Marak Catspaw and his two lieutenants stood outside the cliff face that concealed the entrance to the goblins’ underground kingdom, studying the early night sky. The northern constellation that the elves called the King’s Throne was glowing very brightly. The W of stars appeared to flicker and flash.
Seylin was beside himself with excitement. “It’s the traditional summons to a truce meeting!” he exclaimed. “A meeting between goblins and elves. But how?”
“And not just any summons, but the highest level,” reflected Marak Catspaw. “Adviser, what do you advise me to do?”
“Go, of course,” replied Seylin. “The goblin King always went personally to a King’s Throne summons. And I certainly advise you to bring us along. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
The three of them walked through the whispering forest not far from the Hallow Hill mansion, where Til was holding a supper party, and up the hill toward the old truce circle, wondering what it might contain. Its double ring of ancient oak trees guarded that secret well, the massive trunks blocking completely any view of what lay within. Marak Catspaw was pleased and intrigued. Some elves still existed, then, and they still remembered their manners, unlike Sable and Irina’s savage band. Perhaps his reign would prove important. Richard was remembering the last time he had faced elves, and they had tried to turn him into a rabbit. They wouldn’t find that so easy to do this time. Seylin was attempting to recall useful lore from his studies, but the thought of elves blotted out all else. His powerful elf blood gave him a powerful interest in the subject. The goblin Scholars believed that he himself had found the very last elves thirty years before. It had been the disappointment of his life that they were so primitive.
The men passed through the rings of gnarled, hoary trees that enclosed the crown of the hill and walked to the center of the large, open circle of turf within. The half moon lit them with its pale light. A single elf stepped out of the shadows and walked over to join them.
When Seylin had hunted for elves in his youth, he had hunted for an elf like this. The man was noble and stately, and he was dressed as his people had always dressed. He wore a sleeveless, belted tunic and loose breeches of dark green cloth cross-gartered up to the knee, leather straps wrapping around the lower legs in X patterns to hold the breeches close to the calves. His short boots were of soft deer hide. Over tunic and breeches, he wore a dark green cloak, the hood pushed back, and at his belt was a proper elf knife sheathed in leather. The belt lacked the sophistication of a buckle. It simply crossed through a loop in one end and knotted over itself, the free end hanging. No metal, noted Seylin: the cloak tied with leather thongs. True elves, he knew, hated metal.
The man who wore this true elf clothing was a true elf in every sense. The smooth skin of his pale face glimmered with a silvery sheen in the moonlight, and his eyes were large and black. His black locks clustered around the pale, high forehead and fringed the edge of his face, just brushing the cheekbones. In the back, thick, loosely curling hair just reached the lowered hood. Seylin shared with this stranger the impatient eyebrows that slanted up where a human’s eyebrows slanted down and the well-formed, pointed ears that showed through the black hair. But even to Seylin, who saw an elf every day in the mirror, this stranger’s appearance was remarkable. Strong and strikingly handsome, he possessed a cold authority that demanded respect. The chronicles told tales of great warrior lords who had slaughtered goblins like sheep. This man could be such a warrior, concluded Seylin.
The goblin King merely noted a properly dressed elf man who had the black eyes of an aristocrat. Good, he thought: a rival with manners and distinction. His reign might turn out to be quite interesting.
For a moment, none of them spoke. Seylin was too excited. Richard knew his place. Marak Catspaw didn’t intend to speak first. What the stranger felt, knew, or intended was impossible to guess. His expression was very guarded. His eyes betrayed only the slightest gleam at the sight of the goblins, the faintest hint of fascinated distaste.
“I have to speak to Marak, the goblin King,” he informed them in English.
“I am Marak, the goblin King,” replied Catspaw. “These are Richard and Seylin, my lieutenants.”
The elf turned toward Seylin, his manner relaxing somewhat. “I know of you,” he said. “You are the goblin who showed himself to be a friend to my people. Even though you raided for brides, you didn’t murder the men. You left them in safety and provided them with supplies.”
“We did that on the orders of the old goblin King,” answered Seylin.
The elf paused, and his expression once again became guarded. “The old goblin King,” he murmured, looking at Catspaw. “You are a new goblin King. And unmarried.”
His tone was hostile. Seylin considered the matter from his point of view. The most dangerous thing in the elf world was an unmarried goblin King. The Kings had always tried to capture brides from the very highest noble families.
“A good guess,” replied Catspaw calmly. “And who are you?”
“My people call me Nir,” said the elf. This revealed nothing. Nir was only a polite term of address, the elvish word for “lord.”
“What sort of lord are you?” demanded Seylin. “Did your ancestors lead a camp? What is your proper name?” But the elf just glanced at him and then turned back to the goblin King. He plainly intended to stay with business.
“I am here to propose a treaty,” he announced. “My people were widely scattered after the death of our King, and we have been hunted down to a handful. Over the last twenty years, I have gathered all of the remaining elves.”
