Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(57)
“Yes,” Taran said, running his thumb over the back of Callum’s hand. “Don’t worry about that part, my love. The real concern is whether we can locate my sister before her curse devours the castle, along with everything else. Our new queen may have discovered this answer too late.”
“Your confidence is much appreciated,” I said tightly. “But you need not be so grim about our prospects.”
“I am not,” Lord Taran said. “Should this poison continue to spread, I shall be taking Callum and fleeing to another realm, even if it be Where the Ravens Hide. I am more powerful than any of their nobility. They will be unable to do anything about it.”
I did not bother mentioning that most in Wendell’s realm could not do the same; apart from a few wanderers, Folk do not flit from realm to realm in the manner Lord Taran was proposing.
But Callum sighed, and somehow, that slight sound transformed Taran’s expression. He gave Callum a look that was half affection and half exasperation, and added, “But, naturally, I will do whatever it takes to stop my sister. She deserves a lingering death, as do those who have helped her, which I would be happy to administer. I guessed she would throw a tantrum once she lost her grip on the throne, but I did not anticipate her destroying her own kingdom in pursuit of vengeance. Truly, I have never known her to be so uncouth.”
Niamh made some reply to this, but I could not make out all the words, for the rustling of the leaves had grown so loud as to drown out most sounds—it was almost a roar. “Good Lord!” she yelled. “What has possessed the forest? Are we under fresh attack?”
“It’s the attentive oaks,” Lord Taran said. For some reason, he was looking at Wendell, so the rest of us did, too.
He glanced up—he had finished cleaning up the coffee spill and was now scrubbing obsessively at the inlaid carvings on the lip of the table. I would not have been surprised if he soon wore holes in the wood. I put my hand on his arm.
“What? Oh, yes.” His face went abruptly blank, as if he had stepped out from behind it and gone—elsewhere. This gave me the same dreadfully unsettled feeling as when he used trees as doorways. “The oaks,” he said. “They know.”
“Know what?” I didn’t much like the idea of those things knowing anything.
“That I’m—they can sense—” He ran a hand over his face, and then he closed his eyes. “If I can calm myself, I think they will stop.”
He kept his eyes closed for a moment while we stared at him like jittery attendees at a seance. Gradually, the rustle of the oaks lessened, and then, finally, the noise sank to little more than a whisper.
Wendell opened his eyes. “My apologies,” he said, then poured himself a fresh cup of coffee as if nothing had happened.
We continued to stare at him. Even Lord Taran looked a touch unnerved, though he paired it with a smirk. “That’s a sinister trick, Your Highness,” he said. “Not since your great-grandmother’s day have I seen a monarch rile the oaks with a thought. I am not overfond of those trees.”
“Thank God,” I muttered. “I thought I was the only one.”
“Oh, no!” Lord Taran made a face. “You have not experienced all their delights until you have ventured out for a walk on a crisp autumn morning, and come home to find one of their leaves in your hair.”
Niamh’s attendant returned and muttered something in her ear. Niamh nodded.
“We have located one of the old queen’s personal servants,” she said. “This one did not draw her baths, like Macan’s, but she helped make her breakfast every day.”
I was already standing. “She has information about the queen’s refuge?”
“She did not say this,” Niamh said. “But as soon as she heard we were questioning the servants, she fled.”
“That’s an encouraging sign,” I said.
“You go,” Lord Taran said, knitting his fingers together and stretching his arms. “Thank you, but my talents are wasted interrogating servants. Let me know when the bloodshed starts.”
* * *
—
The faerie had not gone far. It seemed she had tried to flee into the woods, but the guardians had got wind of her importance, and chased her into a tree.
We stood below the tree—an alder, thankfully—as the faerie shivered above us, alternately muttering to herself and wringing her hands. She was perched on one of the higher branches, and could easily have been dragged out by one of the guardians, but I did not wish to take this step unless necessary. She was only a little larger than Poe, and though her appearance did not match his in any other respect, I felt an instinctive desire to avoid harming her. She was clad in a tea-coloured dress and white apron, and on her head was an enormous buttercup worn like a kerchief, two of the petals pinned together beneath her hair. Her face was very red, very shiny, and very plump. She looked, I thought, a little like a lost doll, though not one mortal children would enjoy playing with; her eyes were the usual all black, and she appeared to be a type of faun, with large and intimidatingly sharp black horns that curved backwards out of her head, and legs that ended in hairy hooves.
“A butter faerie,” Niamh said. “The queen had several in her service—this one, I am told, had the queen’s particular affections due to the quality of her product.”