Wintersong(55)

“A problem that shall be rectified immediately.”

“Your wish is our command, Your Highness.” Twig bent her impossibly long and slender body into a bow. The tops of her tree-branch hair scraped the barrow floor.

“My wish is your command regardless,” I said mildly.

Thistle made a face. “Hmph,” she said. “She’s not Her Highness yet.” Her black, beady eyes took me in, from the top of my disheveled head, down my tearstained cheeks, to the tips of my unshod feet. It was hard to discern any recognizable emotion in such a strange and alien face, but I thought I detected a hint of contempt.

“She will be soon enough,” Twig replied. Her words sent a bolt of—of some strong emotion through me. It was not quite fear, but it was not exactly pleasure either.

“Are we—are we to be married soon? The Goblin King and I?”

“Yes. You are to meet His Majesty in”—Twig and Thistle exchanged glances—“the chapel.”

“The chapel?”

“That’s what he calls it,” Thistle said indifferently. “He holds on to his quaint human rituals, but it’s not as though it really matters. What matters,” she continued slyly, “is the consummation.”

I blushed. Of course; in the world above, consummation also sealed a marriage. Then I frowned. Quaint human rituals. I thought of the austere young man in the portrait gallery with the cross and violin in his hands.

“How … how did he—His Majesty come to be Der Erlk?nig?” I asked. But it was not the question I held in my heart.

How had that austere young man become my Goblin King?

But neither Thistle nor Twig answered my questions, voiced and unvoiced. Instead, Thistle produced a fine silk dress out of thin air and ordered me to put it on.

“What for?”

“All the other queens came prepared in their finest gowns,” she sneered. “Unless you want to go to your funeral dressed in filthy rags.”

“My funeral? I thought it was my wedding.”

Thistle shrugged. “There is no difference here.”

I took the dress from Thistle’s hands. It was made of a white silk so fine it was nearly sheer, the cut simple, made to drape rather than fit. A shroud. Thistle also brought out a long veil, even more transparent than the dress and spangled with tiny diamonds, and affixed it to my hair.

Meanwhile, Twig produced a wreath fashioned of branches and alder catkins. I thought of the wedding wreaths I had seen for sale in the village markets, and remembered with a pang the dried wreath and ribbons I had thought to buy for K?the that fateful day she stumbled upon the goblin merchants. There would be no flowers or ribbons for me, only a coronet made of dead twigs. There would be no sister or mother to act as my attendants, only a pair of goblin girls, one of whom hated me and the other who pitied me. And there would be no blessing made holy by God, only a promise made in the dark.

Once I was suitably attired, Twig and Thistle led me out into the corridor. Thistle marched on ahead, Twig picked up my veil and train, and the three of us wound our way through the labyrinthine passages, deeper and deeper into the heart of the Underground, where my immortal bridegroom awaited me to bring him to life.

*

Deep below the labyrinth was a lake.

After descending what seemed like an endless spiral of stairs, we came upon its desolate shores. Its black expanse appeared suddenly from nowhere, its dark waters lit by candelabras fashioned like arms holding torches. Dripping stone teeth glittered as they bit into the lake, and beautiful pools of blue-green light rippled from where rock met water. Fairy lights danced in the grotto, and a barge floated at the bottom of the stairs as though waiting for me to enter.

“Where does this lead?” I asked. My voice echoed in this watery underground cavern, scattered like light in a prism.

“The lake itself feeds into small rivers and streams down here,” Twig explained. “And then on to springs and wells in the world above.”

“But that is not your destination.” Thistle pointed to the barge. “This will lead you straight to where the Goblin King awaits you on the other side.”

“Am I to cross alone?” My words trembled.

“For now, yes,” Thistle said.

“Who will guide me?”

“There is only one place to go,” Twig said gently. “Straight across. The Lorelei will take you there.”

“The Lorelei?”

“Listen not to their songs,” she warned. “They lure mortals to a watery grave with the sweetness of their music. Not even we are completely immune.”

“Are they not of your kind, then?”

Twig shook her head, the cobwebs of her hair quivering. “The Lorelei have been here long before goblins found the hills and mountains of this land. Once they were as populous as the leaves in the trees, but more and more of them were driven underground by the spread of you humans.”

“It’s been a very long time since they’ve had a mortal in their midst,” Thistle said with a toothy grin. “I don’t much like your chances.”

“Shush,” Twig admonished. “The Goblin King needs her. We need her.”

“Hmph,” was all Thistle said. She looked expectantly at the barge at my feet.

I hesitated.

“Scared?” she sneered.