Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(74)

“Killing is why I exist,” she said finally. “It is my only love. I used to struggle with my temper, but now I embrace it. You cannot fathom how many I have slain, both mortal and Folk. Why should a little nothing like you be the end of me?”

“You know why,” I said. “Because it would be a fitting conclusion.”

She gave me the sort of look that reminded me of Razkarden when he sizes up a potential meal. The shadow in the room seemed to deepen, redden, and grow damp, a slippery damp I felt through my shoes. I only waited. “Well?” I said.

She seemed to deflate slightly, and the illusion vanished. “You wish to find the door to Death?” she said, a slyness entering her voice. “Very well. I will tell you how. But I must be allowed to depart this realm unharmed.”

I could see she expected me to protest or bargain with her. “Done,” I said.

Her lip curled. “Such a dull little thing,” she said. “You have no spirit worth breaking, I see. You are not like your grandfather at all.”

“And you are not as frightening as you think you are,” I said. “Tell me.”

She did. I listened carefully, asking for clarification as often as necessary. I had not brought my notebook with me, but it did not matter—every word I committed to memory.

When she drew to the end, she asked in a mocking tone, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Highness?”

I stood and placed my empty teacup back on its tray. “Run,” I said.

SKIP NOTES

* In some stories, gallows-goblins haunt those jails where condemned prisoners are held before execution; they take pleasure in killing the miscreants themselves, usually in some bloody fashion, unless the prisoner can prove his or her innocence, after which the gallows-goblin will whisk them to safety by magic. In most tales, however, gallows-goblins are less arbiters of justice and more generalized terrors; they delight in murder and bloodshed, often lurking at lonely crossroads in the wilderness, where they choose their victims based on a shared characteristic (for example, farmhands with red hair). The former type is found primarily in France and its border regions, while the latter is widespread throughout Western Europe and the British Isles, leading some scholars to speculate these are separate entities entirely. Both varieties of gallows-goblin, though, are described as having blood upon their hands and feet at all times.





21st January—later




I am so scattered I can barely recollect where I left off, though it was only a few hours ago. Well, I have oriented myself as best I can—as always, writing helps. Sometimes I feel it is the only thing that prevents me from coming apart.

Wendell’s body had been carried back to the castle, along with the body of the old queen, and placed in a room that was open to the lake. It was large and empty save for an intricately carved stone dais—more heads enmeshed in brooklime—upon which Wendell and his stepmother had been lain. A rainstorm had moved in, bringing gusts that rattled through the canopy, and the sound of waves striking the lakeshore washed over the room. The light was dim but warm from the few flickering lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls.

I had collected Shadow, naturally, and he kept so close that I could reach a hand out and stroke his warm fur at any moment. The oíche sidhe had led us here and he remained by my side, though I had not asked it of him.

We three were not alone. Along the wall opposite the lakeshore was a long stone bench. Lord Taran was seated there, his legs stretched out before him and his hands folded in his lap, seeming lost in thought. He didn’t glance at me when I entered. On the opposite end of the bench sat two brownies wearing jaunty red hats with feathers in them, who seemed to be arguing quietly about something. Razkarden, along with three other guardians, sat upon a perch high in the ceiling that looked as if it had been made for them, hunched into their feathers. A courtier I vaguely recognized stood crying before the dais—when she saw me enter, she bowed her head and went outside, seating herself on the short, broad staircase down to the lake, where she continued to cry. A number of other courtiers and common fae sat out there, alone or in small groups, some holding murmured conversations. As with most other things in this realm, it seemed that mourning was an activity carried out in a collective, disorderly manner.

I hadn’t known what I would feel, seeing Wendell’s body, and was unprepared for the magnitude of the shock. For a moment, I simply could not draw air into my lungs. I stumbled over to the bench and sat beside Lord Taran. The little housekeeper stayed by the door, his face impassive, the only sign of emotion the hand clenched on his rag, which had gone white.

Lord Taran did not offer comfort, merely gave me a look of wry resignation. I was glad for this, for it was much more steadying than having him put his arm around me or something equally dreadful.

“They brought them here together,” I noted when finally I regained my breath.

“Mm,” Lord Taran said moodily. He now had a scar upon his face—three narrow but deep lines that ran across his cheekbone from the corner of his left eye. “Well, she was their queen, wasn’t she? I am trying to decide what to do with her. I would like to remove her head and place it on a pike—but then I have also considered giving her to one of the attentive oaks to dismember, and inviting the realm to watch. The trees would enjoy that.”

I examined him. “You have been here some time?”