Wintersong(89)

Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. Not any nights in the foreseeable future. I would have cried, if I had any sorrow left. I would have shouted, if anger still burned within me. But there was nothing, nothing but hope and despair, and despair was winning.

“Very well.” I returned to my seat at the keyboard. I wanted to throw up my hands in defeat, or wrap them around his throat and throttle him. I wanted to pour my frustration out into song. But I did not know how to articulate the swirling maelstrom of confusion within me into words, phrases, sentences, so I twisted my fingers into the keyboard instead. A discordant jangle, a handful of notes that clashed and screeched. “Let us play a game.”

Something in the Goblin King loosened, though his wolf’s eyes were still wary. “What game, my dear?”

“Truth or Forfeit.”

He lifted his brows. “Child’s play?”

“The only games I know. Come, mein Herr, surely you remember our games in the Goblin Grove.”

A smile showed the tips of his teeth. “I do, Elisabeth. With pleasure.”

“Good.” Hope flickered in my stomach. “I shall start.”

I picked up the tray of strawberries and moved from the bench to the floor. I set the berries before me and tucked my legs beneath my skirts, as I had when I was a little girl. The Goblin King made no remark, only set aside his instrument and joined me on the ground. I held forth my hands, palms up. No tricks. The Goblin King took my hands in his own. No traps.

“We’ll begin with simple questions,” I said. “What is your name?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh no, Elisabeth. That is a question I cannot answer. Pick another.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

His eyes were hard. “Can’t. Won’t. Both. It doesn’t matter. Pick another. Or name your forfeit, and I shall pay it.”

I hadn’t expected the game to start off so poorly, so I hadn’t yet gathered any ideas for penalties to dole out. So I asked another question. “Fine. What is your favorite color?”

“Green. What’s yours?”

My glance fell on the salver beside me. “Red. Favorite smell?”

“Incense. Favorite animal?”

My eyes lingered on his. “Wolf. Favorite composer?”

“You.”

The response was so simple, so sincere, it took my breath away. “All right,” I said, my voice unsteady. “The questions will get harder now. I shall ask you five questions, and you must reply truthfully or pay the forfeit. Then you may ask me five.”

The Goblin King nodded his head.

“Where do you go when you wander the Underground at night?”

A flash of pain crossed his face, but he answered without hesitation. “The chapel.”

His reply surprised me. “The chapel? Why?”

“Is that your next question?”

I paused. “Yes.”

It was a while before he answered. “Solace.” I waited for him to continue. “It gives me comfort to offer my prayers to the Lord, even if he never hears them.”

“For what do you pray?”

He watched me from beneath those hooded lids, eyes slightly narrowed. “For atonement.”

“For what must you atone?”

His eyes glittered. “For selfishness.”

I considered pressing him further, but I had one more question and I did not want to waste it. “How did you come to be Der Erlk?nig?”

The Goblin King’s head snapped up and he snatched back his hands. “Don’t you dare, Elisabeth.”

My hands were still in front of me, palms empty. “You promised to answer truthfully.”

His nostrils flared. “There has always been Der Erlk?nig. There will always be Der Erlk?nig.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the one you must accept. If you will not, then name your forfeit, and I shall pay it.”

I studied him. I remembered the first story he had ever told me. The king underground knew the cost of sacrifice. He had sold his soul and his name to the goblins. His soul … and his name. But I thought of the gallery of Goblin Kings, an evolving line of different men. My Goblin King was Der Erlk?nig, but Der Erlk?nig was not every Goblin King. To whom had my husband given his name? To whom had he given his soul?

“Your name,” I whispered. “I claim your name as forfeit.”

He stiffened. “No, Elisabeth. I will give you anything but that.”

“Is a name so high a price to pay?”

The Goblin King looked at me, and there were a thousand emotions, a thousand years in his eyes. He had the form and figure of a young man, but he was ancient.

“It is,” he said quietly, “the highest price I could pay.”

“Why?”

He sighed, and it was the wind in the trees. “Who are you, Elisabeth?”

“Am I answering your questions now?” My hands were still empty, empty of his name. “You have not paid your forfeit.”

“I am paying it in the only manner I can.”

The silence between us began to fill.

“Who are you, Elisabeth? Answer this, and you shall understand.”

I frowned. “I am,” I began, then stopped. The Goblin King did not press me, but simply waited. His patience was infinite; his patience was immortal.