Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(75)

“It’s an important decision. A person can be dismembered only once.”

I tapped my cheekbone. “Why have you not used a glamour?”

He glowered at me. “The Beast of the Elderwood’s mark cannot be hidden by glamour.”

I hid my smile—imperfectly, I admit. “Where is Deilah?” I said. “I thought—someone told me she would not leave Wendell’s side.” I could not remember precisely who—many things about those first few hours following Wendell’s death were blurred.

“Oh, she hasn’t gone far,” Lord Taran said, rolling his eyes. “She was in hysterics, sobbing all over his body. He is ‘dear brother’ to her now, apparently. But presently she is wandering the forest, wailing and tearing at her clothes. I hope she stays out there.”

“Poor child,” I said, though in truth I was finding it hard to summon much sympathy, monstrous as that sounds—after all, here were her mother and brother lying dead beside each other. And yet something about Deilah’s inclination towards dramatics had the effect of muting the warmth I might have felt for her.

“Children are more trouble than they’re worth” was Lord Taran’s opinion on the matter.

I finally allowed myself to look directly at the dais—it was several yards away in this large room, which was both helpful and not helpful. I could not see Wendell’s expression, for his head was tilted slightly to one side, but I could see the transformation that had overtaken him. He had not been changed into fresh clothes—indeed, I do not think his body had been attended to in any way—and yet, while I could still make out the dark shadow of the wound in his chest, the blood was gone. He was not half covered in moss, like Queen Arna. Instead, some form of dense, creeping vine grew from his chest and from another wound at the side of his head, which he must have sustained when the queen’s curse descended upon us, after which the castle—I had been told, for I had not seen it—had split in two, and the enchantment hiding the island from the Folk had shattered. The vine had wrapped itself numerous times around his eyes and temples, so that he seemed to be wearing a strange mask made of leaves and tiny white flowers. His skin, in places, had the rough texture of oak bark. I suppose I should have found the transformation horrifying, but I could not help admiring the beauty of it.

“We shall have to remove him to the forest soon,” Lord Taran said. “Before he puts down roots, like his father.”

“His father became a tree?” I said. I knew I should not just sit there, for the Lady had emphasized that I had only a narrow window of time to act; yet in that moment, hope was a living thing, and I was in terror of losing it.

“No,” Lord Taran said. “An apple sapling grew from his mouth. It is very large now—you can see it, and the old king as well, if you take the east-west path behind the castle. You have to look closely, though, for his body has turned to root and bark. Liath’s mother’s end was more dignified, I thought. She is now a mound of grass and mushrooms upon a hill in the castle gardens, surrounded by rows of cherry trees. The old king put a bench there.”

I did not recall noticing either feature. But then, there had been times that I had noted odd shapes in the trees and mounds of the forest floor. The impression of limbs, sometimes, or faces in the bark. Had these, too, been the remnants of long-dead Folk? Was this why I sometimes caught the whisper of voices in the rustling leaves? Did only monarchs succumb to this process?

I did not ask any of these questions. For the first time in my life, I was weary of answers.

“You have kept everyone away from me,” I said. “Thank you.”

Lord Taran shrugged. “The realm can survive without a monarch for a time. Your councillors are, at present, insisting that you remarry as soon as possible. Options have been proposed, debates had.”

“Really?” I said, almost absently. I found that I was amused by this. How was it that I of all people kept having faerie husbands thrust at me?

“I am about to do something mad,” I said.

He looked interested. “Indeed?” He glanced at the housekeeper standing silent and motionless. “I do not believe the floor is in need of scrubbing, but then I am no judge of such things. Do you wish me to leave you be?”

“No,” I said. Against all odds, I found his presence comforting. “What are you doing here, anyhow? You don’t care for Wendell.”

He shrugged. “I was bored.”

“You were bored,” I repeated flatly.

He took no interest in my reaction. “I am bored most of the time. Bored of politics and adventure and feasting and quarrelling. Of vengeance and loyalty. I have learned there is one thing a person never tires of, no matter how long they live. And that is being in love. All else is ash and ember.”

“Wendell loved his home,” I said. “That is why he gave his life for it. I suppose he would agree with you.”

Lord Taran regarded me thoughtfully.

I felt able to stand again, and so I made my way slowly to the side of the dais where the housekeeper was, his head bowed. I had told myself I would not look at Wendell, but I found this impossible. His expression, what I could see of it through the vines, had nothing at all in it—no fear or anger, nothing that could have told me what he had been thinking the moment he had sacrificed himself. Had he known it would come to this, despite his assurances to me? If not, how had he made the decision so quickly? He still wore the silvered leaves in his hair.