by Kevin Hearne
“Yeah,” said the male elf. “Well, who do you think spreads those rumors? We do. So there. I’m Bargolas, by the way, son of Rodmoore, the king of the elves. And you may not pass through our demesne without the king’s leave.”
“Wilt thou take us to thy king?” Toby asked.
“Pardon?” Bargolas said, cocking a long ear at the mage.
“Oh, goodness. The poor peasant is trying to speak theatrically,” Sylvinadrielle whispered.
“Wherefore art thou, yon kingeth of thine elves?” Bargolas said, and both elves collapsed into giggles that sounded less like crystal chimes and more like weirdly delicate hyenas. “The king does not suffer fools like you, human. Not anymore.”
“Oh, how we elves long for yesteryear,” Sylvinadrielle began, her voice going misty with sadness and a mysterious blue-green nimbus glowing around her person. Bargolas nodded soulfully, pulled out a reed flute, and began to play a somber tune as she continued. “Once the elves ruled supreme, and the land was rich and wise and kind.”
“How can land be wise?” Argabella asked, but Fia gently placed a hand over her mouth and put a finger to her own lips.
“The glories of our ancient days were uncountable, the aching beauty of that long-gone world beyond words. Many a wise and aged yet still surprisingly youthful-looking and limber elf has turned his back—”
“Or her back,” Poltro added.
Sylvinadrielle shot her a dark look, the mystical blue-green nimbus turning momentarily indigo and sparking. “Do you not understand how pronouns serve the narrative?” the elf scolded.
“It’s called poetic license,” Gustave added.
To Fia’s surprise, the elf smiled at the goat. “This venerable song of our people will help you better understand our mysterious ways, lest you rouse our wise hearts to elvish anger.”
Bargolas’s flute disappeared, and a lute materialized in his hands, bone white and carved with esoteric symbols, its strings made of pure gold. He strummed once, and it was a sound so beautiful that a dove flat-out fell to the ground at his feet, dead. He began singing:
“Humans are the worst of things
They show up and they steal our rings
We need to breed so we have flings
Still, humans are the worst!”
Fia, while not liking the way the song was going, admitted that she was enraptured by the complex beauty of the music, as were the rest of her friends. Gustave danced back and forth, agreeing wholeheartedly with the simple truth of the lyrics. For her part, Sylvinadrielle took up a gentle and spiraling harmony, sometimes pointing to one human or another as emphasis. Fia found she couldn’t move, so ensorcelled was she by the elvish ballad.
“Humans ruin life, yes they do
They only eat and screw and poo
They are far less magical than you
For humans are the worst!
“Humans destroy all they touch
They fight and grab and steal and clutch
They are not good for very much
Yes, humans are the worst!”
“Okay,” Toby said through lips frozen in delight. “We get the point. We can backtrack and go around your rampant Morningwood if only you’ll free us from the spell of your…rhapsodic disgust?”
“What are you talking about?” Gustave crowed. “This song is amazing!”
“Just one more verse,” Sylvinadrielle whispered as Bargolas’s lute strings rang in a crescendo.
“But we must let these humans pass
For torturing them is a gas
And we must seduce a human lass
Though humans are the worst!”
“Wait, you must seduce whom?” Gustave said as the others shook themselves awake as if from a dream.
“Alas,” Sylvinadrielle began, the nimbus of misty memory yet again coalescing around her silken head in the form of glittering turquoise gas, “so many of our elven lasses have fled the mortal realm to venture west, to the fog-shrouded isles of—”
“Don’t tell them!” Bargolas hissed.
“Isles of great mystery and bounty that you’re not smart enough to find,” she continued. “We elves are not crass beings, procreating willy-nilly. We are creatures of uncommon taste and refinement, and our women are extraordinarily persnickety. Yet we must continue our lineage in our hopes of reclaiming what greatness was once ours.”
“So you’re not great now?” Gustave asked.
“Quiet, beast!” Bargolas snapped.
