Page 59 of Emily Wilde’s Compendium of Lost Tales (Emily Wilde #3)

The next morning I awoke to the certainty that something terrible had happened. It was an odd feeling, like waking from a nightmare, without the relief that consciousness ordinarily supplies. Shadow was sitting up, staring silently at the tent flap, his body one long line of tension.

I unbuttoned the flap—it took me several tries, for my hands were shaking. The Hidden king stood just outside.

He was as magnificent and terrible to behold as I remembered.

His hair shone like dark jewels, his face all sharp lines, each at precisely the correct angle for beauty.

He wore his white crown, shards of ice coated in frost, his necklaces were of jet and opal and sapphire, and over his black silk tunic and boots of pale reindeer leather he wore a fur cloak—Arctic fox, by the look of it.

Held loosely in his hand was an enormous sword, unsheathed and glittering. There were pearls woven into his hair.

“Have you come to kill me?” I said. My voice was so hoarse I am surprised he heard; it seemed to have been carried off on the cloud of breath that rose before me.

He pursed his full lips, looking regretful. “Indeed, my dearest. I am sorry it has come to this.”

His voice was as lovely as I remembered, rich with an edge of roughness, like the scrape of ice crystals blown by the wind.

He’d often seemed to me to have only the most tenuous of connections to the cares of the living, and to be at any moment on the precipice of lifting a hand and sweeping whole villages aside in an avalanche or drowning the country in a days-long blizzard, having no reason at all for doing so, as nature does not, only the purest form of caprice.

“Will you not at least tell me why?” I said.

He looked puzzled—or, rather, he arranged his features into an expression of puzzlement; rarely have I had the sense that he is truly touched by feeling, with the exception of the feral delight I witnessed when his traitorous queen was brought before him.

“I was told you had perished, beloved,” he said. “You should have perished when you fled my court—how could a mortal girl survive my winter, unless she was in league with the queen and my other enemies?” He examined me. “But first, I wish to know how you escaped, for I am very curious.”

I clenched the coin in my pocket—not to ward him off, I am not so foolish as that, but merely because the habit was steadying. “Perhaps I will not tell you,” I said.

He gave the faintest of shrugs. “You shall eventually.”

I forced myself not to flinch at that. I had never been comfortable in his presence—how could I be?

—but I was even less so now, for I was not swathed in enchantment that wore away my fear and memories, as I had been in his court.

He stared back at me, and in his eyes I saw only winter, its power and indifference.

Fortunately, my mind had not been idle during the long trek through the Irish countryside and up to the peak, nor during the hours I’d sat in that winter forest. I had surmised that he would think me a traitor and wish to kill me—though naturally I’d hoped to avoid such a circumstance.

I burst into tears.

Or, at least, I gave it my best effort. I made a great deal of noise, certainly, and I screwed my face up into what I hoped was a convincing expression, but I have never been much of a crier, and crying upon command is simply a lost cause, even with my life at risk.

Fortunately, the cold made my nose run, so that part at least was authentic.

When I looked up, I was pleased to see him eyeing me with something closer to genuine puzzlement, his lip slightly curled—on account of the snot, most likely.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” I bawled. “But I did not wish to leave you. He”—another snuffly inhalation before I burst out—“he forced me to marry him! He stole me away to his dreadful kingdom, which is so wet and dark, and smells of green, rotting things, nothing like the loveliness of your court. I have only now managed to escape, and you must help me get my revenge—you must! Please, I beg of you. I have—I have longed for you every day.”

Ordinarily, my acting skills are dreadful, but fortunately I was in such terror of him that simply dwelling upon my very real emotion sufficed to send me into convincing hysterics.

And, as I have noted on numerous occasions, the courtly fae think so little of mortals that they are not difficult to lie to, particularly if one frames it as an appeal to their vanity.

“Who is this blackguard you speak of?” he said, almost gently.

“He was a prince when he came to your realm,” I said. “An exiled wanderer from the summerlands. Now he has slain his stepmother and taken her throne.”

A violent look came over his face. “Him! Yes, the queen’s accomplices spoke of him before they were executed. He helped smuggle her into my court the night she attempted to poison me. I scoured my lands, but could find no trace of him, nor could I determine the reason for his interference.”

