Shrike served him an apologetic smile.
Wren supposed it wasn’t hard for Shrike’s naturally long strides to keep up with a swimming invalid, even when walking through water. And he could hardly blame Shrike for following him.
“Where does it drop off?” Wren gasped.
Shrike struck out for the appointed place and remained there as a guiding lighthouse for Wren to aim toward.
It didn’t take many repetitions of Shrike to shore and back again to tire Wren. Then he simply sat on the steps and watched appreciatively as Shrike performed feats of aquatic agility. When at last they left the water, Wren felt twice as heavy as when he’d gone in. But the ache in his limbs wasn’t the grinding throb of fever; rather the satisfying sensation that came after splitting firewood or swinging a scythe.
While Wren dried off, Shrike set out the picnic that Wren himself had almost forgotten. He devoured it with an appetite he hadn’t realised he possessed until it touched his lips—the bread Shrike had baked just that morning before Wren had even awoken, slathered with lingonberry jam and butter from the Court of Hidden Folk. A comfortable silence descended on them as they ate. Wren’s mind wandered as he chewed—which meant he had a question for Shrike when he finished swallowing.
“When will the Wild Hunt ride again?” Wren asked.
Shrike looked altogether bewildered at the suggestion.
Wren had no notion how Shrike knew when the Wild Hunt would meet. On some occasions—like the white hart hunt—he received a missive, usually from Nell. On others he seemed to learn it from the turning of a particular leaf or the rustling of a breeze or the way the clouds happened to drift across the moon. More often he seemed to know just on pure instinct.
“Likely soon,” Shrike admitted with some hesitation. “Though I shall not join them.”
“Well, not the very next one I suppose,” said Wren. “But perhaps the one after or the one after that—whenever I’m well enough to join you.”
Shrike stared at him in something that looked very much like disbelief. “You wish to rejoin the hunt?”
“I enjoy it,” Wren insisted. “Perhaps not for the same reasons as you, but—it’s exhilarating. And more sporting than a fox-hunt, certainly.”
He’d hoped that last remark might provoke the hint of a smile in Shrike’s sombre features. Instead they grew still more clouded with concern.
At length, Shrike replied, “I know not how to keep you safe.”
His words emerged half-mumbled, as if to speak them louder would loose the full wellspring of helplessness behind them.
Wren ceased swimming and spun to stare at him in turn. “You have kept me safe.”
Shrike’s eyes dropt to the ragged burgundy scar in Wren’s side, then flicked up to meet his gaze again. “Clearly not.”
“You did,” Wren insisted. “I fell through the ice because I ignored your advice and wandered away from the stag. It’s my own folly. There was nothing further you could’ve done—unless you wanted to tie me to it?”
He’d meant it in jest, but Shrike looked as though he were seriously considering it.
“You rescued me,” Wren hurried on. “You carried me home and restored me to life. You’ve tended me for months whilst I regained my strength. I’m alive before you nowbecauseyou kept me safe.”
Shrike looked but half-convinced, if that.
A single stroke through the water brought Wren to him. Here the water was shallow enough for him to stand before his Shrike. He slipped his arms around his waist and drew him close, tilting his head up to meet his gaze.
“I’ll be safe,” Wren promised. “So long as I’m with you.”
Uncertainty still showed behind Shrike’s dark eyes. Yet he met Wren’s glance with his own and held it. Then, returning his embrace, he bent to grant him a kiss. Wren smiled up at him as they broke it off, and after a moment’s pause, Shrike returned it.
“Then…” Shrike said with unaccountable hesitation. “Would you want to accompany me when I go to slay the skull-crusher?”
Wren blinked up at him, glad for the invitation but stunned nonetheless. “You intend to hunt it?”
Shrike gave a solemn nod. “I’ve months yet to wait to satisfy my rage against the beast. My thirst for vengeance against Tolhurst was slaked within moments.”
Wren stared at him. It hadn’t occurred to him to think of Tolhurst’s murder as an act of vengeance. He’d assumed Shrike had slid his misericord into the bastard’s throat to prevent Tolhurst’s shard of glass from finding its sheath in his own flesh. He swallowed hard. “You would have slain him for revenge, then? Not just in self-defence?”
Shrike furrowed his brow. “He raised his hand against you.”
