As the elf queen and her retinue came forth through the hall, all rose. Mab, Mephisto, and I rose as well, and stood politely as they seated themselves. The elf queen took her seat, and regarded the gathered company with gracious mirth, her dark eyes sparkling as she prepared to speak. Then her eyes fell upon us, and all amusement died.
“Must we dine with Aftercomers?” she demanded archly in her sweet voice, her childish face stern beyond its apparent years. “Alastor, have them sent forth!”
I sat down abruptly, wishing I had sat among the ice sprites after all. Once, long, long ago, I had been thrown out of a feast. The humiliation still rankled, especially when I recalled the grating laughter of the French courtiers, how they had made merry over our plight as Father and I were dragged out, and dumped into the dirty straw outside the feast hall. It was soothing to remember that time had outstripped them, and they were all dead now. That succor would never heal this wound, should we be shamed before the immortal elven court. The elf queen had been charming to us the one night we had met under hill. I had not anticipated this reaction.
The king of the elves laughed. “What report will be given of our hospitality if we turn guests away during a blizzard, dear queen? Our host’s guests at that? We can hardly refuse them seats at our host’s own table.”
“The girl then, but not him!” Queen Maeve pointed at Mephisto.
“Whyever not? How is he different from any other mayfly?” King Alastor’s tone seemed solicitous, yet his gray eyes danced with cruel merriment. Queen Maeve drew herself up, her dark eyes snapping.
Before she could speak, Father Christmas’s deep voice boomed across the table. “He is my guest.”
“Well and good, then, we shall move.” The queen started to rise, halted, paused, then sat again. Her color high, she stated flatly, “I shall not impose upon my subjects by asking them to trouble themselves. We shall remain, and endure.”
I focused my attention intently upon my plate, determined not to smirk. The events that had just transpired had not been lost upon me. The queen had begun to rise, but the king had not. Uncertain how many courtiers would follow her should she depart, she had decided that it was better to eat with Aftercomers than to risk losing a contest with the king over the loyalty of the court.
I was grateful for Father Christmas’s support. Our host’s open blessing and the tacit approval of the elven king, however, were not enough to buy us acceptance. None of the elven courtiers seated nearby spoke a word to us or even acknowledged our presence. Rather than make a fool of myself by attempting to discourse with them, I turned my attention to our host and listened with pleasure to his amusing retelling of the highlights of his escapades the previous night as he delivered this year’s gifts.
Snatches of conversation floated down our way. The elf lords spoke of battles fought and cruel games played upon unwary adversaries. Ivaldi described a journey into the bowels of the earth, the gem-studded splendor he had encountered, and a game of hurling played against the Nibelungs. Valendur, Carbonel, and Aundelair described conquering the unconquerable peak of Koshtra Belorn, and of what glory they had beheld while standing upon the icebound top of the world. Vandel told of a furious battle between a thousand of his best knights and the Sun. One by one his knights had fallen, until he stood alone. Yet, he had dealt the Sun a grievous blow before surrendering the field. Delling spoke of a fabulous pleasure palace of flower petals and thistledown held together by cobwebs and morning dew, while Fincunir entertained the king by recounting a chess game he had played against a mortal who thought himself invincible because he took his instructions from a machine.
Across the table, Floramel and Sylvie delighted the queen with tales of a changeling boy they had stolen and taught the elven arts of raising mushroom rings and calling fireflies; while Undine and Gloriana entertained with stories of their star-crossed mortal lovers, and of tricks they played upon the Wayfarers. Iolanthe recounted a conversation she had overheard between an angel and a water nymph.
Yet, all the while, no matter what the elves said, their conversations conveyed the feeling that they were really speaking about something else entirely, that their poetic words and stunning revelations were but a façade, a veil drawn across their secret meaning, which they communicated to each other by hints and innuendos no Aftercomer, unfamiliar with the intimate dealings of their court, could ever hope to comprehend. I found it eerie and bewildering.
Mab ate quietly and kept his mouth shut, but Mephisto was not so discreet. When the elves sitting near us would not speak with him, he began shouting his questions down the table toward the elven lords.
“Yoo-hoo, elf lords? Anyone know where Lord Astreus is?” he called gaily.
The bottom of my stomach fell away so violently that I grabbed the table, as if to keep myself from falling. While I was terrified for my brother’s safety, I also found myself listening attentively, as if something very important rested upon the answer. Chagrined, I tried to return my attention to my meal.
The elf lords regarded each other. Ivaldi Goldenarm, their craftsman, answered first. While as graceful and well-featured as any elf, he was the stockiest member of the council, his face rounder than his brethren, and his muscled shoulders wider. “A well-fashioned question, brothers. Can any here answer true? I know not where our absent brother tarries.”
“Oft doth wanderlust afflict him and rob us of his presence.” Delling looked to be no more than a youth, though he was as ancient as the rest. “Ever does he seek new vistas where nary a foot has trod.”
“The wind goeth where it listeth.” Carbonel Lightfoot offered a morsel of bread to the mink that lay curled across his shoulders. The little beast accepted it eagerly, its bright eyes darting about the hall. “So, too, our brother, be it to the secret home of the phoenix, or the gardens at the top of the world, where the wolves gather one night a century to watch the lunar snowdrops bloom, or to the far shores beyond the Walls of Night.”
“Many seasons have come and fled since last my eyes beheld him, either in truth or in the dark waters of my far-seeing pools.” Valendur the Dark’s eyes were black as coals, and his face held unearthly beauty. “Yet, all places do my pools reveal, except the Void and the Infernal Abyss.”
