“Opposite them are the Winter Knights who serve Erlkoenig. Those who were once men are seated there: Sir Ferracute, whose skin cannot be pierced, Sir Orgoglio, of whom you have no doubt heard tell, and Sir Sansfoy. Sir Cadwallader of the Isle of the Mighty. The tall one is Sir Volkh Vseslavyevich of Kiev, the shape taker. The one in tartan is Sir Maugris who was raised by the fairy Oriande. He is an enchanter, and so wields spear or charming wand with equal skill.”
4. Moth Knights
Gil realized he did not know what his three brothers looked like with their helmets off. But then he saw each man had his heraldry behind him, and he looked until he spied the image of winged cup of silver on a blue field. Four men were seated in the lowest place of Alberec’s table. Three of them must be the ones who had accosted him the night he had spied on the tournament of the elfs. His brothers.
Gil nudged the Glashan. “Tell of those knights there, please.”
“Sir Aglovale, Sir Lamorak and Sir Dornar of Corbenec. Their bastard half-brother there is Sir Tor, the May Queen’s son. Sir Dornar still has acorns growing in his hair, for he spent all autumn asleep beneath a tree. They will not answer to the Moth name, for they are shamed. Their mother was Ygraine of the Reeds.”
“What kind of reeds?”
“Wise advice, which no one took. They also called her Ygraine of the Riddles, because her wisdom baffled them. Hers is a sad tale.”
Gil felt his mouth go dry. He held up his silver wine cup for a passing fairy waitress to fill with wine distilled from the fire of the Northern Lights, and this time he took a mouthful, not just a sip, to clear his wits and brace his heart.
“Tell me the story, please,” he said.
And he was proud of how nonchalantly he said it.
5. The Swan Maiden
“The tale tells that Ygraine flew down from a higher realm, and put aside her swan cloak to bathe in a forest pool, for it was April, and the day was hot. Whatever attendants or escorts she brought from the unseen heights she ordered aside, for privacy’s sake. Alain le Gros, who was out chasing the Snowwhite Hart, was separated from his hounds and huntsmen and by mishap came upon her bathing. So fair was the skin of Ygraine in the water, that, peering from the reeds at the pond edge, he at first thought it was the Hart he sought and he stalked closer. But then he spied her white cloak of feathers hanging from a thorn, and, taking it in hand, stood over her, and had her in his power and demanded she wed him.
“For three times nine years she dwelled as wife to Alain and Countess of Corbenec, and bore for him three sons, strong in body beyond the strength of men or elfs. A fine and seemly countess she made! It is said she was gracious to all, high and low alike, and that her hands were always open to those in want or distress.
“It is said that, in before times, in Corbenec they remembered the practice of the pagan Romans, and ordered slaves to fight to the death for their sport; but Ygraine by her counsel changed the heart of her lord Count Alain, and convinced him to hold tourneys and jousts. Instead of the great watching the humble fight and grow proud of their might, the great would fight and the humble would be proud of their lords.
“And she said the humans had such a custom in Christian lands, and it ill beseemed the lordly elfs should be less honorable and brave than mere mortals.
“From Alain, all the elfs soon learned the practice and adored it, and wagered on the outcomes. None was more cunning in wagering on tournaments than Alain of Corbenec. He waxed great in name as well as wealth and girth, and so for three reasons is he called Alain le Gros.
“He was jealous and watchful of his wife, for he knew from whom his good fortune sprang. Therefore he would not let her out of the walled mansion, or off the grounds. Then upon a day at her twenty-eighth year of marriage, her sons were offended that their mother could not come a-Maying with them, to sport in the green wood, and each son swore he was strong enough in might and mettle to see her safe: and so Alain’s pride in his sons overbore his prudence, and he consented.
“Woe that he did, for the company was beset by a band of Woodwoses from the Twilight world. The weapons of her knightly sons could not bite on the fur of the Wild Men. These champions of so many tournaments were scattered like ninepins, and she was ravished away from their sight.
