Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(58)
WEDDING NIGHT
We emerged directly into the goblin revels.
At the center of the large cavern that had served as the ballroom was an enormous bonfire, around which the twisted shapes of goblins danced. A gigantic boar was speared and spitted over the fire, and the smell of roasted meat was overpowering. There were no lights in this cavern: no torches, no fairy lights, no candles burning away in their unsettling candelabras shaped like human arms. Only the flames of the bonfire, its bloody, inconstant fire growing shadows instead of throwing light.
I shrank away from the scene, but the Goblin King held my hand firmly.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured into my ear. “Remember my troth.”
But I was afraid. I had danced and feasted at the Goblin Ball, but this was something entirely different: wild, untamed, and feral. The Goblin Ball, hosted by the Goblin King, had had a veneer of civilized behavior overlaying its orgiastic abandonment, but there were no such niceties now. This was not hedonistic indulgence; this was savagery. I could smell blood—freshly spilled. It smelled of copper and iron and flesh. Twining, writhing shapes copulated in the corners of my vision, and I thought of the little objet d’art in my barrow room that depicted the nymph and the satyr. Music wailed on pipes and horns and catgut lutes—rude, rustic, without refinement. The goblin wine took the edges off my fear, but the chill of it still ran through my veins.
“Come,” the Goblin King said. “Let your subjects pay tribute to their new queen.”
He led me down the steps into the throng. Bodies and fantastical faces crowded me on all sides, leering and cheering at me, their spindly fingers like brambles in a hedge, catching on the edges of my dress, my veil, my hair. A little hunchback of a hobgoblin skipped up beside us and offered me a flagon of wine.
“Ah, the music maiden,” it said. “She smolders still. Tell me, mistress”—it winked at me—“does His Majesty fear to set you alight?”
I blinked, trying to place where I had seen its face before. The hobgoblin hummed a familiar little tune, and I caught the scent of summer peaches.
The goblin market.
It cackled when it saw recognition bloom across my face, and cackled even harder at the blush on the Goblin King’s cheeks. “Only a breath, Your Majesty. A breath, and she bursts into flame.”
The Goblin King grabbed the flagon from the hobgoblin’s spindly hands. He threw back his head and downed the wine, heedless of whatever spilled from his lips and coursed down his throat like blood. Then he offered me the flagon, and grinned.
I was taken aback by that grin. It was all sharp edges and pointed teeth. His hooded eyes twinkled maliciously, and he was the Lord of Mischief once more. Which was the mask and which was the man? Der Erlk?nig or the austere young man to whom I had said my vows? I stared at him as I took the flagon from his grasp. Neither his expression nor his manner changed or softened, but something flashed across his eyes when our fingers brushed.
The goblins hooted and called as I threw back my head and gulped down the wine. It burned down my mouth and throat, staining my dress. The room wheeled and spun, and for a moment I thought I might be sick.
Eyes watched me as I struggled with the effects of the wine, judging my reaction. I took a deep breath, threw back my shoulders, and smiled. If it could be called a smile. It was more like a challenge met, a grimace, the way a dog bares its teeth in its last extremity. I might have even snarled.
The goblins whooped their approval, hissing appreciatively. They rubbed their long, spindly fingers together to make a shushing sound, the sound of the wind in the trees. They did not clap the way humans did, and I suppressed a shudder of revulsion. The Goblin King’s hooded gaze rested on my wine-stained and dripping lips, and I stared back, bold for the first time in my life. He inclined his head.
“Let us join the revels, my queen.” He extended me a pale, elegant hand. His palm was cool and dry, but the living touch of his skin against mine sent my heart racing.
Without warning, the Goblin King swept me onto the cavern floor. The goblin musicians had not ceased playing their savage melodies, and we danced. No prescribed steps to follow, no restrained and civilized conversations to be held, we let the music overtake us. I danced with wild abandon, my veins running with wine, falling into the throng of goblins as they embraced me, kissed me, and worshipped me. I was passed from hand to hand, goblin to goblin, each wanting to steal a bit of me, my life, my fire. I was their queen, their sacrificial lamb placed atop the altar, and they paid homage to me with their bodies, their gifts, their offerings. They offered me food, fruit, and drink: flesh fresh-charred from the spit, overripe peaches and plums bursting to the touch, and wine so rich it spilled from tongue to tongue.
Somewhere in the fray I lost track of the Goblin King. I wanted him, reached for him, but could not find him.
Panic overtook me. Like wolves scenting blood on the wind, the goblins closed in around me, nipping, grabbing, biting like I was a hart in the hunt. My fear drove them into a frenzy. I cried out as they tore at my dress, my veil, my hair, but it wasn’t my modesty I was concerned about. I could feel life draining from my limbs, I was turning languid, liquid, dissolving into nothing as the goblins fed on my emotions, growing bigger, more powerful, more.
“No,” I said feebly, but my protests went unheard. “No.”
My subjects did not listen, lost in the bloodlust and lifelust of my mortal existence in their midst.