Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(5)
“I’d rather not.” He was swishing his hand absently through the rushing water, looking as pleased as a cat in a sunbeam. His beauty seemed to me to have assumed an even more ethereal quality since we’d stepped through the door—was it my imagination? His hair was like dark gold lit by firelight. “Most of the barrows encompass villages,” he continued, “each with their own lord or lady.”
I nodded. We’d agreed that the best course would be to avoid alerting whoever held the castle to our presence, or any nobles who might use the information to their advantage.
“I hope we’ll arrive before nightfall,” he said, tearing off a piece of scone. “We must get past Muckle Lake, and I’ve no doubt we shall encounter dangers along the way. Beyond that—”
I waited, but he only made an expansive gesture that someone who didn’t know him as well as I did might have found enchantingly mysterious. He finished, “We shall see.”
I gazed at him for a moment, digesting this.
“You don’t know where we are,” I said in flat disbelief.
“Roughly, roughly.” He looked puzzled by my consternation. “Well, what need would I have had to venture this far into the hinterlands? Of course, that isn’t to say I never left the castle grounds when I was growing up. Many of the nobility are exceedingly fond of the Hanging Pools, where the river Brightmist spills down a ravine and forms a series of crystalline ponds, perfect for bathing in. And then there is the forest of Wildwood and its bog, hunting grounds forbidden to all but the monarchy and our chosen companions, where one finds uncommonly large boars and the rarest species of deer, which possess antlers of pure silver…”
He continued his rhapsodies concerning the bathing pools and hunting grounds. When at last he paused for breath, I said, attempting to keep my voice level, “Wendell. We are here to conquer your kingdom. This will be difficult if you do not know the way to the bloody throne. Now, answer me one way or the other—are we lost?”
“Oh, Em,” he said fondly. “You worry too much—remember that we are in my kingdom, not some Godforsaken ice court or mountain wasteland. No, we are not lost, not in the sense you mean. I know where the castle is—what does it matter where we are?”
On that infuriatingly nonsensical note, he was off to rap on the standing stone again, this time after a little jam for the scones.
* * *
—
Lest any assume that Wendell and I marched into one of the most dangerous Faerie realms on record without any strategizing whatsoever, I assure you it was not so.
“We should review the possibilities,” I had said one late October night as we sat by the fire in Wendell’s apartments. It was a week or two after our return from Austria.
He had looked up from the book he’d been reading—some silly romance or other; he doesn’t read much, and when he does, his taste is questionable. “Hmm?”
“For whom we might be facing when we return to your realm,” I said. “If your stepmother is dead, who might have stepped in to claim the throne? Who would have the standing, the influence, to earn the loyalty of the nobility? Perhaps your stepmother’s half-brother, Lord Taran?”
“Taran?” Wendell tilted his chin back, thinking it over. “He never struck me as particularly power-hungry. I suppose it’s possible, though. As I said before, Em, I had little to do with him, and he with me. My uncle is ancient, and would have viewed me as a silly child, beneath his notice.”
I felt a prickle of frustration. “Well, who else is there? Had your father any siblings?”
“Oh—a brother or two.” He thought. “Two. He had them executed long before I was born.”
“Good Lord,” I muttered. I’d known Wendell’s court was a nest of vipers, but I was beginning to suspect the stories were, if anything, rosier than the reality.
“Who else?” I pressed. “Cousins? A well-liked advisor? Friends?”
“My father’s only true friend was my mother.” Wendell’s gaze drifted towards the fire. “He always said so. They were everywhere in accord, their opinions and preferences so similar. Only she was of oíche sidhe blood, but one would have thought he too was descended from the little housekeepers. I suppose that is partly why he married her, despite the taboo. Everything had to be meticulously clean, under my father’s roof. And he and my mother would sew and weave together, combining their magics to produce such kingly attire as has never been seen before…not only clothes, but hunting nets that could snare the most formidable quarry, and pennants so intricately woven and bright it was said that my father’s enemies could not help staring at them even in the heat of battle.” He gazed into the flames. “After my mother died, I don’t know that he was close to anyone. My eldest sister, perhaps. But she is gone too.”
He shook himself and reached for his teacup. Though his subsequent exile pained him, I have rarely had the impression that Wendell is much touched by his family’s murder, something I have generally put down to his faerie nature. It is less troubling that way, which is not to say that it isn’t troubling. At a fundamental level, the Folk are not like mortals, a fact which, at times, I still struggle to connect with Wendell. I waited to see if he would go on, but he did not.
“You said your stepmother had children,” I pressed. “That she wanted to see her own flesh and blood on the throne.”