The ambassador beamed. “I would like the gift of letters.”
This, of all things, Wren hadn’t expected. The ambassador bore all the marks of refinement and culture of one accustomed to holding rank in court. And yet, evidently illiterate. Given this, a few lessons in literacy seemed a small enough price to pay for potentially life-saving tutelage. Wren opened his mouth to say so.
Shrike flung out an arm across Wren’s path as though to shield him from the ambassador. His other hand went to the hilt of his sword at his belt.
Wren jerked back and shot Shrike a look of total confusion.
Shrike did not return his gaze. His dark eyes remained narrowed at the ambassador. In a cold voice unlike anything Wren had heard from him before, Shrike asked, “You would take the gift of letters from him?”
The ambassador had not moved a fraction of an inch despite the looming threat of Shrike before him. “Forgive me, my lord. I will speak more plainly. I would like the Holly King to teach me to read, whilst he retains his own literacy.”
Horror washed over Wren as it dawned upon him what he had almost surrendered—without a thought.
Shrike slowly lowered his arm but kept his hand on his sword hilt. He glanced back at Wren with a look both enquiry and offer; enquiring what Wren thought of the bargain and offering to refuse it with violence if Wren deemed such action necessary.
Wren gave a slight shake of his head to stay Shrike’s sword-hand and turned to the ambassador. “I accept your terms.”
“Splendid!” The ambassador clapped his hands. “Which weapon do you prefer?”
“The quill,” said Wren.
The ambassador blinked. “Ah. I’m afraid I’ve no skill whatsoever in that particular arena. Have you any experience with a blade?”
“Some practice with a fencing foil,” Wren admitted. His education, while prematurely cut off, had seen to that. “Nothing with an edge, aside from pen-knives.”
To Wren’s astonishment, the ambassador smiled. “All the better, then, for you’ll have fewer bad habits to break. Which weapon would you most like to learn?”
“Whichever one you think I’ve any chance of mastering before the Summer Solstice,” Wren replied flatly.
The ambassador didn’t seem in any way put off by Wren’s sarcasm. He merely cocked his head to one side as his bizarre cat-slit eyes flicked up and down Wren’s length in a piercing glance. “I myself am partial to the rapier. As you seem to hold yourself in a similar frame—if I may be so bold as to say so, my lord—and you have practiced with fencing foils already…”
“The rapier, then,” said Wren, as the ambassador seemed to wait for his answer, no matter how many times he deferred.
The ambassador beamed again. “Then shall we begin on the morrow?”
~
Their plans made, Shrike led Nell and the ambassador out of Blackthorn. Not a strictly necessary gesture—the thorns would withdraw for them to depart just as they had withdrawn to allow their entrance—but it was courtesy to do so nonetheless, and he certainly owed both of them a debt for their aid in his present difficulty.
Shrike did not know much of his fellow riders in the Wild Hunt. He knew their feats and follies in the course of the Hunt itself, and he knew the bodies of those few he had lain with—knew them intimately, indeed—but little else of substance had passed between them. And they understood as little of him as he did of them. That was part of why he liked riding in the Hunt. No one questioned anyone’s presence or purpose in it. They simply rode and ran and hunted together. No call for conversation or demand for declaration.
Aside from Nell.
Not because he’d approached her—quite the reverse. On the occasion of his first Hunt she had strode up to him and demanded to know his purpose.
“I know an outcast when I see one,” had been her only explanation.
Shrike didn’t take offence at the plain-spoken truth. And as Nell herself soon explained, divulging her own history as she learnt his in turn, she considered herself an outcast as well—a half-fae child born into mortal society, neither her nor her twin brother ever truly accepted by their father and his lawful wife. Only when she sought out the fae realms did she find the simple joy of freedom. Her brother had remained in the mortal realm and found something akin to happiness there, to her bewilderment, as an outcast.
Nor were her brother and Shrike the sole outcasts of her acquaintance, for she seemed to have struck up a familiarity with the ambassador of the Court of Spindles, as well.
Shrike knew as little of the ambassador as he knew of any other rider in the Hunt. He’d observed his evident skill, the poise with which he carried himself and the finesse with which he struck a killing blow, but he couldn’t say with any honesty that he’d given him much thought over the decades.
Only when the ambassador approached Wren at Ostara did he come to the forefront of Shrike’s mind. Then, in a flash of cold dread, Shrike had recalled all the rumours flying through the Hunt—of a forgotten son trained in the subtle art of murder and his deft and bloody escape from the most ruthless court in all the realms. From what Shrike had seen in the ambassador’s conduct with Wren, nothing with even the barest hint of a threat had passed between them. Still, Shrike hadn’t survived centuries in the fae realms unaligned with any court without nurturing a sense of wariness which proved difficult to dispel. As he watched the ambassador now stroll out of Blackthorn with a light and graceful step not unlike Nell’s own slinking pace, he noted too the perpetual smile on the lips beneath the cobweb mask and the dancing glint in the cat-slit eyes.
“I’ve oft heard tell of Blackthorn Briar,” the ambassador chirped, startling Shrike out of his study. “I must say it well outstrips its legend—quite beautiful, indeed. Rather of the sort of beauty many courts strive for and fail to capture.”
“Thanks,” Shrike muttered, ignoring Nell’s laughing glance.