“Three years later, on a moonless midnight in midwinter, she returned to them but carrying the misbegotten child in her womb. When it was born, it was covered in hair from ankle to crown, and so Alain despised it as the son of the Woses. He ordered it to be given away, as soon as it was weaned. Mother and child were locked in a tower, so none could see the hideous babe.
“Like the beast it was, the child learned to trot and climb far quicker than a true child learns to walk. In its peering and mischief, the wooly child found for her the swan cloak hidden in the chimney, blackened with thirty years of soot.
“Yet it was woven as things are woven in the country above the northern stars, and not years nor smoke nor fire’s heat had undone it. Ygraine hid the robe in another spot, and each night for thirty nights, she wept for all hours and did not sleep, until the new moon came, and her tears had cleansed all the stain away, and the robe was bright again.
“Bright cloak in one hand and shaggy child in the other, she crept over the wall and fled into the woods, and the falling snow hid her tracks.
“She threw off her fine and courtly robe, and donned the white cloak, forgetting in that instant her position and pride and children, forgetting all the woes and weariness of Earth, and she flew back to the citadel of Sarras, which the mages called Septentrion, in the circle of the seven unsetting stars.
“For three frantic days, without pause for rest or food, Sir Aglovale, Sir Lamorak and Sir Dornar sought their wayward mother. Her they did not find, but Sir Aglovale came across the abandoned child wrapped in their mothers’ cast off court robe, tucked in the roots of a leafless tree.
“The child was silent. It had died of thirst and cold.
“The tracks of the mother went up a hill and not down again, for she had flown away into the air, into a world higher than this one.
“The tracks of the woses-men showed that they had come by the leafless tree, perhaps drawn by the dying child’s cries, but they did not take it up, no doubt misliking the mixed blood of the bastard child, and into the wood once more their tracks led, leaving the unloved babe behind to die. So ends the tale.”
The Glashan shook its head sadly. “To think! That a woman so wise and of such good heart would consort with her captor in such a wise, and do her lord such dishonor, and put her bastard child before his face one day, and then leave the infant to perish the next! Ah! It just shows how even those the world lauds as good and fine have hidden darkness in the heart! What do you think of the story, eh?”
Gil said, “The story is a damned lie.”
Chapter Seven: The King of Elfs and Shadows
1. The Truth
The Glashan’s horselike eyes were wide and startled.
Gil beat back his anger and spoke in a voice more quiet and more firm. “Ygraine did not fly off and leave her boy to die. There are other untruths in the story: it was not a band of Woses who scattered the knights. It was only one.”
The Glashan looked surprised. “In this very hall, I heard the tale! I sat in this very seat where I sit now, fifteen winters ago!”
“Then you heard a lie.”
“From the very lips of Sir Aglovale I heard it! He saw the footprints, and after, when he blew his horn and called them, so did his brothers! They all attest to it!”
Gil said coldly, “Sir Aglovale saw no such thing, nor did his brothers.”
The Glashan said, “Do not forget yourself, Sir Knight! These are strong and loyal knights, gentlemen and servants of Alberec, the King of Elfs and Shadows! Do you call them liars?”
Gil heard the harpist pluck a triumphant chord, and the brass and woodwinds chuckled maliciously. As if against his will, the music made Gil turn his head toward the high table beneat
h the green and gold canopy. In the same beat of time, the music seemed to urge Sir Aglovale to stand.
Aglovale called out, “Phadrig Og, seneschal of King Brian! Who is this jackanape that intrudes in our feast, and meddles with his tongue in words he ought not say? What name is he? Who his father?”
Phadrig now he stepped forth and bowed low. “Sir, I know not his name or lineage.”
Aglovale said, “Then why did you admit him?”
Phadrig Og said, “He is from Arthur Pendragon, the King.”
There was a murmur of astonishment in the hall. The May Queen, Ethne, spoke out “But—here is quite a riddle!—Arthur is dead. Nimue said so! She did! He died in at Camlann, in the shadow of the great stones Merlin reared beneath the circle of the northern stars to mimic them and draw their powers to earth. Sir Mordred, his son and nephew, killed mighty Sir Arthur the King by impaling him on the craven sword Clarent.”
