Shrike blinked at him. “It determines the changing seasons.”
“What,” Lofthouse scoffed, “so if the Oak King failed to kill the Holly King at the Winter Solstice, spring would never arrive?”
“Not until the queen appointed a new Oak King to try his luck at the Winter Solstice the following year. Assuming that Oak King didn’t fail as well.”
Lofthouse stared at him. “Has any Oak King ever failed to slay the Holly King before?”
“Aye.”
“Some twenty-eight years ago, perhaps?” Lofthouse asked more hesitantly.
Shrike raised his brows, impressed at the accuracy of the clerk’s estimation, particularly when one considered how little he knew of the fae realms. “Little more than a quarter-century ago, aye.”
“1816,” said Lofthouse. “The Year Without a Summer. Famine, riots, and the birth of a monster.”
“It seems,” Shrike concluded, “that the consequences proved more disastrous for the mortal realm than for the Court of the Silver Wheel.”
“Indeed. And I don’t think anyone should care to see their like again.” Lofthouse absent-mindedly brought his hand to his mouth—still blushed pink from their frantic embrace mere moments past—then, catching Shrike’s eye, seemed to recall himself and hurriedly dropped it to fold with its fellow in his lap. Ink had spattered over the knuckles much like the freckles on his face, Shrike noted, and the fingernails were bitten to the quick, the cuticles raw and red. Small wonder, given how he lived under the threat of execution for his very nature. It must weigh as heavily on his mind as the crown of the Oak King weighed on Shrike’s brow. “So, we have established the stakes, personal and universal; you wish to survive the duel, and all wish not to see an endless winter. What role do you play within this Court of the Silver Wheel?”
Shrike, startled out of his own musing on how he’d like to kiss the ache from those much-abused fingertips, replied, “I am a knave.”
“Yes,” said Lofthouse, a hint of exasperation leaking into his tone. “But what does that mean?”
Never before had anyone tasked Shrike to define himself beyond a single word. After some contemplation, he said, “I may do as I like and answer to no court. And all may do as they like to me in turn, without fear of reprisal from any court.”
Lofthouse’s brow contracted beneath the careless chestnut lock that had fallen out of place when Shrike kissed him. “You don’t answer to the Court of the Silver Wheel, then?”
“Not until his queen named me her Oak King.”
“Why did she?”
“I know not,” said Shrike. “As I’ve told you.”
“Surely you have some idea.”
Shrike levelled a blank look at him. “Do you know the mind of your queen?”
“Fair enough,” Lofthouse admitted. “Let’s set the why of it aside, then, and focus on the mechanics. How did your come to be crowned the Oak King?”
“I fought in her tournament,” said Shrike.
“Why?”
Shrike, whose motives not one had bothered to enquire after in centuries, required a moment of reflection before he gave his answer. Lofthouse waited with quiet patience, the keen gaze of his dark eyes fixed on Shrike. Shrike found himself in surreptitious search for hints of the clerk’s thoughts in his face even as he divulged his own.
“I’ve grown weary,” Shrike said at last. “Weary of surviving as a target at which any wandering knight-errant might aim their lance with impunity. Or rather,” he added, with a bitter smile that did little more than bare his teeth, “I tire of proving how far they’ve erred in assuming I would make easy prey. But moreso than that, I’ve spent centuries perfecting my craft, and seen little recognition for it. Then the Court of the Silver Wheel announced a tournament on the Autumnal Equinox in their queen’s honour. Not only jousting, but amêlée. Fae of all ranks could compete for her favour. Even knaves.”
As Lofthouse listened, a gleam of intensity came into his eyes which Shrine thought made his features still more compelling than before. “So you attempted to win her protection?”
“I thought I could display enough martial prowess to earn a knighthood. And then perhaps my craft could be seen on a wider stage. I won the mêlée, for all that was worth. But instead of knighting me…” Shrike’s lip curled at the memory of her betrayal. “She declared me the Oak King.”
“And effectively sentenced you to death,” Lofthouse concluded. “Either on the Winter Solstice or the Summer.”
Shrike admired how succinctly he’d put it. “Aye.”
“And your sooth-saying led you to believe that I have a role to play in your victory.”
“Aye,” Shrike said again.
