Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(6)
“Yes—once she’d finished with it,” he said drily. “She and my father had one daughter, who was a child when her mother decided to murder her father and half-siblings.” He rubbed his forehead. “Deilah. She would still be very young—it’s hard to imagine the nobility taking her seriously. I don’t know. I’ve no doubt there are plenty of Folk with designs on my throne. But I know so little about politics.”
I shook my head. “Surely your father gave you some form of a political education. Surely you learned something?, watching him.”
“Em—” Wendell closed his book, his expression taking on a pained quality. “I was barely nineteen when I was exiled. At that age, Folk are viewed as near infants, at least as far as our wisdom goes. We are expected to attend revels and balls, and more revels and balls, and cause a variety of minor troubles for our parents, and that is the extent of it.” He sighed. “I was perhaps more fond of parties than the average youth. My father could not have had a lower opinion of my political capabilities. Besides, I had five brothers and sisters between me and the throne, and even given my kingdom’s penchant for assassinations, few thought I’d get anywhere near it.”
I paused as the weight of what he was saying sank in. “Then—you haven’t the slightest idea how to rule a kingdom.”
“Does anyone?” He took my hand, discomfort shifting suddenly into earnestness. “We will learn together.”
“Oh God,” I said faintly.
He studied me. “Is it that bad? You already know more about faerie kingdoms than any mortal.”
“Stories,” I said faintly, drawing my hand back. “I know stories.”
He gave me an odd look. “And have you ever needed anything else? Have you not shaken a kingdom to its foundations, found a door to a distant otherland, overthrown a queen? Hand you the right storybook, and you are capable of anything.”
Well, I doubt I need describe how little comfort I took from his absolute faith in me. I’ve always known Wendell squandered much of his youth, but I assumed he had learned something about his court, about what it meant to wield power. Now I understood the truth: he knew nothing about kingship, and yet, on the eve of claiming his throne, viewed this fact as largely immaterial, if it had even occurred to him before. Small wonder some dryadologists believe all faeries are mad.
“I am a scholar,” I said. “I observe. I record. I don’t—no one will ever see me as a queen.”
“No?” He opened his book again. “More fool them. I suppose I could simply follow my father’s playbook and send Razkarden to pluck out my enemies’ eyes and entrails.”
I could not tell if he was joking or not, which put paid to my desire to pursue the discussion. And that, more or less, is where we left things.
* * *
—
Though I did not stop thinking about it.
I thought about it as we walked, the weight of my bag shifting against my back. I had packed four books—two of which I smuggled out of the special collections section of Cambridge’s dryadology library,[*2] which grates at my conscience, but I cannot see what else I could have done; one cannot mind library due dates in a world where time is liable to rearrange itself—all of which deal with the politics of faerie courts, what little is known of them. While it has long been assumed that the lords and ladies of Faerie rule primarily through might, the nobility being more skilled at enchantment than the rest of the courtly fae, recent scholarship has done much to challenge the notion that faerie monarchs are inept at strategizing or other conventional leadership skills.[*3] And, indeed, the rise of Wendell’s stepmother, a halfblood, to the throne offers more evidence to bolster this perspective.
I have not said much to Wendell about this, because the project is at present only a half-formed idea, but I have begun taking notes on the principles of faerie leadership that I have gleaned from my readings. It goes without saying that no dryadologist before me has actually witnessed the ruling of a faerie court from the throne itself, and thus no one has ever been better placed than I to write a book on faerie politics.
Even thinking those words sends a frisson of anticipation through me. If Wendell’s stepmother has us slain before I have a chance to contribute to the scholarly debate, I will be very disappointed.
A great deal of whispering followed Wendell and me as we made our way through the forest. I had the sense of being regarded by many pairs of eyes, but no Folk, either courtly or common, dared to greet us.
“If only we could glean some news,” I said. The frustrating truth is that we know next to nothing about what we will be facing. I have spoken with Poe, who has proven himself an uncommonly good source of gossip due to the volume of visitors he receives from disparate faerie realms, but he knew only that Wendell’s kingdom fell into chaos after I poisoned its queen. Wandering Folk, according to Poe, tend to avoid realms in such states of turmoil.
Wendell looked around. “Why not ask her?”
“Who?”
Wendell just kept on staring at a branch. “You needn’t cower. I am not going to harm you.”
I waited, but no response came from the forest, nor any sign of movement. Wendell made an exasperated sound and plucked the faerie off the branch—the faerie that I had not seen, who wore a cloak of woven moss. With the hood drawn up, crouched as she had been, she was merely a bend in the bough, an inconsequential vagary in the forest’s pattern.