Many eyes turned toward Nimue, sitting cold and proud in her diadem and scales of silver and pearl, yet she said nothing.
Gil wondered how these elfs, if they ruled the human world, could be unaware of the stories men told, or the storybooks they wrote. No one was asking him to prove that he was from Arthur, or to prove that Arthur yet lived. That was odd. Beneath the color shadows of their faces, Gil saw expressions, not of surprise, but of guilt and unease.
Even Sir Aglovale’s face twitched, but he settled his features into a scowl. Sir Aglovale bowed to Alberec the king, and said, “With your good permission, my lord, let me send a page to fetch my sword from yonder, lest I have need of it.”
But Alberec raised his hand. The horns blew a flourish and the music rushed to a resolving chord and fell silent.
“Knight of the Swan!” Alberec did not need to raise his voice, not in this chamber, but all the royalty, nobility, and their servants seated at feast now ceased to speak, but looked on with curiosity.
Gil stood. He bowed to the king, “Your Royal Majesty.”
The chamber was so quiet, Gil could hear the breathing of the ladies, and the humming beat of dragonfly wings of miniature servants, and the crackle of fire in the pit.
The one-eyed elf king studied him narrowly. “You have come among us to share our festive solemnity, and cheer us with your presence, and yet we do not know you. There are three orders of beings: the angels, bright or dark, who eat manna, who do not grow old and cannot die; the elfs, fortunate or unfortunate, who eat nectar, who do not age but can die; and the men, Christian or heathen, who eat bread, who grow old and cannot fail to die. Which are you?”
“Angel I am not, my lord, for surely I can die. As for growing old, I have made no experiment of it as yet.”
At this remark, some of the elf maidens put sharp smiles on their fair and narrow faces, and their slanted eyes twinkled.
Gil continued, “As for my nature, Sire, until I measure myself against some great task or terrible danger, how shall I know it?”
2. Elfishness
The king did not smile, but he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if that answer pleased him. “I will tell you the nature of the elfs. We are beholden to powers it is better not to name, and yet the care of the earthly world is placed within our hands. Once it belonged to another, but his claim is forfeit, so now the world is ours, our playing ground and battlefield, the garden of our idle hours.
“The green earth saves us from ennui, for even the boredom of many thousands of years can be diverted by the grandeur of the woodlands in the summer, the majestic plains and noble peaks, and the gleam of starlight on the midnight sea, and all that flies and swims and walks, hawk and hummingbird, whale and whelk, snake and lynx and slinking cat, renew forever our lost delight.
“And yet there is no foe to imperil our supremacy, no noble deeds yet to be done. And so, for sport, for ire, we fight among ourselves, but the price is too terrible to count: for the death of any ageless fellow robs the world not of fourscore years of his company, but an eternity.
“We await the doomsday, and the doom to come from the Judgment Seat is foreordained. Ours is a melancholy lot: and yet always at hand are means to cheer us, diversions and ballads and chants and the company of maidens, contests and wrestling and games, riding and hunting, wine and whiskey and choice viands, music to smite the coremost part of the soul, and poetry to pursue the bright shadow of beauty’s own transcendent self, which cannot be caught. Our youth will never fade, our strength not wane. How can men not envy us?”
Alberec fell silent, frowning, as if musing over his own words.
3. War and Peace
Gil, still standing, was not sure if he was expected to respond. The silence grew longer, and everyone was looking at him.
Gil said, “Meaning no disrespect to this noble company, Your Majesty, but if such is the nature of the elfs, I surely cannot be one. My nature tells me battle is not a pastime. A true knight fights to set right the wrongs of the world.”
Alberec said, “Yet surely peace and luxury will sap the honor from any soul, mortal or immortal, and rob the spirit!”
Gil said, “Again, I mean no disrespect, and I do not disagree that war must bring out the courage and fellowship to some. But those who find no evils in this world to fight have not looked.”
Now all smiles were gone. A softly ominous noise was echoing through the chamber: the elf ladies were hissing through their teeth.
Gil raised his voice and spoke over the noise. “As for sacrifice, my mother laid down her life for me, and yet her hands have only handled a sword long enough to belt it about me. At all times, in peace or war, there are great deeds of love to do.”
