Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(71)

Wendell lifted the steel dagger his stepmother had used and drove it through his chest in one swift, impossibly quiet movement, and the motion was familiar to me, somehow, the angle—it was how he had stabbed the woman with the raven-feather hair. There was only the faintest rustle as the fabric of his cloak parted, then he wrenched the dagger free in a shower of blood bright as rubies.

As the curse descended upon us, something wrapped round my stomach and flung me backwards—I caught a glimpse of glaring eyes, felt the brush of something soft and wet against my arm. I hit the trunk of the attentive oak, and the castle vanished.





19th January, still




What happened in the moments after is a complete jumble; providing a true account of my thoughts and perceptions would be impossible. I must straighten things out in order for these events to be legible.

It was, at least, easy enough to work out what had happened to me, for when I lifted my head, I found myself on the mainland, not far from the castle gardens. I glanced up and saw that I was resting against the bole of another attentive oak, smaller than the monster in the queen’s castle. So: the tree had flung me through itself an instant before the curse would have destroyed me, and I had emerged here, some miles away. Apparently I now possessed the ability to use trees as doors, little as I had ever wanted to.

I lay there for some time, growing wetter and wetter, for it had begun to rain. I wished that Shadow were with me—it is strange, but I felt his absence more keenly, in that moment, than Wendell’s. I wanted the dog’s warmth, the softness of his fur, his cold nose against my hand. I am not certain I understood what had happened to Wendell at all; in place of grief was a kind of blank incomprehension.

As I gazed up at the canopy, I realized that the forest was still alight with lanterns, the silver faerie stones still aglow, which I regarded with an absurd disdain. One of their monarchs had perished; why did these Folk not have the decency to turn their lights off? So a part of me was aware of what had happened, I suppose, but it was a distant, intellectual part, securely walled off from the rest of me.

Callum believes it was no more than ten minutes before he and Niamh found me, having been summoned from a meeting of the Council by one of the tree brownies, who had been understandably distressed by the sight of their queen sprawled on the forest floor in a motionless heap. According to Niamh, all I could do at first was complain about the faerie lights. She could get no sense out of me regarding what had happened, though they knew—they knew. For the corruption had vanished from the hill behind the castle, and now here I was, alone and with blood on my dress, babbling insensibly. Callum, however, said it was Orga who confirmed his fears. For I had been holding her tight to my chest the whole while, and she was not attempting escape, but had curled herself into a silent, motionless ball against me. She was less substantial than she had been, her golden eyes anchoring a form that was little more than a spectre.

Callum helped me back to the castle. It was only when I stepped out from under the boughs of the attentive oak that I realized the sky was clear. The tree was weeping.



* * *



—

I must find a way out. I am very tired.

What do I know? Wendell sacrificed himself to heal the kingdom; the kingdom is now healed. We know this, for Lord Taran’s scouts have confirmed that the curse has been lifted from not only the hillside but several other nearby groves. He has sent more Folk to confirm it does not linger elsewhere. But of course it doesn’t—Macan the Second healed his realm, and then he died. And now Wendell has done the same.

What else? That when Wendell’s stepmother took her own life, she gave Wendell no other way out. As the source of the curse tearing the kingdom apart, her death should have lifted it, as in the Macan story. However, unlike Macan, Wendell’s stepmother was a halfblood, and I should have foreseen that she would introduce complications, for halfbloods slip more easily out of the patterns of faerie stories. I should have foreseen it. For what healed the kingdom in the Macan story is not the old king’s death, as I had assumed, but his murder. The ancient notion of a sacrifice carried out by the new monarch. Wendell could not sacrifice his stepmother; her suicide prevented it. So he could only sacrifice himself. Or me, I suppose. I wonder if I would have suited.

No doubt she had planned it this way all along, as one governed by spite and vengefulness would. I should have foreseen it. Probably she hoped Wendell would not find her, that he would be so distressed by the suffering of his realm that he would simply take his life and put an end to the trouble he had caused her. But if he did, somehow, confound her low opinion of him and track her down, of course she would not allow him the upper hand. If she was to die, she would force her enemy to follow her. I should have foreseen it.





21st January




I have burnt the pages that followed that. They are little more than gibberish—lists of stories that I intended to consult, half-baked theories. Crossings-out and ink blots from where I drifted in a state of half-sleep.

When I awoke, I was hunched over my journal, and it was the wee hours of the morning, still dark. My legs were nearly numb and my neck was sore, as I’d fallen asleep in a slump in a chair by the bedroom window. A little over a day had passed since Wendell’s death. I hadn’t slept at all the night before—at least I don’t think I had. My memory of that day and night is as blurred as my time in the snow king’s court.