“All of the elves you could find,” corrected Marak Catspaw.
“All of the remaining elves,” declared the lord in a firm voice. “In order for my people to survive, we have to come back to our own land and live in our own forest. I need the goblin King to swear that he will do what is best for the elves. He must swear not to hunt us or allow brides to be taken during his reign. We must be able to live freely on our land, with no goblins spying on us.”
“How many elves are left?” asked Marak Catspaw.
The lord hesitated as if he were ashamed. “Sixty-seven,” he replied bitterly.
“Such a treaty is reasonable,” mused the goblin King. “We couldn’t raid such a small number for brides and expect the elves to survive it.”
“But that isn’t all,” continued the stranger. “You goblins took the magic books from my people so that we couldn’t defend ourselves. We lack many spells that we need to survive, spells for healing and for making our way of life. I must have those books back.”
“That you can’t have,” answered the goblin King. “We use those books ourselves.”
The elf lord’s expression hardened. “The books belong to us, and you have your own magic,” he said heatedly. “What do you need with ours?”
“We can work elf magic, too,” said Marak Catspaw, “and the spells are essential to the care of the elves who live with us.”
At this mention of captives, the distaste in the stranger’s eyes became definite. He glanced away from them, looking over their heads at the stars.
The goblin King gave the matter further thought. “I well understand your need for the spells,” he concluded. “I would be willing to give you copies.
The elf lord looked at him again. “An elf should copy what elves have written,” he replied. “I would rather copy the books myself. They will be safe in my care and promptly returned. But I must have writing materials and the materials for books. My people don’t yet have these things.”
Marak Catspaw was well aware of the importance of the elves to the goblins. The discovery of sixty-seven elves still alive was an event of tremendous significance. Catspaw didn’t mind meeting the lord’s demands, either, and even augmenting them with his own concerned vigilance. But the new King was growing tired of this pretty stranger’s arrogant attitude.
“The elves are asking a great deal of the goblins,” he remarked blandly. “What do they intend to do in return?” Nothing, he was sure, and he wanted to make this elf admit that and swallow a nice dose of humility.
But the elf lord didn’t look in the least humiliated. He glared at Marak Catspaw. “We will give this unmarried goblin King a bride,” he retorted.
“A what?” gasped Seylin. Catspaw just stared. The elves never sanctioned the marriages of their women with goblins. Goblins stole elves. They didn’t accept them.
“I will give you a bride,” repeated the elf lord emphatically, his handsome face set in a look of bitterness and contempt. “My people are too poor and too few to wage battle. We won’t survive without our own land and magic, but we aren’t strong enough to take them. I will give you one bride in exchange for these things. I have no other choice.”
He dropped his gaze and stared at the ground, plainly overcome with despair at the thought. Good, thought Marak Catspaw. He’s taking that dose of humility after all.
“Sixty-seven elves,” mused the King. “But how many of those could be brides?”
“I’ve been forbidding the marriages,” replied the elf lord. “Four women are unmarried, and one is old enough for marriage at the full moon.”
“Five women,” considered Catspaw. “Is any from the high families?”
The elf studied him with loathing. “I don’t know their ancestry,” he replied.
“What color are their eyes?” put in Seylin. Now those black eyes glared at him.
“Blue. Gray. Green. Blue. Green,” he enunciated carefully.
“It doesn’t sound as if they are from the nobility,” said the goblin King. “I reserve the right to take any female child, even a baby.”
“To keep like a penned sheep,” retorted the elf lord angrily. “Then I demand a right as well. I want to see the elves you already have penned up. I need to see for myself that these women are not mistreated before I let another one fall into your hands.” He glanced down at the goblin King’s hands as he spoke, saw the great paw, and looked away with a grimace.
“Very well,” replied Marak Catspaw. “When will we meet?”
“I can return with my band in six nights,” replied the elf. “We will be here on the night of the new moon.”
“Then I wish you a safe journey,” concluded the goblin King. He turned and left the truce circle. As he and his lieutenants reached the outer ring of trees, he glanced down at his chief adviser. Follow him, he told Seylin in his thoughts.
Seylin gave the barest of nods and dropped behind as they walked into the forest, assuming his cat shape and cloaking himself in shadow. He waited a prudent amount of time and then crept through the forest to the other side of the circle. The elf was already gone. Seylin hissed the Tracking Spell. Now he could see the elf lord’s footprints, bright against the dark grass, only a few minutes old. Seylin didn’t follow them directly; this elf might be watching for him. Instead, he slunk on his belly within sight of those prints, keeping to the thickest shade under the trees.
In the morning, he woke up and stretched luxuriously from head to toe. He was very stiff. Stiff and cold. He had fallen asleep out in the woods. Seylin glanced down, a little confused. He had fallen asleep as a cat!
He jumped and sputtered as memory broke in on him. The elf lord! The tracks! What had gone wrong? Fluffy tail drooping, he looked around. The great trees of the truce circle towered behind him. The elf had stopped him before he had gone thirty feet.
