Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(31)
Twig and Thistle exchanged looks, then laughed, another burst of branches in a storm.
“There are rituals, and there are traditions,” Twig said. “The Goblin Ball is a tradition. There is a time and place for boons and audiences, and the Goblin Ball is not the appropriate time or place for either. You are Der Erlk?nig’s guest of honor; this night is for you. Enjoy yourself. All other nights belong to him. And to us.”
A shiver of foreboding ran up my spine. “Fine,” I said. “What do you need me to do?”
Despite my reluctance, a part of me tingled with anticipation. A ball, a beautiful gown. I had dreamed of such things once. I had dreamed of dancing with Der Erlk?nig, a queen to his king.
Twig and Thistle gave me identical grins. Their teeth were pointed and jagged. “Oh, you shall see, maiden. You shall see.”
*
The goblin musicians struck up a minuet when I entered.
Thistle and Twig had pushed, prodded, pulled, and cajoled me into an elaborate construction of a gown. It was a little out of date from the current fashions of the world above, something a fine lady might have worn fifty or sixty years ago. The gown was a russet and bronze damask, lined with a stomacher of watered silk striped with cream and violet. It was trimmed with rosettes cunningly shaped like alder catkins. Little as I was, the waist of the gown was even littler, the stays pinching my lower ribs so painfully I could not draw a deep breath. Even more impressive was the décolletage the bodice was able to give me. Despite the yards of fabric, I still felt naked.
My face was also naked; I had declined the powder and rouge Twig and Thistle had offered. I did not think pinching my cheeks for color was necessary—with the heat, the constricting nature of my dress, and the excitement quickening my breath, I was flushed.
The main hall was cavernous—it was a cavern. A large one, formed from stone, unlike the dirt-packed barrow that was my room. Icicles of stone dripped from the ceiling, embedded with glowing, glittering chips. The same grew from the ground, atop which tables and boards laden with food were laid. Centerpieces were created from the antler horns of stags and cobwebs and gems, and bubbling springs rose up like fountains at intervals, giving off a faint, sulfuric, mineral smell.
A myriad of fairy lights twinkled against the inky darkness of the cavern ceiling, so high out of reach I could almost believe I was looking up at the night sky. Bare branches and dried leaves still vibrant with the brilliance of autumn were hung like chandeliers halfway above our heads. Bolts of silk and brocade cascaded down the walls, as well as tapestries depicting scenes of rapacious goblin men and virginal maidens. Gold, silver, and jewels were scattered like confetti, catching the light of dancing candle flame, of fairy lights, and of flickering torches, glittering like new-fallen snow. Bits of silvered glass and mirrors were embedded into the stone floors and walls of the cavern, reflecting fractured images: a sliver of a face, broken limbs, a million blinking eyes.
Everything was opulent, sumptuous, and excessive. I moved unnoticed among the partygoers, each fitted with a mask shaped like a human face. There was something sad and melancholy about this ghoulish gathering of goblins, playacting like they were humans in the world above. Each mask was modeled after the same face—the men incredibly handsome, the women incredibly beautiful. All the men looked like Hans; all the women looked like K?the, their faces frozen into bland, personable smiles.
The goblin musicians started another minuet, their twisted hands gripping the oboe, the fife, the violoncello, and the violin awkwardly. The minuet, while adequately performed, sounded stiff and rote. None of the attendees danced, the music too dull to be much inspiration.
It was all wrong. Music of the rational, human mind with its rules and structure was all wrong in the hands of the goblins. It was lifeless, joyless, constrained. It did not breathe, take flight, or live. If only I could have taken their stacks of sheet music, I would have changed the tempo, the key, or else do away with the notes and paper altogether and let the music flow.
My skin prickled, my fingers twitched. I itched to join the musicians, but could not scrub away the hesitation of painful inadequacy that clung to me. I was unheard, uneducated, unpublished. Papa would say I was overreaching myself.
And yet … Papa was not here. Master Antonius was not here. Not even Josef was here. No one would judge me if I walked to the first chair, took his violin, and began to play.
As though sensing my intent, the violinist lifted his head and glanced at me. The goblin musicians were not masked; their queer, puckish faces were made uglier by concentration.
“What, maiden?” the violinist leered. “Think you could do better than me?”
“Yes.” The certainty of my reply surprised me.
My reply certainly surprised the musicians, who immediately stopped playing. I plucked the bow and violin from the first chair’s hands and tucked the instrument beneath my chin. The others gaped at me, but I ignored them. Instead, I touched my bow to the strings and began a simple country air.
A L?ndler, instantly recognizable to all assembled in the goblin ballroom. The musicians picked up the beat and the dancers picked up their feet. Once we were comfortable in the music, I began to embroider and expand the piece, adding a harmonic line to the melody. This was a game Josef and I had played when we were children: taking songs we knew and adding harmonies. The harmonies were usually simple thirds, but sometimes they were perfect fifths. This was how my little brother began to teach me the rudiments of theory.