Wintersong(65)

As we neared the center of the goblin city, the hallways broadened and expanded into passable avenues. The floor became paved with enormous gemstones, each the size of my head. They glittered beneath our feet as we passed, their surfaces polished by thousands—millions—of feet smoothing them over centuries. On each side of these broad avenues were elaborately carved thresholds, with “windows” cut into the second-and third-story walls to overlook the streets below.

It was wrong. The city was strange, forced, and artificial. It did not teem with life; it was empty. This city had not been grown—it had been made. There was a symmetry to these buildings that seemed antithetical to the goblin aesthetic, a rigid sameness and grace that was as ordered as a Baroque symphony.

“Does anyone live here?” I asked.

“Goblins don’t live in cities,” Thistle said. “We’re not like you humans, wanting to live on top of each other. Most of us are solitary, and we live in barrows connected by family and clan. This,” she said, gesturing to the storefronts around us, “is where we trade.”

“Trade?” I was surprised. “Goblins conduct business with each other?”

The sour look was back on Thistle’s face. “Yes. Obviously.”

There were signs above each open threshold, goblin sigils. Family crests, perhaps. Perhaps this one indicated gold work, that one gem-cutting. I had seen some astonishing works of art in the Underground, works that were far more deftly made than those made by human hands. Goblin-made objects of legend had always been treasure beyond measure in Constanze’s stories; wars had been waged for their possession, empires had fallen to acquire them.

“A lot of effort to build a city that will never be lived in,” I murmured. My eyes swept over the elaborately carved arches, the graceful fa?ades and storefronts—all for nothing.

“It wasn’t always this way,” Twig put in. “Goblins never gathered in cities; we always conducted our business in the open air, in groves and other sacred places in the world above.”

“What changed?”

Twig shrugged. “Der Erlk?nig. When he took the throne, he brought many strange customs with him.”

I frowned. “My Goblin King?” I corrected myself. “This Goblin King?”

Thistle wore a dark look. “Der Erlk?nig is Der Erlk?nig. It is only you mortals who care where one ends and the other begins.”

“Look here, we’ve arrived at the clothier,” Twig said jovially. She bustled me past a dark threshold into a large room. I was about to admonish Twig for her transparent attempt to distract me, when I became distracted indeed.

The clothier was laid out like a large shop, with dresses in the “window displays,” and gowns hanging on dress forms. A large mirror made of polished copper stood in the corner, and fairy lights illuminated the space: glowing, floating dust motes that gave everything a soft, diffuse look. K?the would have loved this.

The thought of my sister was sharper than needles and pins, my heart a pincushion of sorrow. I thought of her running her hands over the sumptuous bolts of fabric at the clothier’s in our village, her summer-blue, beauty-loving eyes drinking in the rich velvets, the elaborate brocades, the vibrant colors, the shimmering silks and satins. How I both loathed and loved visiting the shops with my sister. Loathed because I would never be as lovely as she, loved because her delight was infectious. I brushed away the moisture from my lower lashes.

“Ah, fresh meat.”

I jumped when another goblin materialized at my feet. He wore a knotted measuring ribbon about his neck, with a few pins in his mouth. The tailor. Upon closer inspection, I realized the pins in his mouth were in fact whiskers. Steel-tipped whiskers.

“Yes, this is Der Erlk?nig’s latest.” Thistle pushed me forward.

The tailor sniffed. “Not much to look at.” He peered into my face. “Looks familiar, though.”

I shrank beneath his scrutiny.

“Well!” the tailor said, sweeping his hand over the shop. “Welcome to my humble atelier. We’ve been dressing brides of Der Erlk?nig since time immemorial, so you’ve come to the right place if you are in need of attire befitting a queen. What can I do you for?”

My eyes wandered over the beautiful gowns on display. They were all several years out of date—some even older than that. I ran my hands over the gowns. Although the fabrics were sumptuous, rich, and beautiful, the gowns themselves had been skillfully repaired. Nothing, not even goblin hands, could stop the wear and tear of time on these gorgeous pieces. The more I looked, the more I realized that everything around me was crumbling, decaying, dying.

It was only then that I understood these dresses had belonged to my predecessors. My rivals. I immediately quashed the thought.

The tailor sidled forward, his long, multi-jointed fingers caressing the dress form closest to me.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Beautiful, isn’t it? The color of storms and oceans, or so we’ve been told. This dress,” he continued, “belonged to Magdalena. She was beautiful—the way you mortals reckon, anyhow—beautiful, but stupid. Oh ho, we had fun with this one, we did, but we used her up too soon. Her fire died, leaving us cold and dark.”

The dress form beneath the gown was tall and well-formed, the bosom and hips generous, the waist tiny. The dress, a robe à la fran?aise, was made from a deep, jewel-toned blue silk, and I could imagine the dramatic coloring of the woman who had worn it: pale skin, dark hair, and blue eyes to match her gown. A breathless beauty, a glittering jewel, and I imagined the Goblin King partaking of her loveliness over and over again, biting the sweet peaches of her cheeks until she was gone.