• • •
As Miranda came into the royal rooms to accompany Catspaw to breakfast, she could hear Seylin speaking loudly and a little frantically. Not just any lord, either,” he was protesting. “I’m telling you, goblin King, he’s one of the great elf lords, a descendent of the elf King’s own lieutenants!”
“Maybe;”
Catspaw answered, unruffled and a little amused. “But
you should tear yourself away from your books, adviser,
and practice
your spells a little more. Great elf lord or not, you
gave yourself away.”
Miranda put her head in at the door, and the two men looked up, startled. The Guard, knowing that she would be the King’s Wife in a week, didn’t bother to announce her anymore.
“Who is a great elf lord?” she asked. There was a slight pause.
“An elf has turned up,” replied the goblin King. “But don’t mention it to anyone, Miranda. It shouldn’t be known.”
“Of course not,” she said with a smile. “Are you ready for breakfast?” There was another slight pause.
“No. I don’t have time,” answered Catspaw. “Go without me.” So Miranda went on her way. She was feeling cheerful this morning. A great elf lord, she thought idly. She liked the sound of that. The men watched the door shut. Then they stared at it for a few seconds.
“For pity’s sake, Seylin!” exclaimed the goblin King. “What do I do about Miranda? I don’t want to marry some wailing elf girl. I want to marry her!”
“I’m fond of her, too,” agreed Seylin bleakly. “But the King has to think of his people, and you know what an elf bride means for the magic of the Heir.”
“I’ll tell you this, I refuse to give her up for some commonplace elf,” threatened Catspaw. “Not for anything less than a lord’s daughter.” He sighed. “But I suppose we have to plan for that possibility.”
“She will still be a strong human bride,” noted Seylin. “Miranda’s settling in well, and she’ll get over her disappointment. She’d make an excellent bride for one of the strong elf crosses, to extend the elvish bloodlines. Tattoo would be a good choice. He has his father’s pleasant nature, and she knows him well. She and Sable are always together.”
“Tattoo and my Miranda,” growled the goblin King. “I don’t like it at all! That infuriating elf! Why couldn’t he have shown up next week? Why did he feel he had to offer a bride? I would have signed his treaty.”
“In the meantime,” said Seylin, “may I suggest that you embark on that triumphal tour of the dwarf mines that new goblin Kings always take? There’s no sense making Miranda suspicious if this all comes to nothing. You can be gone the whole six days.”
“Ah, yes,” sighed Catspaw. “Days of being dragged through endless miles of four-foot-high corridors on a little stone sledge. But it’s best to get it out of the way before these elves come back. I don’t want you and Richard to speak of this business with anyone but each other, and have the elves and elf-human crosses assembled near the main door on the evening of the new moon.”
Meanwhile, Miranda sat with Kate at the table overlooking the banquet hall. She was becoming more used to seeing monsters at mealtime, but it still affected her appetite. Instead, she studied Kate’s golden hair and perfect porcelain skin. Marak’s beautiful widow showed not the least tendency to age. Perhaps that was a benefit of being elvish.
“Tell me something about the elves tonight,” said the sleepy girl as she snuggled down under the warmth of the covers. It was cold in her room, and she could see her breath when she talked.
Her ugly guardian smiled at her from his chair and shook his striped hair out of his face. “What do you want to know about the silly elves? All right. Here’s your story. Once a very ugly human man met a very pretty elf man. The human was poor and miserable, gathering firewood in the winter twilight. His face had been disfigured by a ghastly burn. The elf was magnificent, tall and noble, and he was disgusted at the sight of the poor man. He reached out his hand to work magic, and the human knew that his last hour had come.
” ‘Spare me!’ he cried, dropping his sticks and falling at the feet of the elf. “I know I look awful, but I am a very intelligent man.’
” ‘You, intelligent?’ scoffed the elf. “Then I’ll let you go if you can answer a question. How many stars are in the sky above us?’
“‘A hundred thousands,’ replied the human without a second’s hesitation.
“‘That’s not right,’ declared the elf triumphantly. ‘It’s not even close.’
“‘Of course it’s not right,’ agreed the human. ‘How would I know something like that? But you just said I had to give an answer. You never said it had to be right.’
“Then the elf laughed heartily because elves love jokes and pranks. ‘You may go,’ he told the human. ‘But not looking like that.’ And he healed the human’s face.”
“What happened when the human got home?” she asked. “Did his family know who he was? Were they glad?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Marak admitted. “The human didn’t write that story, the elf did. That was Aganir Dalhamun, the elf King named Dust Cloud.”
• • •
Miranda smiled at the memory. It didn’t hurt so much to think about him now. She looked at the hideous shapes filling the huge room and felt a surge of affection. They were Marak’s goblins, after all. She loved them for that. And he had been right, just as he always was. She belonged here, even without him.