Wren blinked. No hole had appeared, no snow had shifted. The mound appeared as smooth and unbroken as ever. He pushed off from Shrike and reached out his hand to the hillside.
It, too, passed through the snow.
Nothing wet or cold met his touch. Rather, it felt as if he held his hand before a blazing hearth. Warmth suffused his fingertips, frozen nerves searing to life. A hiss of pain escaped his clenched jaw.
Shrike caught him as he fell back. They shared a glance—Shrike concerned, Wren reassuring—then together, with Wren leaning heavily upon Shrike, they strode forth through the hillside.
Wren found himself in a mead-hall worthy ofBeowulfand full to bursting with fae.
The cold brightness of the sunlight striking snow had vanished. Golden firelight replaced it, from the candles set into roots growing from the beams and peat overhead and from the blazing bonfire rimmed with rough-hewn stones in the centre of the hall. Scores upon scores of fae danced ‘round it, casting devilish shadows on the earthen walls; Wren supposed the hall’s warmth came as much from their exertion as from the bonfire. Music rang throughout the hall. The merry and curious combination of flue, fiddle, drum, and instruments unknown set a frantic pace which sang straight through Wren’s heart and bid him dance. The strings in particular seemed to shriek for joy. The savoury aroma of roasting meat hung in the air, combined with the spiced-honey scent of mead flowing into drinking horns.
As Wren’s sight adjusted to his surroundings, he spied the wulpertinger hopping away from him towards a cluster of fae in a particular secluded alcove of the cavern. It halted at a pair of cloven hooves peeking out from beneath the ragged hem of a patchwork gown of leather and pelts. Wren glanced up to see a strong-jawed woman with a crown of thistle and harebells nestled amidst her broad and many-pointed antlers. She sat on a throne of black walnut carved with knot-work serpents and dancing wolves. An enormous long-furred grey cat curled on her lap. The fae flanking her stood, sat, or sprawled across bearskins heaped in piles around her. Whether guards or courtiers, Wren couldn’t say—they had too much mirth for the former and too many armaments for the latter.
Shrike strode past Wren to kneel before the throne. Wren followed suit. The furred folds of Shrike’s cloak all but swallowed him up as he dropped to one knee.
“The Court of Hidden Folk bids the Oak King welcome,” said the antlered woman.
Shrike’s head shot up.
The antlered woman smiled. “Don’t be so astonished. Word of your coronation has spread far beyond the Court of the Silver Wheel.”
Her gaze slid towards Wren, and he realized her mottled green eyes had horizontal slits for pupils.
“My companion,” Shrike said before Wren could explain himself. “Called Lofthouse.”
My companion.Despite the dire circumstance, Wren’s heart fluttered to hear Shrike introduce him as such.
“Well met… Lofthouse,” the antlered woman said, her smile growing wryer. She returned her attention to Shrike. “To what do we owe the honour of your presence?”
“Mistress of Revels,” said Shrike, bowing his head again. “We seek a mortal youth amongst your company. Blond of hair, blue of eye, bereft of courtesy.”
Wren stifled a snort of laughter. Several of the guards, or courtiers, laughed outright.
The Mistress of Revels’s smile became a grin, revealing twin fangs on either side of her incisors. “I believe we have such a mortal youth among us tonight. You are welcome to join our throng in search of him. We grant you our hospitality.”
Shrike bowed again and thanked her. At a casual gesture of her hand, he rose. His fingertips brushed Wren’s shoulder to guide him up beside him.
Wren laid a hand on Shrike’s arm and summoned all his courage to step forward into the throng.
A passing faun carried an oaken cask on one shoulder to a trio of raucous revellers holding out empty drinking horns. They weren’t alone. Mead and wine alike poured forth from every corner. Other fae bore upturned shields laden with roast haunches of venison, pomegranates broken open to reveal their ruby splendour, raw chunks of honeycomb golden and dripping. None of the fae serving seemed to be servants. Far from it. Those who beckoned for the feast soon turned ‘round and passed it along to their fellows with their own hands. For all the motley forms around him, Wren could perceive no distinction of rank, save for the Mistress of Revels.
Nor did they feast on food and drink alone. Some of the folk made a decadent meal of each other, as well. As Wren threaded his way through the crowd, drawing ever nearer to the whirling figures dancing ‘round the fire, he realized many of those on the fringes of the fray were twining arms across each other’s shoulders and bestowing kisses on collars, throats, mouths—and further still. A particular pair of satyrs caught Wren’s eye. One stood with his back braced against the pelt-covered earthen wall, his head thrown back and mouth agape in ecstasy. The other knelt before him and took him into his mouth.
“Do you see Felix?” Shrike asked.
Wren broke off staring. “What? No, not yet. Wait—” he added, catching sight of something over Shrike’s shoulder.
A glint of gold amidst dark furs.
“There he is,” Wren said, standing on his toes to bring his lips nearer to Shrike’s ear. “In the corner. Do you see him?”
Shrike nodded as his eyes found where Wren dared not point.
Felix lounged on a pile of pelts by the fire. Huldra swarmed him. His coat had vanished, and his waistcoat seemed about to suffer the same fate, given the intensity with which one particularly industrious huldra tugged at its buttons. Another, not patient enough to wait for her friend to finish her work, had started in on his shirt. They already had the fall-front of his trousers open and his shirt-tails pulled out. Felix neither aided nor prohibited their efforts. His head lolled across the furs to catch the lips of still another huldra as her arms wrapped around his shoulders, his cravat lying across his collarbone in a crumpled wreck. A fourth huldra hiked up her skirts—revealing the tufted end of her tail swishing to-and-fro like a cat’s—to straddle him. As she did so, she turned away from the rest of the party. No fabric lay beneath the laces of her bodice, and between the golden ribbons Wren glimpsed the cavernous hollow of her back, a dark void despite the warm fire and candle-light throughout the long-house.
Wren moved to cross the dance floor.
A huldra blocked his path. Her costume bore greater resemblance to the Mistress of Revels than to the milkmaids crawling over Felix, with her face painted with woad and her dark hair braided back. Her fearsome face split into a sharp-toothed grin. “Will you not dance, my lord?”
