Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(46)

We made our way to Farris’s lodgings in Scholars’ Square. He had been given one of the larger suites, as is customarily afforded to the most eminent visiting scholars, which included a sunny reception room facing another handsome library, this one dedicated to literature and the humanities. Ariadne had a childhood friend studying at Trinity, and was staying in her flat.

Farris made tea in his small kitchen—we had just had it, of course, he and I, but I made no objection and sipped mine gratefully, warming my chilled hands against the cup. “So,” he said, settling himself by the fire, “these corrupted groves may be healed with a little bloodletting. Well, that has precedent in the literature, doesn’t it? ‘The Winding Ways of Tatty Tom,’ for instance.”

“That is a Scots tale,” I said. “It is often attributed to the Irish due to its erroneous inclusion in Baker’s Evergreen Ballads.[*3] Wendell’s blood will not heal his realm, for by now there is too much corruption in it, and each time he heals one grove, his stepmother will poison another.”

Farris’s wiry white eyebrows had pushed closer and closer together until they were touching. “You are not thinking of ‘The Shoemaker and His Lost Queen’?”

“I am,” I said. “As well as ‘The Winter Gardener.’[*4] In theme, the two tales are nearly identical, despite their differing origins—Wendell’s situation makes three. It seems clear that the only way to end the curse the old queen has inflicted upon Wendell’s realm is for him to sacrifice himself. To die. A little blood may heal half an acre; only his life will heal the realm.”

There was a silence.

“It is a neatly constructed vengeance on Queen Arna’s part,” Farris said slowly. “One cannot argue with that. The faerie rulers of old would applaud her.”

I gave a ghost of a laugh. It was relief I felt, more than anything else, to be able to discuss this ghastly revelation with my fellow scholars, as if it were merely some academic riddle to be scribbled upon a blackboard and coldly analyzed. “I have no doubt.”

“I suppose, as she has somehow tied herself to the land, she would be healed as well,” he continued in a musing voice. “And, with her stepson out of the way, free to assume the throne once more.”

“That I cannot say for certain, but it is plausible.”

“It cannot be,” Ariadne burst out. She had been watching Farris and me, seeming to grow more and more astonished by our detachment. “Professor Bambleby must be able to heal his realm some other way. He—” She broke off, biting her lip.

Now, Wendell is not really a professor anymore; though he was granted leave from Cambridge, supposedly to conduct an in-depth investigation of the Hidden Ones of Ljosland—a plausible story, given that he and I were the first scholars to conclusively document their existence—this was mainly to provide an explanation for his eventual disappearance from the mortal world, hopefully preventing anyone from going looking for him. But I did not correct her.

“I don’t believe he can,” I said. “In fact, Wendell has come to the same conclusion—that only by giving his life will he drive out his stepmother’s poison, and stop it from destroying the realm.”

Farris rubbed his face. “Then there is no other way for the curse to be lifted.”

“I do not believe that is the correct concern,” I said. “Yes, Wendell’s life is the antidote, but what is more effective than finding antidotes?”

Ariadne’s face lit up. “Stopping the poisoner.”

“Precisely. The problem is that Queen Arna has spirited herself away so effectively that none of our scouts have been able to track her. She is somewhere within the Silva Lupi, of course, or she would not be able to damage it so, but the Silva Lupi is vast, and not merely in the mortal sense, for it is full of shifting landscapes and layered in enchantments. It would take Wendell years to scour it all. So that is the mystery I am attempting to unravel: Where has she gone? How can we find her?”

I opened my briefcase and removed the book I had smuggled out of the special collections section. (I am aware that I am getting into a bad habit with this sort of thing, but I would be returning the volume before I left Dublin; also, I looked through the records, and not one scholar has requested it in over a year.)

“I have been combing through the folklore of County Leane, from which we have most of our tales of the Silva Lupi,” I said. “It took some time, but I believe I have come across a tale that describes a situation similar to our own. From what I have been able to glean, it was first recorded in 1480 by a theologian named Geoffrey Molloy—this was before the invention of dryadology as a discipline, as you know, and thus many of our sources are from the Church.”[*5]

I handed Farris the book, and he opened it to the page I had marked. “The only problem,” I continued, “is that Molloy was recording from the oral tradition, and many such tales are fragmentary. Including this one.”

“?‘Kinge Macan’s Bees,’?” Farris read. “I’m not familiar with it.”

“Few are, I suspect. But I must try to track down the complete version; perhaps more fragments have been preserved by another theologian.”

“Hm!” Farris said. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and peered at the book. Ariadne read over his shoulder. There followed a few moments of quiet, the only sounds coming from Shadow snoring by the fire and the boards creaking overhead as another lodger walked about. I restrained myself from tapping my foot in impatience.