“No need.”
Under the ambassador’s curious and increasingly amazed eye, Wren went to the wall of thorns growing behind the chicken coop, just like Shrike had shown him the evening after they struck their bargain with Tatterdemalion. The briars withdrew from his hands as he outstretched them to reveal Larkin’s scythe—centuries old and still as sharp as the eve it had cut down three fae knights. Its curving wooden handle, polished smooth with many years of use, weighed heavily in Wren’s palms.
“Ah,” said the ambassador. His cat-slit eyes ran up and down the length of the wicked instrument with undisguised interest. “If I may be so bold as to enquire—have you ever wielded a scythe before, m’lord?”
Wren admitted he had not.
The ambassador nodded in a way which said quite without words that one could tell as much from how Wren carried it. “It may then be prudent to first give you greater familiarity with its intended purpose.”
Wren led the way through the ever-shifting wall of thorns toward the makeshift training grounds. As they arrived at the warren meadow and the briars grew together behind them, the ambassador turned and twirled his wrist in a beckoning motion towards the thorns. Wren watched and waited in silence to see what he meant by it. A moment passed. Nothing happened.
The ambassador gave a thoughtful hum. “Interesting.”
“What is it?” Wren asked.
“I had thought, mayhaps, since the briars have been so kind as to withdraw at my approach, I might persuade them to advance as well.” The ambassador turned to Wren and glanced down at the scythe he carried. “We’ll need something for you to mow down, after all.”
“Oh.” Wren thought it a reasonable notion. A shame it hadn’t worked in their favour. “Perhaps Butcher could do it?”
“Perhaps,” the ambassador echoed, stretching out the word in an uncertain timbre. “Or, m’lord, if I may be so bold as to suggest, you might make the attempt yourself?”
Wren didn’t think he’d ever grow used to that title. Nor did he think he, a mere mortal, could ever hope to exert his will over the magic of Blackthorn when a fae like the ambassador had failed.
Still, the ambassador watched him with such a hopeful air that it seemed only polite to make an attempt.
And so Wren handed the scythe off to the ambassador and approached the wall of thorns.
Like the ambassador had done, Wren held out his hand to the briars—palm upraised, fingers at rest, a gesture not unlike he might use to reach for Shrike. He felt more than a little ridiculous as he did so. He expected no result whatsoever.
And yet, to his astonishment, the briars which had heretofore retreated from his every approach now sent tentative tendrils of thorns spiralling up to meet his fingertips.
Wren jerked back. The briars ceased to grow towards him. He whirled to face the ambassador.
The ambassador appeared pleased but by no means surprised.
Wren remained unnerved. He supposed that this newfound power must be the result of his role as the Holly King. Though upon further consideration, as he returned to the briars and raised a tentative hand toward them again, he couldn’t ever recall making an attempt to draw forth the briars before today. Perhaps if he had…
At present, under the ambassador’s approving eye, Wren trailed his fingertips through the air and watched amazed as briars followed. Fresh green tendrils unfurled across the meadow and quickly matured into thick thorny black vines. Wren withdrew and beckoned the thorns to follow him. Soon they blanketed the meadow.
The ambassador, smiling, returned the scythe to Wren’s charge. Wren wrapped his hands around its smooth-worn wooden handle. The ambassador gently adjusted his grip on the two knobs.
“These are the nibs,” the ambassador explained as he went. “And the snath,” he added, lightly touching the curved length. “The blade is called a blade—convenient, no?—and it attaches to the snath at the tang. The great advantage of a scythe, other than mowing, is in its reach. Pray forgive me for mentioning it, my lord, but the Oak King is rather longer in the arm than yourself.”
Wren saw no reason to deny the truth of it.
“A scythe should do well to make up the difference,” the ambassador continued. “But first, we must get you acquainted with its true purpose. Approach the thorns, if you will.”
Wren did so.
“Excellent!” the ambassador trilled. “Now bend your knees until the back of the blade rests on the ground.”
Against all logic, Wren followed the instruction.
“And now,” the ambassador declared, “simply turn your waist from right to left and let your arms fly out as they will.”
Feeling rather like a foolish windmill, Wren spun. Laying against the ground as it did, the scythe seemed to weigh almost nothing in his hands. He expected the blade would snag against the fresh-grown briars with a jagged thud. To his astonishment, however, it sliced a half-moon arc clean through the thorns with a faint whispering sound. The stems lingered for but a moment before withering and withdrawing into the ground.
The ambassador clapped his hands. “Splendid! Just so!”