The hissing grew louder. Gil spoke in the same calm, forthright and even tone as before, but at a louder volume. “Sire! My mother once told me that all true courage comes from true love, and all true sight. If the elfs cannot see, or dare not face, evils that threaten what is beloved, then they lack love. If elfs lack love, no matter how much else they have, they have an emptiness that neither the glories of war nor the splendors of feast can fill. Have I answered Your Majesty’s riddle correctly, sir?”
Alberec put his hand on Nimue’s hand. Nimue, who led the hissing, closed her lips. The ladies in the room immediately stopped making noise.
“What riddle?” said Alberec.
“You asked me how men could not envy you.”
Alberec’s one green eye narrowed slightly.
Gil said, “Sire, it is a difficult one. Since the elfs live forever in eternal pleasure and diversion, nobly and splendidly, and possess all the earth, it is hard indeed to say how any man could fail to envy you.”
Another moment of silence gripped the vast chamber, and the elfs glanced out of the corners of their eyes, looking at their lords and princes to learn how to react. Many an elf was using the colored shadows cast upon his face to make his eyes seem not to be looking where they looked. Gil wondered if anyone saw the deception but he.
Alberec smiled. “Well said.”
There was a smattering of polite applause. The elf maidens smiled insincere smiles and the harpist played a glissade of rising notes. The illusions in the air made the smiles look brighter than they were, and the applause was made to sound loud and well-meant, but Gil saw the truth beneath.
Alberec said, “Your mother belted that sword on you, as is the proper custom. Did Arthur clasp your clasped hands, as you prayed to be his man, and swore the oath?”
“Sire, my clasped hands were between his palms, all according to the form.”
“And did Arthur bestow those colors upon you? Or by what right do you wear the sign of the swan?”
It took Gil a moment to realize what the Summer King was asking. “Sire, the Emperor of elfs himself, Erlkoenig the Lord of Winter, gave me leave to bear the heraldry of my shield, and the emblem and colors of my coat.” Gil bowed his head toward the dark figure with the mask of ice.
The horned head nodded once. Erlkoenig spoke in a voice without passion or compassion. “He speaks
the truth.”
4. Lies and Silences
Alberec said, “And where did you come by that armor?”
Gil said, “It was bestowed by my father.”
“And who is he?”
“As he wore this armor before me, he was the Swan Knight. A better answer I may not give, for an oath closes my mouth.”
“And the sword?”
Gil said, “It is called Dyrnwen, the fair white-hilted sword.”
There was another murmur in the chamber, but this one was authentic. Gasps of surprise trailed off into a tense silence.
Sir Dornar, Algovale’s brother, now stood and spoke to the King. “Sire, if I may?” And, when Alberec nodded, Sir Dornar said, “Swan Knight, have you come to return the great sword to its rightful possessor? The Treasures of Lyonesse to Lyonesse belong, and to our king!”
Gil said, “Sir Dornar, I am its rightful possessor, and it is my hand.”
Lamorak flourished his winecup and laughed a mocking laugh. “Not for long. Think you will emerge from this hall alive, carrying so rare a nonpareil?”
Dornar addressed Alberec. “Sire, I see where the cooks have prepared the final course, and place on the silver platter the golden boar of Freyr. It is the long-held custom that the final dish of the yuletide feast must wait until some great deed of arms is done before the company, either to see giants wrestle, or fairies mounted on wasps and armed with poisoned stings tilt in dizzy combats in the air, or knights with sword to clash in duel.”
Alberec said, “The custom I well know, since he who held the throne before me enacted it, and faithfully I kept it, as does he who holds the throne after me.”
Sir Dornar smiled a cold smile and said, “Here stands an unknown knight, unwary of speech, uncouth, and offering nothing to amuse this noble company. Let me send a page for my sword, let him have a passage at arms with me, and let his strength be tried.” The smile grew colder, until it looked like the smile of a skull. “No accidents will happen in the heat and madness of melee, and this boy and I need only fight until one good wound is cut, not deep.”
Feast of the Elfs Page 8
