Page 13

Wendell had been walking along at a leisurely pace, entirely at ease, stroking Razkarden’s beak and occasionally exclaiming over the fruit trees that lined the promenade or the view of the castle through the branches. Now he turned his gaze upon me and stopped.

“Em,” he said, taking my hand. “You will not have to ride Red Wind if you do not wish it. In fact, once I have retaken my throne, you will not have to do anything if you do not wish it. If you desire to sit in some corner of the castle hunched over your books and notepaper, bestirring yourself only to demand a tour of some brownie market or bogle den, then it will be done.”

I let out a trembling breath. “And what sort of queen would that make me?”

He looked perfectly earnest as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Mine.”

I could not help laughing. My heart was still galloping, but I felt a little calmer. “Perhaps we should secure your throne before I go about demanding any tours.”

“Oh, yes,” Wendell said. “First things first.”

And so, that is what we did.

I had expected more complications, I confess. Particularly given Lord Taran’s warnings. But then, Lord Taran had not known about our army, or Wendell’s ability with a sewing needle.

We continued on our leisurely stroll, coming upon several more guards, all of whom reacted much as the first had—I felt almost sorry for the former queen, that her loyal servants should be so lacking in courage. But then we rounded a corner, and the castle came into view, windows gleaming in the twilight like coins. The gate was so obvious that I wondered at my inability to locate it on my previous visit, but then I had been without Wendell’s protection, muddled by the magics of Faerie.

Even now, though, I felt as if I were not fully grasping the castle, somehow. Oh, I could see its towers and parapets well enough, and the forested hillside behind it, several of the treetops connected with silver bridges. But I found I could not hold on to the image when I looked away—the memory blurred like a dream.

I could not stare long at the castle, though, for three of the queen’s guards had been braver than their fellows and regrouped to await us.

We had attracted an audience at this point. Not only brownies, but courtly fae had begun to line the forest paths that ran parallel to the promenade. They were mostly in shadow, but the silver glitter of their finery gave them away. It was difficult to determine if the overall mood of the crowd was friendly or hostile; its character was perhaps best described as inconsistent. A handful of Folk screamed and fled as we passed; there were several cheers; some called Wendell’s name in tones ranging from delight to fury. One man shouted “Murderer!” and “The queen will have her vengeance!” over and over until Razkarden chased him shrieking into the woods. The larger percentage simply stood and gawped.

“Wendell,” I said as we neared the guards. They sat atop their massive horses, brandishing their swords and generally looking terrifying—I certainly did not wish to draw any nearer. But before Wendell could reply, a curious thing happened: the horses began to tremble, and the lead guard fumbled his sword. They backed up, keeping pace with us as we advanced, and then as one they turned their horses and thundered chaotically into the woods, nearly crashing into one another in their haste. As they fled, they knocked over an entrepreneurial little brownie balancing a reed basket atop its head that held a variety of cheeses and biscuits, which he seemed to be selling to the spectators. A seed biscuit bounced into our path, and Shadow snapped it up with a pleased whuff.

“Good!” Wendell said, evincing only vague satisfaction at the terror he was striking in our onlookers. “I have no appetite for swordplay tonight. How wearying travel is! Even through one’s own realm. I think I shall do everything on horseback from now on. Look there, Em—that is the bridge that leads to the Royal Observatory, a balcony where one can see for miles and miles, all the way to the Singing Caves. Now, I doubt I will have much success in convincing you of the merits of sunsets, but…”

He continued to chatter excitedly, pointing at this or that, and I believe I may have made some reply, but in truth I barely heard him—my attention was otherwise occupied.

Before the castle gate was a broad courtyard of cobblestones lined with ivy-wreathed lanterns and benches around the perimeter—from which lowlier Folk could admire the nobility as they paraded about, I assumed, but nobody was sitting there now. One of the many disturbing qualities the Folk possess is that, when one encounters them en masse, they appear to blend together, as if one is seeing them through mist, or through the interpretation of a painter who has chosen to give only the impression of a crowd. Perhaps it is my human inability to comprehend their strangeness, I don’t know—I noted several beautiful faces, some wild-eyed with panic and others twisted into a hungry sort of delight. There was also a musician dressed all in grey who set a massive harp upon the cobbles and began strumming a merry tune—it formed an odd contrast with the fraught quiet of the courtyard, which was a susurration of crying, mutters, and occasional half-stifled screams.

