Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(8)
“The worst of the fighting took place beyond that rise,” Wendell said.
“You go,” I said, eyeing Shadow, who had bent his head to drink from a creek. He had been lagging behind for the past hour, requiring us to slow our pace. “I’ll remain with him. I believe he will appreciate the rest.”
“Poor dear,” Wendell said, bending to rub Shadow’s ears. “When I retake my throne, I shall dedicate a fleet of servants to his needs. They shall make for him a velvet bed in every room, with a fire burning beside each one, and the bones of my enemies will be preserved for his enjoyment.”
“That started off well, but I did not care for the ending,” I said.
Naturally, Wendell only laughed at this and set off for the hill. I had one of my moments of existential panic, in which I question everything that has led me to this point, before burying it under thoughts of a more practical nature, as I always do. If I one day erupt into uncontrollable screams and go charging into the woods, tearing at my hair, who but Wendell will be to blame?
I dug out the salve I use for Shadow’s arthritis and rubbed it into the dog’s ankles. He closed his eyes in contentment and rolled onto his side, enjoying the sun on his fur, though this did not lessen my worry. He is too old for such long walks now, preferring to spend the majority of his day napping by the fire.
“All right, my love?” I murmured, rubbing the dog’s ears.
Shadow gave a huff and thumped his tail against the grass.
Our little army did not join me in the clearing, but lurked in the shadows of the forest—I am uncertain if this was preferable for my nerves, but at least I didn’t have to look at them. With the exception of Snowbell, of course, who hopped onto my lap and gave me an expectant look. I scratched behind his ears warily—an enjoyable experience for him, I suppose, but less so for me, given that the fox-faerie tends to tire of affection without warning and lunge snarling at my fingers.
“I know the best way to the castle,” Snowbell complained, flicking his tail. “It would be faster if we went my way.”
“You tell that to His Royal Highness, then.” I knew the creature would do no such thing, of course, and was merely boasting for the sake of it.
“Your coat is marvellously shiny today,” I told him, just to forestall any more tedious complaints. Sure enough, the faerie sat up straighter and hopped onto the ground to preen in a patch of sunlight, the better to show himself off.
I spent a contented half hour or so finishing the previous journal entry. I was just opening my pack to locate a book when Lord Taran came striding into the clearing.
“There you are,” he said in a dismissive manner, as if we had been at tea and I had wandered off for a moment.
I started to my feet with a smothered cry, my journal and pen spilling onto the grass, and backed away from him. He stopped and regarded me calmly, cool and collected as could be in spite of the massive sword he carried, its blade dark and wet, not to mention the stains upon his silver-threaded tunic and spray of blood across his pale face. It was abundantly clear that he had played a significant part in the battle in this grove.
I, on the other hand, was far from calm. Lord Taran was not a large man—his height was average for the courtly fae, who tend to be a little taller than mortals—but his presence had a weight to it that made it difficult to look away from him, much as I wanted to. Sometimes, when I blinked, I beheld from behind my eyelids a creature as skeletal as branches, covered in glittering moss like tattered finery. He had reminded me of the Hidden king when last we met, but when I looked into the Hidden king’s eyes, I had seen towering glaciers and snowy wastes; when I met Lord Taran’s gaze, I saw the impenetrable darkness at the heart of an ancient forest.
“I—my apologies, my lord,” I stammered, sketching a hasty curtsy. “I did not expect you to grace me with your—”
“Never mind that,” he said, pushing the dark hair off his brow. “Did our dear departed prince not deign to accompany you this time? Or are you here to make off with another cat? He had only the one, you know.”
There was amusement in his gaze, but it was not a friendly thing—far from it. I sensed a fundamental cruelty in the mordant way he examined me, held in check by something I did not understand.
I did not know what sort of reply would please him, so I simply went with my instincts. “One cat is more than enough for me, thank you. I have come for a throne this time.”
He smiled, and my legs wobbled with relief.
“Have you?” he said. “Well, why not? This kingdom has been ruled by halfbloods and housekeepers; a mortal queen is hardly going to lower us further.”
And just like that, I was on solid ground. Solider, at any rate; whatever else this man was, he was every bit as snobbish as the majority of the courtly fae.
“Why not take the throne yourself, if you are so bothered by the pedigree of its previous occupants?” I asked, which was brazen, but then many of the courtly fae are charmed by boldness in mortals, in much the same way that we coo when a kitten bares its teeth.
He snorted. “I value my neck, that’s why. Which I have managed to keep intact for many centuries—far longer than those who covet power in this bloody wolf’s den of a court.”
This was so far from what I had expected that I was silent for a moment. “Wise of you,” I said.