Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(57)
It hurt. Hearing my music like this, played in the hands of someone who understood me so completely—in a way not even my brother had known—hurt. My music was elegant, transcendent, ethereal, and I could not bear to behold its beauty. I longed to pull it back beneath my skin, to hide it away in the shadows where it properly belonged, safe where no one could judge it for its flaws.
The last notes of my music faded over the lake as the barge soundlessly glided to a halt on the opposite mooring. Ahead stood the Goblin King, haloed by the flickering torches behind him. From this distance he seemed forbidding, his tall height accentuated by the long black cloak draped over him and the crown of antlers at his brow. I could not see his face, but the violin and bow hung loose at his sides.
For a moment, we stood and stared at each other in silence. The beat of my excitable heart thumped louder at the sight of him. The awkward and self-conscious way he held his instrument made my blood pulse harder. Was this my soft-eyed young man? But the Goblin King put his violin and bow away, and he was as mysterious and implacable as a statue once more.
He walked down to the quay to meet me, his footfalls silent. He moved like a shadow, a shadow that bent down to take my hand and help me from the barge. He led me from the lakeside, up through a series of passageways, and into a large, well-lit chamber. We did not exchange a word.
As my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I took in the chamber. It was the chapel. The ceilings were tall and arched—formed by nature, not by man—and beautiful stained glass windows were placed at regular intervals around the chamber. The windows did not open to the outside world, but were instead lit from within. There was an altar at the head of the chamber, and a modest crucifix hung in the sanctuary.
Tears stung my eyes. Goblin-made and Underground as this chapel might have been, it was still a church. A church like many I had seen in the world above. Here there were no strange goblin-made statuaries. Here there were no fantastic creatures, no leering satyrs, no ecstatic nymphs. Here there was nothing but Christ, the Goblin King, and me.
“It’s all right to grieve, Elisabeth.” His voice was gentle as I wiped away my tears. “I did, when I first came to the Underground.”
I nodded, but his sympathy only made my tears flow harder.
There was no priest to bless us, no one to conduct the service. But we were in the presence of God nonetheless. Here, before the altar, the Goblin King and I were to exchange our vows.
“I do—” I began, then stopped. What could I say to Der Erlk?nig, the Lord of Mischief, the Ruler Underground? What vows could I offer that mattered? I had already made him the greatest promise, the greatest sacrifice: my life.
He saw my hesitation, and took my hands in his. “I do solemnly swear,” he said, “that I accept your sacrifice, the gift of your life, selflessly and selfishly given.”
I looked at our entwined fingers. The Goblin King had a violinist’s hands: long, dexterous fingers, the tips of his left one callused and rough where they pressed against the strings. They were hands that could be both gentle and cruel, and they were familiar.
“Do you swear, Elisabeth?” I glanced up at his face. Those mismatched eyes were uncertain, and I saw not Der Erlk?nig, but the austere young man. “Do you swear that you make this bargain of … of your own free will?”
We kept each other’s gaze, unblinking and unbroken. Then I made my vows.
“I do solemnly swear,” I said softly, “that I give of myself unto you of my own free will. Body … and soul.”
Those mismatched eyes sharpened. “You, entire?”
I nodded. “Myself, entire.”
The Goblin King took a ring from his finger. It was wrought of silver, and fashioned into the shape of a wolf. Its paws swept around the band, and its eyes were gems of two different colors: one an icy blue and the other a silvery green.
“With this ring,” he said, taking my hands in his, “I make you my queen. To hold sovereignty over all that I rule, and the power to bend the will of the goblins to your every wish.”
He slid the ring onto my finger. It was too big, but I tightened my hand into a fist so I would not lose it. He wrapped his own hands over mine.
“Sovereignty over my kingdom, over the goblins, and over me,” he said. Then he knelt. “I beg your compassion, my queen. Your compassion, and your grace.”
I freed a hand from his grasp, the hand that bore his ring. I laid it over his brow, and I could feel him tremble beneath my touch.
Presently, he rose and retrieved a chalice from the altar.
“Let us drink.” He offered the goblet to me. “To seal our troth.”
The wine was as dark as blackberries, or sin. I remembered the heady rush of goblin wine, the sweet, full-bodied taste on my tongue. I remembered the loose-limbed, wanton self I had become at the Goblin Ball, and a slow, languorous heat began to warm me from within. I brought the chalice to my lips in a hasty swallow, a few drops falling onto the white silk of my wedding gown. They looked like drops of blood in the snow.
The Goblin King took the goblet back and drank a little himself, his eyes never leaving mine. There were promises of nights to come, and I swore to myself then that I would hold him to every single one.
He set the cup back on the altar, and slowly wiped the wine away from his mouth with the back of his hand. I swallowed hard. Then the Goblin King offered me his arm and we walked out of the chapel, into the Underground, as husband and wife.