Every glimpse of Shrike made Wren’s heart sing. His strapping frame bent and leapt in serpentine patterns to avoid the crashing blades, his dark locks trailing behind him in narrow escape, his own arming-sword in constant motion to deflect the others’ strikes.
Wren held his breath as he beheld Shrike flip backwards over the curving moon-white bone scimitar and the rippling flamberge. His form plunged beneath the sea of blades.
And did not emerge again.
The bow slashed across the fiddle. The music ceased, and with it, the dance.
Wren’s heart remained in his throat.
The dancers broke their wheels and withdrew. As they did so, they revealed the rising form of Shrike. The writhing Gordian knot of swords had come together across his body. His broad chest heaved beneath five blades—his own among them—crossed to form a star. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow. A smile graced his handsome lips, and a mischievous gleam lit his dark eyes. The points of the bronze gladius and the ice-glass sword lay on either side of his throat.
The waiting crowd erupted into cheers. Wren drew breath for what felt like the first time.
The dancers uncrossed their blades and exchanged bows. When the dance had ceased, Shrike’s wheel had halted a stone’s throw from Wren. As such, when the dancers began to rejoin the throng, and the throng in turn flowed in to reclaim them as the tide reclaims the waves it sends to shore, the ensuing chaos hid Shrike from Wren’s sight once again. Even standing on his toes did not afford him a view of Shrike, Nell, or any other recognizable figure.
Save for the spiderweb fae.
The spiderweb fae had joined an entirely different wheel from Shrike’s and had wound up quite near to Wren indeed by the dance’s end. Unlike all the other dancers, the spiderweb fae now wandered the crowd alone, unacknowledged by any of the other folk.
Perhaps it was because fae society had fewer restrictions, with folk of all sexes mingling in conversation, feasting, and dance. Or perhaps it was because the fae held no prejudices against men of Wren’s predilections. Or perhaps it was something in the fae liquor Nell had provided. Whatever the reason, Wren found himself drawn more towards strangers rather than shying away as he would have done in London.
And, as the spiderweb fae stood alone rather than mingling with the throng, like a wallflower at a country dance, Wren thought it only polite to bridge the expanse between them.
Layer upon layer of cobwebbing, like so much lace, built up the diaphanous material of the spiderweb fae’s mask into something stiff and opaque that shone silver-white in the rays of the full moon. It covered everything from the hairline down to the sharp curving tip of a beak which Wren suspected ran somewhat longer than the actual nose beneath—though, given what he’d seen thus far of the fae, he supposed he couldn’t make too many assumptions. On either side he could just make out the tips of two pointed ears, which matched the pointed chin and full lips in their deep shade of iridescent indigo. The French heels of the silver shoes added some three inches or more to his height, which allowed him to stand eye-to-eye with Wren. The eyes were likewise blue, but icy pale, which made the cat-slit pupils all the more apparent. These eyes slid toward Wren as he approached and widened when they met his gaze.
“Good evening,” Wren said, and hoped his words sounded polite rather than presumptuous.
The spiderweb fae blinked. For a moment, Wren feared he’d given offence. Then, to Wren’s astonishment, the dark blue lips parted in a delighted grin.
“Hail and well met, fellow traveller!” said the spiderweb fae, his voice ebullient and bright. He gave a court bow worthy of Versailles yet performed with far greater grace than any mortal courtier could accomplish, equal parts elegant and ornate. Somehow the bend of his waist, the dip of his knee, and the twirl of his hand did not seem in excess, as it might have done on an Englishman.
Wren bowed far more simply in return.
“I believe I’ve glimpsed you once before,” the spiderweb fae continued. “In the Wild Hunt? By the Oak King’s side?”
“You’re familiar with the Oak King?” asked Wren.
“Moreso this year than any other. But less so than yourself, I should think.”
Wren privately conceded the point. Aloud, he said, “What familiarity did you have with past Oak Kings? If it’s not too bold of me to ask,” he added hurriedly.
“None too bold in the least!” the spiderweb fae assured him with another wrist-twirling wave. “But I’m afraid my answer will disappoint you. I’ve enjoyed no familiarity whatsoever with the Oak Kings of the past. I’m merely a visitor to the Court of the Silver Wheel, and an infrequent visitor at that. Urgent matters at Midwinter prevented my attending even this most recent solstice duel, for which I must express my most profound regrets. However, it makes me newly determined to satisfy my curiosity regarding the Midsummer contest. I am more concerned in its outcome than otherwise—however slight my acquaintance with the reigning Oak King.”
“And for which outcome do you wish?” Wren asked.
The spiderweb fae blinked at him. “For his victory, of course.”
“Oh.” Wren hadn’t dared to hope to find another besides himself—and perhaps Nell—who wished for Shrike’s victory. “Then I’d be delighted to pass along your well-wishes.”
“Would you indeed?” said the spiderweb fae, sounding rather delighted himself. “You honour me, m’lord.”
“Not at all,” Wren assured him in the polite formula he’d uttered so often in London society. Only after the words left his lips did his ears perceive the honorific the spiderweb fae had applied to him. It gave him considerable pause. While Wren was a gentleman by birth, he was by no means an aristocrat, and had certainly fallen far below the station of his father the squire. He found himself quite at a loss for words to explain the title the spiderweb fae had thrust upon him.
“Pray forgive my prattling on,” the spiderweb fae continued, evidently oblivious to the confusion he’d caused Wren. “I’ve not had the opportunity for conversation in some time.”
“Oh?” The startled syllable escaped Wren’s lips before he could think better of it. The spiderweb fae seemed quite at home conversing with strangers. Not at all like one who had avoided society—or, Wren realized as he considered the matter, perhaps one whom society had avoided.
The spiderweb fae opened his mouth as if to say more. Then his cat-slit eyes flicked away from Wren’s face to fix on a point over Wren’s shoulder. They widened, and his jaw shut with a sharp click.
