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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.

The malicious amusement was back. “Thank you—I cannot tell you how highly I value the opinions of mortals, particularly young girls who cannot stop themselves from stumbling into violent faerie realms.”

“It’s not necessary to be rude,” I said, nettled. “And for your information, I am thirty-one years old.” I was feeling much calmer now, because I no longer felt it likely that he wanted to harm me; not out of any sense of morality, but because—I sensed—I was providing him with enough amusement to stay his hand.

“We are capable of wisdom, Professor Wilde,” he said. “Some of us. Now, where is Prince Liath?”

I don’t know how I kept my composure at that. Of course I knew that Wendell had another name, but I have never asked for it—I suppose because part of me does not wish to think of him as anything other than Wendell. I also knew, because Wendell had told me, that the Folk rarely refer to each other by name, not even by the shortened form of their true names, which has no magic.[*2] I had inferred from Wendell’s vague explanations that to do so is seen as rude, not unlike a mortal using the Christian name of someone they do not know very well. Instead they prefer to use “Uncle,” “Weaver,” “Lady,” and so forth. It is a fascinating example of faerie etiquette, no doubt springing from their aversion to giving away their true names; I can think of at least four possible approaches to tackling the question in a research paper.

“If I knew where he was, I would have told you already,” I said, after only the slightest of pauses. “I have not been prevented by my enthusiasm for conversing with powerful Folk covered in blood.”

“He will come when you call him,” Taran said, almost gently.

I studied him—I don’t know what I expected to glean from doing so; it was like trying to interpret the motives of a god. I took a breath and shouted, “Wendell!”

For a moment, I just felt silly. A very short moment, because I had not drawn half a breath before Wendell stepped out of a tree.

I wish I could say that I have grown used to him doing this, but in truth, I have not, and I had to stifle a childish shriek. There is something about the manner in which he does it that is deeply troubling; perhaps if there were a puff of smoke, or a tremor, or something to denote there is magic afoot, it would not be so bad, but he simply steps out of trees as if they are empty doorframes.

He looked from me to Taran, showing a complete lack of surprise but plenty of hostility. He was holding a sword, which I assumed he’d obtained from the battlefield. “What are you doing, Uncle?”

“Talking, my dear,” Lord Taran said. “What does it look like?”

“It looks as if you are looming over my betrothed with a sword.”

“Wendell,” I said, suddenly alarmed, because his expression had begun to take on a quality I had seen before, a malevolent sort of calm. I was decidedly of the opinion that we did not want to make an enemy of Lord Taran if we did not need to, nor of his friends, who I doubted would appreciate it if Wendell flew into a rage and decapitated him.

But Lord Taran only tapped his sword idly against the ground, looking Wendell up and down. “How touchy you are!” he said. “Your grandmother’s temper has skipped a generation, has it? Your father didn’t inherit it, bloodthirsty as he was at the end. And, of course, your mother was more likely to take her frustrations out on the laundry, like most of her kind. But you prefer swords to brooms, do you? How conventional.”

“Wendell, he helped me,” I said quickly. “He helped us. He showed me a way into the castle. I doubt I could have healed you if he had not.”

Wendell merely gave me a puzzled look, as if unclear why this would be relevant.

“I did, didn’t I?” Taran said. “That was more Callum’s idea than mine, though; he has always disliked my sister for the wars she is so fond of starting. He would prefer to see you on the throne, Prince, despite your youth. He believes that returning to the former king’s line would offer the realm more stability.” He spread his hands. “Now, I prefer to stay out of politics, but as someone who has always valued his neck, I cannot find fault with this argument, and anyway I am generally inclined to give Callum whatever he wants, regardless of whether I see the sense of it. But, ah! There is the little matter of my oath to your father.” He gave a wince that seemed calculated to appear as insincere as possible. “You see, the old king had little love for his firstborn—your eldest brother, Prince—who was rather boorish and stupid, and besides that quite unskilled magically. So the king made me swear that I would not allow anyone to ascend the throne who was not stronger than the king himself. I believe he wished for me to murder his firstborn, so that his second—your eldest sister—would be first in the line of succession. No doubt he was surprised when I stood back and allowed my own sister to murder her way to the throne, but then, I was only fulfilling my oath, was I not? She proved herself to be stronger than her husband, in her own way.”

He heaved a sigh. I had the distinct impression that he was enjoying himself, that cruel amusement lurking behind every sorrowful gesture. “Now we have come to the crux of it, Prince—you see, I cannot let you leave until you have proven yourself stronger than your father. If you return to the castle and win back the throne, I will have broken my oath.”

Wendell did not seem nonplussed by any part of this absurd speech. He appeared lost in thought, his head tilted slightly. He turned and gave me a look I did not understand, something measuring. I know now that he was looking not at me, but my cloak.

“We should—” I began. I don’t know what I meant to say—whether I had any actual advice to offer, or if I simply wished to stall, to give us time to think our way out of this new peril. It didn’t matter, because in the space of a breath, Lord Taran had gone from leaning casually on his sword to driving it towards Wendell’s chest.

Wendell swore and dove out of the way. Even I started backwards, though I was nowhere near the blade—the speed and ferocity of Taran’s movement was unlike anything I’d seen before. Wendell landed in a clutch of ferns, vanishing into the greenery as if it were a deep pool—a fraction of a second later, Taran’s sword had lopped the heads off them.

“Your father could not beat me,” Taran said, turning to scan the glade, for Wendell had not reappeared. “He was the greatest swordsman I have ever fought, yet in the end I always triumphed when we played at swords. So, Prince—simply disarm me once, and I shall consider the matter settled. You will have proven yourself stronger than your father.”