One woman in particular made me start—she wore layers of dark silks like the gradient of a winter twilight, and her hair was a river of black feathers down her back. She was frowning at her pocket watch but seemed to sense me staring; she looked up, smiled wickedly, and faded back into the crowd.

Then the castle doors swung open, and out strode Lord Taran. At his side was Callum Thomas, whom I had also met before, and I nearly fainted with relief. It was not Callum himself—I barely knew the man—but rather the sight of a mortal face amidst the wonder and horror of Faerie. I had not known, until that moment, the strain it placed upon me.

Lord Taran might not have been at all conscious of the current of panic surging through the crowd, nor of our intimidating retinue. To me he seemed bored, though this was mostly hidden behind an expression of polite deference. The boredom vanished abruptly, though, as Orga came charging into his path.

As she drew between him and Wendell, she seemed to grow. And grow, until she was a monstrous shadow towering over Lord Taran—a shadow with only the barest of shapes, that being mostly mouth, yawning with fangs. I gave a choked cry.

“The Beast of the Elderwood!” someone shrieked. There was a little stampede as some onlookers to our left decided their curiosity had been adequately sated, but most of the Folk stayed put, riveted to the scene unfolding before them—the return of their exiled king, met by their ancient general, brother of the old queen. Which way would it go? I was as helplessly fascinated as any of them.

Orga shrank back to her customary size almost immediately, settling at Wendell’s feet, whereupon she began to wash her face—I suspect she’d merely wanted to make Lord Taran flinch. He had fallen back a step, his hand upon the pommel of his sword.

“I would prefer not to spend the remainder of my existence looking over my shoulder for you, dark one,” he said, giving the cat a scowl. “Perhaps this will redeem me somewhat.”

He swept his cloak aside and knelt at Wendell’s feet, pressing one knee to the ground and laying his sword across the other. Callum did the same after flashing me a quick, bright smile.

Lord Taran’s gesture moved through the crowd like a sigh after a long-held breath. Folk fell to their knees, some more energetically than others. A few more screams ensued, and another clamour of footfalls, though it seemed to me that less than a handful actually fled—those who deemed their necks most at risk, I suppose, or perhaps they had especially nervous dispositions. The only person who did not change his position was the harpist, who strummed louder, his playing taking on a sanctimonious character. The cheese-wielding brownie returned and began circulating among the courtly fae as they rose to their feet, joined by another wearing what looked like a lily pad for a hat and clutching a basket of roasted chestnuts.

Lord Taran made a gesture and a half dozen Folk—a mixture of courtly and common, all dressed in silver-threaded grey—emerged from the shadows of the castle, each dragging a small wagon behind them. These were covered with silk, hiding the contents, which rattled over the cobblestones.

One of these Folk bowed to Lord Taran and passed him a hand mirror. It was wrought from pure silver, its frame an intricate and uneven scalloped pattern, as if it had lain upon the sea floor for years and accumulated all manner of shells and barnacles. With another bow, Lord Taran gave it to Wendell.

“Thank you,” Wendell said. He gazed into the mirror, then turned towards the crowd, absently tapping the glass against his opposite palm. The motion scattered diamonds of reflected light across the courtyard. It was odd, but he reminded me then of the first time I had watched him present at a conference. Had it been five years ago, or six? The subject had been the folklore of Provence, and while I had been skeptical of his claims and annoyed by the offhand showmanship with which he delivered them, I could not help being awed by his effect upon his audience. For Wendell in such moments has a gravity about him that has nothing to do with enchantment, and nor is it like the Hidden king’s; it is something warmer, good-natured, which makes one wish to lean in, not cower away.

“What’s this about?” I muttered.

“Oh—just a little tradition. To mark the passing of the throne from one monarch to the next,” he said, his gaze roaming hungrily over the castle and the hillside beyond.