flopped like a dog’s. It was a heavyset beast, a saddle encircling its rounded belly, but its legs were thickly muscled.

Snowbell clambered back onto my shoulder with an appalled squeak and gnashed his teeth in the creature’s direction. “Stop that,” I admonished. “I will put you down.”

“What do you think, Em?” Wendell said, smiling. “Does Red Wind meet with your approval? I promise she will give you no trouble whatsoever. But you may have your pick of the horses, if you prefer.”

“That—that’s all right,” I said. Now that the initial shock had passed, I found myself relaxing a little. The prospect of riding Red Wind was at least tolerable, unlike the thundering faerie horses, who were perhaps more alarming in how they confounded my expectations. I had no expectations where horse-sized foxes were concerned.

Wendell patted Red Wind’s flank, and the massive creature yawned—her teeth were the length of my hand—and blinked her liquid black eyes at me. After a moment’s hesitation, I reached out to rub her forelock, and she leaned into my hand with a guttural snort that made me start.

“As for you,” Wendell said, turning to gaze at his sister thoughtfully. He wore black riding boots and gloves, and had exchanged his horrible grumbling cloak for a non-sentient one of darkest green, a match for the silvered leaves the servants had woven into his hair that morning, which sat so naturally amongst the golden waves that they might have sprouted from his scalp. He needed no crown to signify his title—even the trees and grasses seemed to bend towards him—and I could see that even his sister sensed it, which perhaps accounted for the ferocity of the glare she levelled at him.

“The kindness of your queen has granted you a respite from the dungeons,” Wendell told her. “You are being given an opportunity to regret your loyalty to our mother. Thus, good behaviour on your part is not an expectation, but a requirement.”

“Blah, blah, blah” was the child’s reply. “You’re as boring as one of them now. Like a mortal pretending to be Folk. Why don’t you just go back to their world, brother?”

Wendell’s eyes narrowed. “You, on the other hand, have only grown more like the old queen. Or, rather, a poor copy—plenty of spite and jealousy, but lacking her imagination.”

The girl’s face went white. “The true queen will have you quartered and hung from the battlements, along with those stupid mortals you care so much for.”

“Your opinion of mortals is so low,” Wendell said. “Yet one of them was your mother’s undoing. How does it feel to be proven a fool?”

“My mother is not dead,” she spat, and for a moment I thought she was going to lunge at him. “She cares too much about the realm to—to—”

“To die?” Wendell gave a quiet laugh. “If only there were protection in that! Alas. Our father cared a great deal for the realm, too. But then, you were too young—I doubt you remember him much. Well, let us go and see what our mother’s malice has wrought upon her beloved realm, and then we shall see if there is anything in you but her worst qualities.”

He turned his back on her. She seemed to be struggling to come up with a retort, and instead stuck her tongue out at him. I could see, though, that she was holding back tears.

“Was that necessary?” I muttered as he came over to me.

He sighed, looking vexed. “Children are so tedious!”

It seemed to me that Deilah was uniquely adept at eroding his good humour, but I did not point this out. “Wendell, if we meet your stepmother—”

“You shall not have to deal with her again, Em—leave her to me.” He examined my face. “What is it?”

I shook my head. I had read through several dozen Irish folktales the previous evening, comparing and contrasting; I did not care for the pattern that I saw emerging here, that was as much as I knew.

“Nothing,” I said, trying to quell the foreboding. “Only I wish your stepmother was already dead.”

“It would be tidier,” he agreed. “But she is far too complicated a person to make things easy for anyone, even on her deathbed.”

All the guards were saddled and ready, and so Wendell helped me onto Red Wind. Then he mounted his horse, and we were off.



* * *



—

At first we followed a broad path, wide enough for two mounts to walk abreast, but as we drew farther from the castle the path narrowed, and we travelled single file. Red Wind was so wide that the boughs brushed against her sides, until Wendell flicked his hand and added another foot or two to the path.

I did not much care for my drayfox. I did not say so to Wendell, but I began to think I would have preferred one of the faerie horses after all. Red Wind did not bump or jostle me, as a horse would, and therein lay the problem: her gait was too smooth. I felt as if I were being carried upon a well-tempered cloud, albeit one prone to sudden, violent sneezes and wet snorts.