“We’re still great, but we were once greater, the rulers of all the land, an empire of magic and wisdom,” Sylvinadrielle explained. “Once, passage through our realm required gifts of gold and jewels, magical artifacts, or spices from the far dunes. But these days, as destiny looms upon our noble race, we require—”
“Fecund wombs?” Gustave offered.
“Earthy human mothers for our thrice-blessed progeny.” Sylvinadrielle eyed their party and shrugged, turning to the elf prince. “Well, the one in all black has mostly healed from her anaphylaxis. She’ll do for you, right?”
Bargolas walked around Poltro as if judging a hairless cat at a cat show. “Good general form and physiognomy,” he muttered. “For a mortal.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, boyo,” Poltro tried to say with a sexy pouting of her lips. As her swelling had not yet gone down completely, it almost worked.
“She’ll do.” Bargolas sighed. “Father’s orders, and at least there’s plenty of glowine in the Crystal Chamber of Allurement and Come-Hithering. Let’s go, then.”
Fia looked half disgusted and half vexed. “Poltro, you would go with this…”
“Hot little elf hunk?” Gustave said.
Poltro shrugged. “He’s confident and saucy, he knows his way around a ditty, and he has the prettiest hair I ever saw, plus he doesn’t smell like chicken. Morningwood has plenty to recommend it, I’m thinking—I mean apart from the near-fatal sneezing fits.”
“Does that mean you’ll take us to the elven king that we might bargain for passage?” Toby asked.
The elf’s ears drooped a little. “I’ll take you to my father so he’ll stop nagging me about my duty to sire heirs. Ask him whatever you want, but good luck with it. He’s a right jerk. Now stand close, elbows in, no shoving.”
The humans clustered together, but it was clear they weren’t yet comfortable in close quarters. Toby kept trying to muscle in near Fia, and Fia kept accidentally stomping on his slippered feet and making him screech. The elves just looked bored at this point, as if they’d much rather be enchanting toadstools or riding giant eagles.
“Zounds, how hard is it to follow simple directions?” Bargolas said. “This’ll have to do. Hope no one loses a foot. Now hold your breath and try not to vomit.”
“Vomit?” Argabella asked, alarmed. Fia put a comforting hand on her back.
The elves raised their arms and spoke a word with approximately a million susurrating syllables, and the world turned itself inside out.
* * *
When the world popped back into focus, everything about it was wrong in all the best ways. Fia opened her mouth and sucked in a deep breath. The air smelled like magic, which was something like new roses and ancient seaborne mist. The trees, though in nearly the same position, now seemed to be crafted of silver and gossamer, and the ferns and violets looked soft as silk and moved as if they were having their own conversations. In an affront to all merely nice days everywhere, there were somehow even more sunbeams filled with yet more dancing motes of glittering dust. Bargolas now wore a crown made of pure light and shaped like a tall, nodding mushroom.
Argabella, whose mouth had foolishly remained open, vomited up leftovers from yesterday’s feast; Gustave leapt into the air in surprise, fell instantly unconscious, and tumbled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
Fia didn’t know who to help first.
“He’s a fainting goat?” Toby asked Fia.
“He is now.”
“I call dibs when he dies for real,” Poltro said, brazenly laying claim to Gustave’s giblets.
The elves bowed and began walking down a path of smooth gray stones laid in artful tessellations along the forest floor. The oxen, clearly being good judges of who might have better grain, followed the elves eagerly, the wagon trundling smoothly behind them as if recently greased by the lubricating magic of Morningwood. Toby followed his potions, and Poltro followed him.
“Are you feeling well?” Fia asked Argabella, helping the rabbit girl stand. It occurred to Fia that she hadn’t thought about the heart rose—or her proposed snug but fortified cottage—in quite some time. Right now, all she really cared about was restoring the farm boy to a less dead state and, well, maybe having an adventure with a kind person like Argabella.
