Tatterdemalion appeared neither pleased nor displeased. The beetle-black eyes didn’t seem to condemn the drawings of Shrike in various aspects. Wren supposed he ought to feel thankful for that at least. At length, they came to the vellum not yet scored by Wren’ pen. Tatterdemalion flipped through a few more blank pages.
“Some talent, aye,” Tatterdemalion declared. “It might blossom forth into something truly beautiful, given time enough.” They glanced up from the gyrdel-book and caught Wren’s eye. “More time than would pass between now and next Midwinter.”
Wren held his breath.
Tatterdemalion cocked their head in consideration. “A century, perhaps. A century and a day.”
Wren swallowed. “And then?”
The smile which stole over Tatterdemalion’s face spread wider than their minuscule pout would have suggested possible. Indeed, it spread wider than any Wren had seen on a mortal face, a thin spiderweb crack of a line in their porcelain cheeks. All at once it vanished, and only the faintest flicker of amusement lingered in their delicate moue of a mouth. “Then, in a century and a day, I shall return to commission a masterwork.”
“I look forward to the challenge,” Wren uttered with more courage than he felt.
Tatterdemalion’s soft laughter reminded Wren of nothing so much as the whistling wind over-turning leaves before a thunderstorm.
Wren held out his hand to seal their bargain. Tatterdemalion took it not with the strident clasp of a gentleman but by laying their fingers across Wren’s palm with all the delicacy of a lady acquiescing to an invitation to dance.
In that same instant, Wren felt as if a draft gelding had kicked him in the gut. His veins seemed to twist ‘round the pain in a gnarling knot. It held all the power of the Samhain rite with none of its pleasure.
As quick as it arrived, the sensation vanished. Wren felt harrowed in its wake. Only when he heard himself gasp did he realize how the bargain had driven the breath from him.
Tatterdemalion withdrew their hand with a smile.
Wren thought he ought to say something, but his weakened state precluded his recalling what polite reply the situation demanded. The cottage seemed to slide sideways. Strong hands gripped his shoulders and hauled him upright again.
“Steady,” Shrike’s voice echoed above him.
“I’m all right,” Wren heard himself say half out of habit. But soon enough his vision cleared, and he stood strong upon his own two legs. Tatterdemalion held out the gyrdel-book. Wren took it warily.
Tatterdemalion’s soft smile remained. “Ask your questions.”
Wren had his enquiries well ready, for they’d filled his mind since before Samhain. “Who was Holly King in the summer of 1816?”
Tatterdemalion blinked.
Wren tried again. “The Year Without a Summer.”
“Ah,” said Tatterdemalion. “A knight-errant of no small renown. She came to the Court of the Silver Wheel in Imbolc. She lost her heart to the queen at first sight and slew many a rival suitor to win her place at her side. Her love spurred her to victory in winter and summer alike. And when she realized the queen did not love her in return, she strode out to the duelling field on the winter solstice, unsheathed her blade, and threw herself upon it.”
So much for that. Wren tried another. “What of the duel itself? How did such a custom come to pass?”
“Your queen came to power through the rites of Beltane,” said Tatterdemalion. “Wherein the fae host would crown the two most beautiful as lord and lady. Their ritual coupling invoked the verdant blooming of the land in spring, and they abdicated on the Summer Solstice. Except, of course,” Tatterdemalion added, a wicked smile pinching the corners of their mouth, “your queen chose not to follow that particular tradition.”
Neither Shrike nor Wren shared in their mirth.
“Instead,” Tatterdemalion continued, “upon the Summer Solstice, she slit the throat of her lord. Broken hearted by her betrayal, he died where he fell. Holly bloomed from his spilled blood. She named another lover her king, crowned him with a wreath woven of that same holly, and coupled with him on that same scarlet ground to bring on autumn. By Midwinter she tired of him. Another of her consorts leapt at the chance to become her new champion. She declared him her king of oak, in opposition to her king of holly. The Oak King slew the Holly King in her name and enjoyed many months of apparent bliss at her side until the queen found another Holly King to slay him and assume his position in her bower. Thus the bloody cycle began and continues to this very day. As the seasons ran on into centuries she withdrew from the spectacle, no longer coupling on the blood-stained duelling field itself but rather whisking her kings away to her bower to join with her in more secluded rites. Some say this enhances the mystery and makes others still more eager for the chance to take part—even when it means their certain death.”
“Is death so certain?” asked Wren. “I’ve heard the fae can survive even the most grievous wounds.”
“And yet death comes to all her kings,” Tatterdemalion replied. “Some say she supplies her usurping favourites with iron weapons to strike wounds that can never heal. Others say she doses her reigning kings with a tincture of iron to ensure their wounds prove mortal. Still others claim she entices her kings whilst in the throes of passion, holding them upon the brink of exquisite release until they give up their true names, and then uses their names to command them to die at their opponent’s hands upon the solstice. Or perhaps, like the knight-errant in the Year Without a Summer, those that truly love her lose the will to live when they understand their affections can never be returned.”
“And her subjects approve of this?” Wren asked, unable to keep his incredulity out of his tone.
“Their approval concerns her not,” said Tatterdemalion. “The gentry delight in the spectacle regardless. Do not underestimate the novelty of true death amongst the fae. The Queen of the Court of the Silver Wheel has turned this ultimate sacrifice into magnificent pageantry, buoyed by staggering romance—a queen so beautiful that hundreds of kings will die to spend but half a year at her side.”
“I am not at her side,” Shrike interjected.
“You are not,” Tatterdemalion admitted with another small yet wicked smile. “Which makes this year’s spectacle far more interesting. Whatever will become of the kings who scorn their queen’s bower? What marvellous punishment will she concoct for them?”
