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“Yes?” he said. “But there’s something else—she says my stepmother has fled. Though the little one uses an odd word for it. One that describes how a fallen leaf decays into soil, becoming part of the forest floor.”

We looked at each other, and I saw that we were in agreement; something in this boded ill. “Anything else?” I said.

“There is a battleground near—the little one offered to show us. We may learn something there.”

“All right,” I said, and we set off, the faerie a green ripple of movement on the path ahead.

Skip Notes

*1 Unfortunately, my paper on the subject—currently under consideration by the British Journal of Dryadology—is still held up in peer review. It seems many scholars are not yet willing to accept the existence of faerie doors that connect multiple places, and it is possible that I shall have to gather additional evidence to override the skeptics, or perhaps convince other scholars to venture to Austria themselves to test my findings.

*2 The Irish Monarchs: Tales of Fayerie Kings and Queens from the Pre-Christian to the Modern Era, by John Murphy, 1772; and The Mirror King: A Speculative Biography of Scotland’s Oldest Faerie Lord, by Douglas Treleaven, 1810.

*3 See, for example, Anna Queiroz’s recent article on the two faerie kingdoms of Madeira, one of which has long been depicted in local folklore as a grey and unpleasant land ruled by a rapacious king, while the other is ruled by a king and queen who, among other things, hold regular tribunals to resolve disputes and regularly abduct mortal musicians to write propaganda ballads about their reign; their kingdom is much larger, and home to some of the most fantastical revels known to scholarship, generally a marker of a prosperous faerie realm.

30th December

Well! I have a great deal to recount since I last opened this journal, and I scarcely know how to feel about any of it. Hardly a new sensation since taking up with Wendell.

The battleground was an area of moorland beside a marsh, an offshoot of Muckle Lake, I think. Small embers of light floated here and there—the remnants of magic expended during the battle, which looked a great deal like will-o’-the-wisps.[*1] There were also several inexplicable elements, foremost of which was an ivied staircase leading to nothing, and what I can only describe as a giant fox frozen halfway into the process of transforming into a tree. An attentive oak had been cleft perfectly in two, with a neat passage between, though this did not seem to have killed the thing, unfortunately. Occasionally there came a sort of roaring sound, which seemed to emanate from beneath the earth. On the whole I was content not to have witnessed the enchantments that had been cast during the heat of the fighting.

There were no bodies, either dead or wounded. The only movement came from the wind brushing calmly over the ferns that spilled out from the forest’s edge. A great many theories seek to explain what happens to the bodies of the Folk after they die; scholars have documented the remains of a fair few species of common fae—indeed, some are housed in Cambridge’s Museum of Dryadology and Ethnofolklore—but not of the courtly fae. The leading theory among mortuary dryadologists is that, for most of the courtly fae, there is an evanescence of some sort, perhaps after a period of time has elapsed. The stories do not agree on this point, however, and it remains one of the questions that, for reasons likely pertaining to my own weaknesses, I have avoided asking Wendell.

“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.”