“What good is the power of the Holly King if it doesn’t protect him from cold?” Shrike muttered.
“The power of the Holly King is probably the only reason he’s survived this long,” Nell replied. “Any other mortal would have frozen to death before we could fish him out.”
Shrike gave some small thanks for that. Still, something dreadful had occurred before they could rescue Wren from beneath the ice. From the look of the bite—a sight which he knew would haunt him forevermore—he had some idea what had done the foul deed. He looked to Nell again. “Kópr?”
Nell confirmed it with a brisk nod. “Mottled skull-crusher. You’ll know it if you see it again. It took my dagger in its left eye.”
Shrike already owed her more than he could ever repay for dragging Wren back from the depths. His infinite debt increased twice-over for this blow she’d struck his heart’s hunter.
Glass clinked against glass as the ambassador searched within his satchel. A mumbled minced oath came from beneath his mask. Then a victorious gasp escaped him, and he withdrew something particular. He pressed a vial into Shrike’s hand. It held a faintly lavender concoction with a viscosity appearing half-honey and half-vapour.
“A draught of suspended sleep,” the ambassador explained. “It will keep him alive whilst we await assistance.”
“For how long?” Shrike demanded.
“Until the spell is broken.”
Shrike’s patience wore even thinner than before. “And the spell is broken by…?”
“A kiss,” the ambassador replied, nothing daunted. “Traditionally.”
Something Shrike would have gladly bestowed upon Wren under any circumstance. Still, “And it’s safe for mortals? Not just fae?”
“Perfectly safe!” the ambassador assured him.
Shrike wished he could believe him even half as wholeheartedly. The ambassador had never meant them any harm before, though Shrike knew well the harm that could be done with good intent.
But if he did not accept the potion, he likewise knew, though he did not dare to think, that Wren had no chance of surviving on his own. The cold would have slain any mortal. The wound made matters still more dire. He hadn’t the means to halt the flow of blood from the bite, and—
Shrike uncorked the vial. He steeled his nerve and brought the draught to Wren’s bespeckled lips.
“Drink,” he murmured.
Wren opened his mouth without question. Without even opening his eyes. His trust in Shrike proved absolute, beyond anything Shrike could have asked or expected. The knowledge broke Shrike’s heart. As if it weren’t already shattered by Wren’s suffering.
Shrike tilted the vial. Its contents travelled down Wren’s throat in a single swallow. His breath slowed the moment Shrike withdrew the empty vial from his perfect lips. Soon it seemed as though he didn’t breathe at all. Yet Shrike could still feel his heartbeat beneath his palm clasped against his chest, steadier and far slower than before. He’d seen Wren sleeping many a time since they’d met. Yet never had he seemed so still and quiet and peaceful as this. In another moment, Shrike would have kissed him simply to reward his beauty and celebrate their bond. In this moment, however, he resisted the urge he’d so oft indulged afore. He satisfied himself instead by burying his face in Wren’s collar and holding him tight.
The sun had passed it zenith when the faint ringing of sleigh-bells echoed through the trees.
Shrike raised his head—he hadn’t even realised he’d fallen asleep, much less knew how long he’d lain so. Wren remainedin his suspended trance, as the ambassador had promised. The wolf lay curled at their feet. The ambassador, the nymph, and Nell still sat by the fire. Judging by the pile of kindling beside it, they’d spent many of the hours withering and hacking more wood to feed the flames. Whatever quiet conversation may have passed between them ended as both looked toward the sound.
No hoof-beats accompanied the bells. Only the curious swishing sound, like low-hanging branches dragging across snow-drifts, grew louder and louder as the sleigh approached. It came into view at last, emerging from the tree-line to curve along the lake-shore, its silver-blue blades gleaming like icicles, pulled by long-furred felines the size of sheep padding across the snow on their nearly-silent paws, driven by a pair of huldra.
Shrike had heard tales of the wildcats who drew the sleigh for the Mistress of Revels but had never glimpsed them before today. He wished Wren were awake to see it. What a marvel it would seem from his mortal perspective.
The sleigh slid to a stop some yards from the bonfire. The blonde huldra remained at the reins. Her companion, who appeared her twin save for the sable hue of her hair, leapt down and approached the motley group huddled ‘round the flames.
“The Mistress of Revels regrets very much the misfortune that has befallen the Holly King,” the sable huldra declared. “She hopes the Oak King will accept our aid in bearing him hence.”
Nell, the nymph, and the ambassador all turned to Shrike.
Shrike assented with a nod. He sat up, taking care none of his movements unbundled Wren from the furred cloaks. His clothes, however, did not lie where he left them. A glance ‘round the bonfire showed them hung up on branches over the flames beside Wren’s own garments, the latter having gone from frozen to soaked and now on their way to dry. Shrike supposed the ambassador had hung them up; Nell wasn’t a laundress, and the nymph didn’t seem the sort, either. Wren had oft toldShrike he smelled of woodsmoke and how he admired that particular aspect of his masculine musk. Now, with their clothes roasted over an open pine flame, they’d both smell very smoky indeed. Wren might find that amusing if he were awake, Shrike thought, and then regretted thinking it for the pang it gave him afterward. He donned his shirt, tunic, and hose with a quickness. The ambassador, meanwhile, plucked Wren’s raiments from the branches and folded them up neat.
Wren remained asleep all the while, bundled in Shrike’s and his own cloak. Shrike would have fain carried him alone. Still, he felt glad for the aid of the ambassador and Nell, who took up their posts on either side of Wren’s legs as Shrike lifted him beneath the shoulders. Together they all conveyed Wren to the sleigh. Shrike sat on the bench with bundled Wren laid out over his lap. The wolf curled up at their feet. The nymph had wandered off into the wood amidst the confusion, but Nell and the ambassador remained, clinging to the back of the sleigh balanced on its runners. Shrike turned to the huldra who had resumed their places at the reins.
“You have our thanks,” said Shrike.
“And you have ours,” the sable huldra replied. At Shrike’s bewildered look, she continued, “Our Court has a vested interest in the continued good health of winter.”
