Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde, #3)(86)

“I do not deny its usefulness,” Niamh said, “but attending too closely to a single story to understand a Faerie realm or its Folk is, as Bennett has argued, fruitless parochialism. Do dryadologists these days ignore his treatise on comparative histories?[*2] We must look for patterns.”

I digested this. “Very well,” I said, leaning back in my own chair. “What pattern do you see?”

“A great many—I have, after all, spent years immersed in the folklore of this part of the world,” she said. “One might say I have become the folklore now—ha! But one element in particular stands out. You are not going to like it.”

“Go on.”

“A great deal of the tales concerning the Irish Folk centre on the heroism of ordinary mortals,” she said. “I can think of five originating in County Leane alone in which a mortal travels to a foul realm to rescue some faerie lord or lady who is held prisoner thereat. And this is just off the top of my head. Imprisonment, rescue, a journey into darkness—you see it everywhere, even in the most ancient of tales.”

“But Wendell does not need rescuing,” Lilja said. “You’ve already rescued him. Or that housekeeper did.”

“She doesn’t mean Wendell,” I murmured, gazing at Niamh. I could see only one way to interpret what she was saying.

She tapped her fingers against her cup and eventually added, as the silence stretched on, “I warned you that you wouldn’t like it.”

“Then I must rescue Wendell’s stepmother,” I said. “Well, no difficulty there. I shall simply march off to the Veil and do it now.”

“Could you?” Margret said, looking horrified.

“Your cloak,” Lilja said.

I shook my head. “Wendell removed the piece of the Veil from my cloak. He was afraid his stepmother might escape through it.”

We had another moment of silence, mulling over the image of a deranged faerie queen creeping out of my hem.

“Is there a door?” Margret said. “Like the other faerie doors, perhaps?”

Niamh was already shaking her head. “There are no doors to the Veil, and no paths. Only a monarch of Faerie can summon an edge of it, through which one may pass. Thank God for that—it is a hellscape, a wasted desert of nightmares.” She paused, a longing look stealing over her face. “Also enormously fascinating, from a scholarly perspective.”

“Only a monarch,” I murmured. A terrible realization settled over me like a layer of frost. “Yes—I recall Wendell saying that.”

Lilja’s eyes widened. “I see what you are thinking,” she said. “You are a monarch of Faerie! Does this mean you can find a way there yourself?”

“That is not what I was thinking,” I said slowly. “I am a monarch, yes, but I am mortal. Look at Queen Arna herself—she cannot escape the Veil, despite her royal title; it must be because of her mortal blood. No—to rescue Queen Arna, I would need the assistance of a faerie monarch. Not a mortal, nor a halfblood.”

Niamh shook her head. “Liath will not release his stepmother. He is adamant on that subject.”

I gazed at them, wondering how on earth I could convince them of my sanity after what I was about to say. I have my own doubts on that score, I’m afraid. But what else am I to do? What other avenue is there? And indeed, there is a neatness to it—a return to a beginning.

It is madness in every other respect, of course.

“Wendell is not the only faerie king of my acquaintance,” I said.

SKIP NOTES

*1 Dr. Enid Smith, Folk Legends and Wonder-Tales of the Irish Peasantry, 1812.

*2 Francis Bennett, A Protohistorical Approach to FolkLore, 1849.





8th February—very late




Ah, I am weary. Ordinarily my field studies give me plenty of cause to go wandering in various forms of wilderness, but I have not had much reason for exercise since our stay in Austria. Only a short entry this time, and then sleep.

I departed the cottage with Shadow as soon as there was light enough to see my way. With me I brought nothing but the necessities: my journal, pen and pencil, Wendell’s letters, a little water and food, and snowshoes. These last I borrowed from Lilja and Margret, along with a pack. They wished to accompany me at least part of the way, but I said no.

“I will travel no faster with company, and possibly more slowly,” I said. “And as I have said, this could be a pointless endeavour. I may just have to come back.”

Eventually, they relented, and Margret allowed me to hug her goodbye. At first I thought Lilja would not forgive me, for she left the room without another word, wiping tears from her face. But Margret went after her, and after a few moments they returned together.

“I wish you would reconsider,” Lilja said, her voice still teary as she hugged me tightly.

“I’m sorry” was the only answer I could give her. I did not see any way to heal the rift between us, so I turned away before my own tears could fall.

“Take plenty of notes,” Niamh said by way of goodbye. And with that, Shadow and I left them.

I had not wanted to bring my faithful beast with me. Rather, I had wanted him with me, but I had not wanted to burden him with such a dangerous and wearying quest. But I do not think Shadow would have countenanced being left behind again, not after Austria. Indeed, he seemed to sense what I was about, and was stretched out in front of the door this morning, watching me with a look he might have borrowed from Orga, it was so judgmental. I knelt to rub his face and assure him that I would not be leaving him, and once he understood I was earnest, he rose to cover my face in slobber.