“It was because of me,” I said in a miserable voice. “He has always desired to marry me. When he learned I had fallen in love with you, he was very angry.”

The king scanned my face. “Indeed?”

I had expected him to doubt me, but something about the polite disbelief in his eyes was a little galling.

“He was in love with my sister first,” I invented.

“She was a great beauty, with a singing voice that could charm the aurora. When an illness took her, it drove him mad, and he swore he would never marry another but her own flesh and blood.”

“Ah,” the king said. “She had no other siblings?”

I gritted my teeth. “No,” I said. “I wish to kill him, but I cannot do it alone. How could a mortal girl overthrow a king of the Folk? His sole equal is his stepmother, and he has imprisoned her in the Veil, over which only monarchs have power.”

The king nodded. “You wish for me to summon the Veil so that you may rescue your husband’s enemy.”

He had understood this part more readily than I had anticipated, and I wondered if there were stories in Ljosland that followed similar patterns to those in Ireland—mortals embarking on impossible quests for the sake of some tragic romance.

No doubt there are—scholars have only recently begun to turn their attention to this country.

“Once she kills him,” I said, eyeing him in what I hoped was a sufficiently moony way, “and I am made the happiest of widows, I can return here, and we can at last be wed.”

He gave a long sigh, tapping his toe against an ice-covered stone.

I could see him running through all that had happened and the story I had given him, weaving it into past events like the missing threads in a tapestry, tweaking the pattern here and there as his self-regard dictated.

He glanced down at his sword with a considering expression.

And thrust it back into its sheath.

“My darling,” he said. “I have married another, for which I offer my humblest apologies. She is a noblewoman as lovely as the winter dawn. I would prefer not to kill her.” He frowned, looking only somewhat put out by the idea.

“Still, you have first claim upon my hand. I prize loyalty above all things; nothing is more noble.”

I did not like the misgiving in his eyes, so I hastened to say, “I am aware the Veil is dangerous. But perhaps you know of other mortals who have gone and returned thence?”

His expression cleared a little. “Oh, no,” he said. “A mortal would likely perish within moments of setting foot upon those blasted sands.”

I nodded in resignation. “It is as I feared. Still, I must try.”

A smile touched the corner of his mouth as he regarded me. “What nobility of character you possess!” he said. “Yes—you would have made a worthy wife.”

I was not at all offended to hear him speak of me in the past tense. “Then—you will do as I beg? You will summon the Veil?”

He nodded. “I would not deprive any mortal of such a quest, which I can see is born of loyalty and self-sacrifice.” A thought seemed to strike him. “What an endearing ballad this will make! Even the most fearsome among my courtiers will weep to hear it.”

“I will make every effort to return to you, my lord,” I said. My voice shook, which no doubt he interpreted as passionate feeling.

He made no reply, but stepped close to me, close enough that I could count the white tips of his teeth through his parted lips, trace the bounds of the shadow beneath his fathomless eyes.

Some of the pearls in his hair bore traces of their undersea genesis, imperfectly round and flecked with seaweed.

I stiffened but managed not to fall back.

Shadow growled so low in his throat that I barely heard it, but felt the vibration through the ice and snow.

The Hidden king tilted my chin up and brushed my lips with his, which sent a wave of cold cascading down my throat, as if I had swallowed glacial meltwater.

I could smell his scent—no, scent is not the right word.

The Hidden king has no scent, any more than newly fallen snow has; rather, he carries with him tiny eddies of cold like left-behind scraps of winter storms, which sting the skin and make breathing painful whenever he draws too near.

“Good luck, my dearest,” he murmured.

I could not meet his gaze, for it was too terrible to endure at close proximity, but he did not seem to expect this.

He stepped back and lifted a hand. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he is less expressive in his gestures than Wendell, who likes to wave his hands about when he does magic in what I have often supposed is an unnecessarily showy way.

Abruptly, a pillar of darkness appeared before us, which was less a pillar than a door that parted the grove, shoving everything to either side.

It was a door filled with rippling shadow that I knew—because I had visited that world once, briefly—was wind laced with sand, painfully sharp. I smelled decaying bone, ashes, char.