“Methinks being her king is punishment enough,” said Shrike, his voice devoid of emotion. “But evidently she did not agree.”
Tatterdemalion’s smile remained unchanged. “Raising a mortal to the rank of Holly King is certainly unprecedented. Perhaps she thought your chosen companion, being worthy of a king, must be worthy of the title himself. Every court is tittering with theories. I daresay this coming Summer Solstice shall double, if not triple, the host of spectators.”
“Is that what she intended when she chose me?” Shrike asked.
Tatterdemalion shot him a curious glance. “I doubt so. But she will turn it to her benefit all the same.”
“Then why?” Shrike demanded. “Why choose me at all, if I do not act according to her design?”
Wren gazed upon Shrike’s high cheekbones, strong jawline, noble profile, and the silver-shot ink-spill waterfall of his hair flowing down between his broad shoulders to halt just above his lithe waist, but kept his own suspicions to himself.
“The tide of her taste has ebbed and flowed throughout the centuries,” Tatterdemalion continued undaunted. “For the season, at least, it would appear to have settled upon you. Perhaps she wearies of her courtiers’ refinement and yearns to taste more feral fruits. Or perhaps it is due to your overwhelming victory in her mêlée. She does adore a violent spectacle above all else. That much has remained true throughout her reign.”
“Or it could be because he’s dashed handsome,” Wren deadpanned, unable to stop himself.
Shrike shot him a startled glance. Wren offered up only a sheepish look in explanation. Colour came to Shrike’s high cheekbones as he faced Tatterdemalion again.
“Aye,” Tatterdemalion conceded. “Perhaps your lordship’s countenance played its part.”
The colour in Shrike’s cheeks deepened.
Tatterdemalion turned to Wren. “Is this all your lordship wished to know?”
“For the moment,” said Wren.
Tatterdemalion’s beetle-black eyes sparkled. “Then you shall hear from me in a century and a day—unless you call for me before.”
And with a bow, they took their leave.
Shrike continued staring at the closed cottage door after they’d gone. Then he turned a bewildered look upon Wren.
“Youarehandsome,” Wren offered.
A huff of laughter escaped Shrike. He ran a hand over his face and smiled in its wake, as much as to say,If you insist.
“It would seem,” Wren said, working the problem out as he went, “that we require a ritual that will rival the pageantry of the Eglington tournament.”
Shrike raised an eyebrow at him.
“A recent mortal affair,” Wren explained. “Very shiny. Very expensive.”
Shrike twisted his mouth to one side, unconvinced. Wren had to admit the difficulty of imagining Shrike in pompous pageantry. Even his limited participation in the ceremonies at the Court of the Silver Wheel had cut through their finery and filigree to their sanguinary core.
“Or,” Wren continued as he realized this, “perhaps we require something raw and primal. Something to strip away all the queen’s artifice and drag the rite of Oak and Holly down to its bare and bloody roots.”
“Aye,” said Shrike, gazing down at him with a quiet mixture of surprise and admiration, the mischievous gleam Wren loved so well returning to his dark eyes. “That we might.”
~
Chapter Thirty-Four
“What do you know,” Wren asked the ambassador as they met in the dappled afternoon sunlight of Blackthorn’s garden, “of fighting with a scythe?”
The ambassador hesitated. “It’s more often a weapon of desperation than of design.”
“I should hesitate to describe myself as anything short of desperate.”
The ambassador appeared more intrigued than otherwise. “Very well. I shall endeavour to acquire a scythe before we meet on the morrow.”