Argabella turned away to wipe her mouth. “I’m well, if a bit messy. Always did get a bit motion sick, and I’ve never been particularly brave about traveling to other dimensions and meeting kings. But I’ve stopped feeling like a popped bubble, at least. Do you think Gustave will wake up?”
Fia shook her head and squatted, chain-mail bikini creaking, to scoop the goat up under one bulging arm.
“Between the elves’ magic and his own stubbornness, I’m sure he won’t be quiet for long.”
Together, they trailed behind the others, looking around in wonder at the vibrant birds and mist-colored stags gamboling about the forest. At some point, the elves passed out some tiny croutons, urging them to nibble only a corner. Fia almost choked on her small bite, spitting out nearly an entire loaf of bread.
“As mentioned, it expands,” Bargolas said with his nearly constant eye rolling.
“How is that helpful now? I almost died!” Fia growled.
“Elves are masters of balance and self-discipline,” Sylvinadrielle intoned loftily. “We take only what is needed and leave the world untouched. Human greed is the root of all evil.”
“Being a pompous windbag is the root of all evil,” Fia grumbled to herself.
When she’d fallen behind a little with Argabella, Fia pinched off the tiniest corner of her elvish crouton and licked it, jerking her head back in surprise as it turned into a muffin, which she bit into and nearly gagged on.
“Pfauggh! Bran, and it’s dry. What’s the point of Morningwood if it can’t even make a muffin moist?”
“I’m sure it will get better,” Argabella said, nibbling on her own crouton and blushing through her dandelion-puff fur. “At least it’s not meat. And at least I’m out of the castle. It’s as if the world didn’t change a bit, but—”
“You did?” Fia asked gently.
Argabella nodded. “It’s right peculiar. Up until the castle fell asleep, my main goal was to be a good daughter and become a bard to make my dad proud. And then when he was out cold, I had oodles of time to figure out what it was I actually wanted. See, the bard thing wasn’t my idea. My dad had a thing for lutes, and my mom ran away with an accountant, so I was left with callused fingers. For the longest time, it was just me with the whole castle, and I tried all sorts of things—archery and sewing and spinning and baking pies. But I never really found out what it was I wanted to do with my life, and now here I am on a real quest, almost like a real bard.”
“You are a real bard,” Fia said.
Argabella looked down and pinged a string on her lute. Up ahead, Bargolas shuddered visibly at the sound. “Maybe,” Argabella whispered. “Sorry about that. It’s been so long since I’ve talked to anyone, and even before the whole rabbit thing, I was always shy, and—”
“Come, now.” Fia reached out and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. We’re all in new territory. The Morningwood is terribly splendid, isn’t it? If a bit inconvenient.”
“I’d rather see the gentle slopes of the Honeymelon Hills,” Argabella confessed. “All these towers and trees…Well, they do insist upon themselves, don’t they?”
Fia couldn’t help smiling back.
They walked along effortlessly, as if each step bore them miles. Soon Fia heard laughter and music riding the air and smelled herbal smoke wafting through the trees. Normally, in Fia’s experience, the road would become a wider road, which would lead into a filthy hamlet or overbuilt city. But in Morningwood, the village grew organically out of and among the trees, doors appearing in huge trunks and the paved walkway splitting off and leading away to buildings that were like nothing Fia had ever seen. Walls of moss and crystal and bark were inset by stately stained glass windows glowing with all the colors of fall. But they kept on along the main road, and soon their destination appeared: the biggest tree of all, wreathed in furry green vines and dripping with soft purple wisteria. Fia had to agree with Argabella: it was a bit ridiculous.
Standing in front of the grandly carved doors were the first elves Fia had encountered besides Bargolas and Sylvinadrielle. It was strange, actually, to have traveled so far through a city without seeing anyone. These new elves were fierce and utterly encrusted in the most beautiful armor Fia had ever seen. Royal guards, she had to assume. If not for the magic she’d already witnessed, she might’ve challenged them to a fight for their armor. But she was wiser now. The few pertinent bits of her own chain mail were vastly preferable to choking to death on the glimmering effulgence of the Morningwood.
