Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(93)

She nodded. “Der Erlk?nig loved her, and he let her go.”

For a moment, the sharp stab of jealousy gutted me. Der Erlk?nig had loved the brave maiden. He had loved her beyond the breaking of the old laws and the end of the world.

“How,” I said in a low voice, “is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Twig whispered. “But their sacrifices were made in love, a love so vast it spanned both the world above and below. Their love was a bridge, and so they crossed it.”

I frowned. “They?”

She trembled even harder at my question. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, and the effort of answering—or not answering—was causing her anguish.

“Twig,” I said. “Are you saying that … that the brave maiden and Der Erlk?nig walked out of the Underground—together?”

The gallery of Goblin Kings. The changing face of Der Erlk?nig through the ages. A succession? Sons? Heirs? But Thistle had said no union of mortal or the Underground had ever been fruitful. There has always been Der Erlk?nig. There will always be Der Erlk?nig.

Twig wailed, and with horror, I saw a band of granite grow around her chest, a spreading stain of gray. She moved her fingers and they moaned and cracked, like branches caught in a gale. Bark covered her claws, her knuckles, her palms. My kindhearted goblin girl was turning into roots and rock.

“Stop!” I cried. “Enough!”

But I could not stop her transformation, and she stiffened and twisted, turning into a hideous statue of herself.

“I release her!” I shouted. “I release her from my will!”

Time resumed. Once more, the flames danced merrily in the grate. My goblin girl stared at me, all traces of bark and stone gone from her body.

“Is there anything else I can assist you with, Your Highness?” Twig tilted her head, but I could read nothing in her black, expressionless eyes.

I wondered if I had imagined it all. “No,” I said, my voice shaking. “You may go.”

I half-expected her to vanish the moment I dismissed her, but Twig remained, studying the folded-up Wedding Night Sonata in my hand.

“Whatever you’re planning,” she said, “don’t trust the changelings.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

“They are not human, despite how they look. Remember what we told you.”

I hid the pages of music behind me. “What have you told me?”

“They bite.”

*

Despite Twig’s warning, I was back at the Underground lake the following day. The changeling dutifully waited for me by the shore, twisting his fingers and shuffling his feet back and forth with nervousness. He reminded me so much of Josef. It was not just in the tilt of his eyes or the angle of his cheekbones; it was in the set of his shoulders, the biting of his lower lip.

“Are you ready?” the changeling asked.

I nodded.

“Do you have your gift for the sunshine girl?”

I nodded again and brought out the copy of the Wedding Night Sonata.

“Good,” the changeling said. “Let us go.”

He led me around to a hidden mooring, where a small skiff awaited us. It was not the barge that had borne me to the chapel; we were at another part of the lake altogether. We climbed into the boat, and that beautiful, unearthly singing that had carried me across on the night of my wedding rose up all around us.

The Lorelei.

They guard the gateway to the world above, the changeling had said.

The skiff moved swiftly over the black waters. My companion and I said nothing as the Lorelei carried us, and presently, I thought I could hear a faint roaring sound beneath their song.

“What’s that sound?” I asked, but I had my answer in a moment.

The lake had narrowed into a rushing current, a river. Faster and faster, the roaring growing louder, the rushing going faster, the rapids getting bigger. I clung to the changeling’s hand, afraid the little skiff we rode would capsize, but it held sturdy.

I don’t know how long we rode the currents to the world above, but at long last the torrent slowed to a trickle, and we found ourselves approaching a hollowed-out grotto. The light was different here. It was a moment before I realized it was because of the light from the world above.

The changeling got out of the skiff and hauled it to shore before helping me out of it. Here and there, shafts of dusty brightness cut through the darkness of the grotto, showing an earthen room with a ceiling buttressed by roots.

“We are beneath the grove,” the changeling said. He pointed above our heads, where a gap between the roots and rocks was just large enough for a small person to crawl through.

He helped me make the ascent, although there were plenty of foot-and handholds to ease the way. At last, I emerged.

The light was blinding. I threw up my hands to shade my eyes, but I could see nothing but endless white. Tears streamed and I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, but nothing could cool their burning.

But little by little, bit by bit, my sight began to return. When at last I could bear the light, I removed my hands.

The Goblin Grove. New growth and new life covered branches that I had last seen bare, a lush, verdant green blanketing the forest floor. I breathed deep, and the heady scent of the Goblin Grove in high summer filled my nostrils, indulgence and languid possibility.

“Thank you,” I said to the changeling. “Thank you.”