Wren had thought the question a simple one, but Shrike seemed to give it a great deal of consideration.
“A century and a half ago?” Shrike replied at last, much to Wren’s surprise. “I needed something to bring home larger game and take greater quantities to and from the Moon Market.”
Wren marvelled at the remarkable preservative powers of the fae realms—or perhaps the care Shrike took in his creations—for it looked as if it could’ve been built yesterday.
Shrike bundled him into the sleigh alongside some provisions. No more than required for a day’s picnic, which gave Wren some hint as to the length of their journey. More linen than he expected, though, and what seemed like half the medicine chest besides. A fleece covered all, which Shrike then belted into place with leather straps, so Wren couldn’t have fallen out of the sleigh if he’d tried.
Wren waited for Shrike to bring out the goats or summon a stag to draw the sleigh. Now that he thought of it, he’d never been quite sure whether the stag Shrike summoned to ride in the hunt was a different stag each time or the same one over and over again.
But rather than goat or stag, instead Shrike simply took up the reins, slung them over his shoulders, and began trudging forward through the snow, pulling the sleigh behind him.
“Wait!” Wren blurted.
Shrike ceased at once and whirled to regard him. “What’s amiss?”
Wren hadn’t meant to give him alarm. “Aren’t I too heavy for you?”
Shrike stared at him. Then a slow and handsome smile crept up his cheek. “I mean no offense, but you weigh not even half so much as a dead bear.”
Wren felt a blush blooming over his face beneath his scarf. “Oh.”
A soft huff of laughter escaped Shrike. Then he turned, adjusted the reins on his shoulders, and strode on.
Shrike’s strength alone oft proved ample fuel for Wren’s admiration. To have that strength bent to his service inspired his ardour further still.
And with these very pleasant thoughts dancing through his mind, Wren leaned back into the sleigh and stared around at the world that had been denied him for so long.
Ice-sheathed barren broad-leaf branches and snow-covered evergreen needles drifted past him overhead. Icicles as long as swords caught the sunlight and scattered it brighter than any fine-cut diamond. Now and again a titmouse flitted between the trees. More often he heard the birds rather than saw them, their songs muffled by the snow yet resounding stark in the otherwise-silent wood. Wren wished he could sketch a fraction of what he saw. He resolved to bring his gyrdel-book and pencils along when they went out again. He hoped it would happen soon.
As they passed through a particular arch in the Grove of Gates, the scenery altered but subtly. They wandered through a different forest now, formed of more hills and dales and with a better-defined path, though no less wintry. At least, not until they came around a particular bend, and Wren noted how the snow drifts grew smaller and smaller, thinning into a mere icy sheen over the ground, until they vanished in patches where greenery began to peep through, and then, on the broad side of something too small for a proper hill yet too big for a mere mound, disappeared altogether, leaving only verdant moss and ferns in its wake.
Here Shrike halted.
Wren gazed around in bemused wonder. He saw nothing of note beyond the mossy hillside. He doubted Shrike had brought him all this way just for that—unless he thought Wren needed to see something green after so many days cooped up indoors, in which case Wren quite agreed. It was certainly a beautiful sight to behold.
Shrike dropt the reins and turned to unbuckle the belts securing Wren to the sleigh.
“Where are we?” Wren asked.
“One of the Realms of Hidden Folk,” Shrike replied.
Wren hadn’t realised there were multiple.
“They’ve granted us the use of this place,” Shrike continued. “On the condition that we return to join them the following Mabon. You don’t mind, do you?” he added, a furrow of concern appearing between his brows.
Wren smiled. “Not in the least.”
Shrike returned his smile and drew him upright. Then he slung their basket of provisions over one shoulder and took Wren’s arm. He stepped forward as if he meant to climb the hill. Wren’s gut gave a twinge at this; he didn’t know if he felt quite up to climbing.
But instead of up the side of the hill, Shrike’s steps brought them through it.
Wren blinked. He half-expected another mead hall—though it would be quite unlike Shrike to spring a throng on him. But instead of a fae crowd revelling beneath walls of skin, he found a stone cavern as grand in scope as any cathedral, its ribbed walls worn smooth with time.
And in its centre a bubbling spring with steam rising off the water.
For the second time in the same morning, Wren lost himself staring. The water, more than a pond and flowing from a source he couldn’t perceive, appeared in a crystalline aquamarine shade, so clear he could see the bottom of its pool. It swept in currents that had evidently carved out this hollow in the earth over centuries, creating gentle curves along its smooth stone shore. The splashing echoed throughout the cavern, reverberating against itself in a quiet yet all-encompassing sound that soothed Wren’s nerves—interrupted only by the slight shifting noise of Shrike setting down their provisions basket behind him and laying out the fleece beside it.
Shrike glanced up with a shy smile as Wren turned to face him. “I thought we might have a swim, as Everilda suggested.”