“Prince Bargolas, hasn’t your father warned you about bringing home strays?” one of the guards asked.
“No,” Bargolas said, sounding very petulant and unelfish indeed. “I mean yes, but that’s not what I’m doing, Dribblesprig. This is official business. Really important stuff. Just open the door.”
“It would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” the guard said, but he was smirking.
Each of the guards took hold of a brass handle and dramatically threw open the double doors.
“Announcing Prince Bargolas and a collection of livestock, Your Highness,” the guard shouted, and Fia had to admit it sounded very elegant and royal, aside from the insulting part.
The tree had appeared to have about the same circumference as a small hut, but once opened, its breadth might’ve rivaled a cathedral. The trunk was hollow and went up forever, so high that birds flittered to and fro, but not any common birds: these had been enchanted so that when they had to air drop a plop, they only rained glitter down upon the elvish court. A carpet of lush grass led up to a throne of darkest ebon, upon which sat King Rodmoore of the elves. He was the most stately, otherworldly, downright smarmy creature Fia had ever seen, robed in ermine with a crown of ice and eyes to match. Seeing the look on his face, Fia pulled her cloak more tightly around herself and sidled slightly behind the wagon, keeping the unconscious and foul-mouthed goat hidden. For all her strength and bravery, she wouldn’t cross this king, and she only hoped Gustave wouldn’t get the chance.
The king of the elves sighed a mighty sigh.
“Honestly, Bargles, we’ve talked about this. You’re too old to keep bringing home whatever pathetic things you find in the forest,” he said, stroking a beard so long and silky that Toby’s envy was palpable.
“But Father!” Bargolas whined. “You said I had to sire heirs, and there are three—I think? Yes, three females among them. That’s, what? Six heirs? They have two each, is that not so? Or am I thinking of opossums? In any case, I seek only to do my duty.” Bargolas knelt and bowed his head.
“My king,” Toby cried, stepping forward with his arms raised, and Fia smacked her head at his foolishness. “I am the Dark Lord of Borix, Tobias Fitzherbert, and I wouldst parley with thee.”
“What did he just say? Borax? Parsley? I swear, these humans,” the king said.
“The Dark Lord of Borix,” Toby repeated slowly, as if talking to a moron. “My party
and I pray beg thee for passage through yonder fair Morningwood, kissed by dawn’s luscious dew.”
“It’s always afternoon here, if you hadn’t noticed,” the king said. Then, to Bargolas he added, “I like this one. Had a parrot like this once. Said the darnedest things.” Then, louder, to Toby, indulgently: “Pray continue, my good man.”
“I…I already said it.” Toby tried to keep his arms up, but his sleeves kept falling down, as his robes were capacious indeed. “We’re on a quest, and we wish only to pass peaceably through your fair demesne.”
The king leaned forward, his long ears quivering and his eyebrows drawn down in frustration.
“My old parrot was a better conversationalist. I tire of this. Bargolas, get them out of my sight and do your duty. I want a full report in the morning. Then send them on their way with whatever they need. Can’t have humans dying in the forest again. The bones get all tangled up in the ivy, if you recall.” He waved a royal hand, and Bargolas stood and motioned the party to follow him out a side door, which they did with much haste.
“Oh, and Bargolas,” the king called.
“Yes, Father?”
The king sat back, looking hawkish and shrewd and maybe a little hungry. “Be sure and collect the toll. Humans can’t expect a release from the Morningwood without paying it proper homage.”
“Begging your pardon, but what is the toll, exactly?” Toby asked.
“All your cheese. We have so few dairy animals in the forest, you know. Tough to find even a chintzy cheddar around these parts. Now, don’t fret. You can easily find more on your travels, whereas we cannot. Just leave your cheese, and in return you may expect a swift and satisfying discharge from the Morningwood.”
Toby deflated like a melting Brie, but Fia was overcome with relief. At least, unlike Toby, the king of the elves didn’t want someone’s internal organs. Perhaps they would escape unscathed after all.