“Last time I saw him, we danced for joy. ’Twas during the great celebration we held in Forestholme, in Astreus’s honor, the one seven-year that Hell forgave our debt.” Delling lifted his fluted wine glass. “A toast to that wondrous day! And to our absent brother for arranging it. May we have many others like it!”
The elves raised their glasses and drank with the toast. I toasted as well, clinking my glass against Mab’s. It never hurts to be polite.
Before the conversation could resume, however, Mephisto’s voice cut across the table again. “King Alastor? What happens to elves who are tithed?”
Silence.
From the shocked expressions around the table, I gathered Mephisto had just committed some awful faux pas. Perhaps elves did not like to discuss the fact that they handed one of their number over to Hell every seven years. I could not blame them. Perhaps, the queen had been right to fear dining with Mephisto. The uncomfortable silence was broken by Lady Christmas, who called happily from the foot of our table for someone to pass the stuffed mushrooms.
Mephisto, fool that he was, would not let the matter drop.
“You didn’t answer my question, your majesty,” he shouted. “What does happen to elves who are tithed?”
“Shut up, harebrain!” Mab growled through his teeth. “You’re going to get us all killed. Or worse . . . there are worse things than death that elves can do to people, you know.”
“Yes. I know,” Mephisto whispered back, his voice gravely serious. “Like tithe them.”
From further down the table, Aundelair the Cruel spoke. He was called the cruel not because of his treatment of others, but because of the harsh standard to which he held himself. He was famed for never having broken his word, no matter how dire th
e cost of keeping it.
“We do not speak of such things,” he said gravely, regarding Mephisto with his cutting blue gaze. Apparently, his brother Fincunir did not agree.
“What my brother hesitates to say is that, in truth, we know not.” Fincunir’s voice was light and mocking. “We know as little of the secret councils of Hell as we know of the will of long-abandoned Heaven. And if you believe talk of the tithe disturbs us elven lords, you should see how we scatter like frightened field mice at Heaven’s mention.”
Fincunir’s words brought frowns to the faces of several of his brethren; however, their efforts to chastise him were interrupted by a loud hollow booming that echoed from beyond the great hall.
“What is that?” Mab asked warily.
“That is a knocking at the Uttermost door, the door that opens upon the Void,” said Father Christmas.
“Do not heed it!” ordered the elf queen. Father Christmas frowned but said nothing.
More knocking came. Father Christmas nodded to the elven serving maidens in their pretty gowns of red and green. One rose and began walking toward the great archway that led toward the outer hallways.
“Open not the door!” commanded the elf queen. The elf maiden hurried back and resumed her seat.
Once more the knocking came. This time, Father Christmas himself rose to his feet. In a booming voice, he called out, “Enter, Man, and be welcome! Merry Christmas!”
“You fool!” hissed the queen. “You know not what you let . . .”
A dark cloud, as black as soot, billowed into the chamber, seeping between the tables at the far end of the hall. Amidst the blackness was a figure blacker still. My stomach tensed as I peered, seeking blood red eyes. Thank goodness I had worn my protective enchanted dress. But, my flute! I had left it in my room, assuming we were safe from Hell’s servants here. Would it be in greater danger if I ran for it or if I remained?
As the black cloud reached the tables where the candles burned, it vanished like mist before the sun, leaving behind a faint odor of dry ice. This was not the black substance that issued from Gregor’s staff, but a gust of unnatural black snow. As the snow evaporated, the figure standing in its midst became visible. I caught glimpses of gray fur and deep blue enameled leather.
So it was not Seir of the Shadows after all. Whom, then, did the elf queen fear?
The black cloud parted. Several people gasped, including the queen . . . and Mab . . . and me.
The figure who strode toward us was of a height and stature with the other elven lords. His handsome garments were of wolverine and silver fox inset with dark blue enameled leather, slashed with black satin. From his shoulders flowed a mirrored cloak with a tint of deep blue, the feasting guests and candlelight reflected in its surface.
Piercing gray eyes gazed out from beneath hair the color of storm clouds. His features were elven and aristocratic. Upon his head, where should have sat a crown of stars, was the silver and horn coronet I had seen resting beside the chain-bound door. Had Father Christmas opened all those chains with just his vocal invitation?
“It’s him!” whispered Mab. Rising, he rushed forward and knelt before the newcomer. “Lord Astreus!”
“Mab!” Lord Astreus gave a laugh of delight. His voice was a rich baritone, pleasant to the ear. Laying his hand on Mab’s shoulder, he said, “Rise, good spirit. I thank you for your homage. Return to your seat and enjoy this merry food and company.”
Mab came walking back, smiling to himself. Meanwhile, Mephisto grabbed my arm and whispered loudly, “Look, Sis! It’s your elf!”
My heart leapt at the sight of him. “So it is.”
King Alastor slid back his chair and turned to face the newcomer. His back was to us, revealing broad shoulders, dark hair, and a massive rack of antlers.
“A clever entrance, Astreus Stormwind. Most impressive, and one certain to inspire curiosity in your audience.”
Lord Astreus strode down the length of the hall and knelt before the elf king, his head bowed respectfully before his liege. Yet, there was a subtle gleam in his eye that ill matched his subservient pose. “Your majesty. It does my heart good to look upon your face again. I have dwelt too long in gruesome darkness and gazed upon much unfit for elven eyes.”
The elf king gestured, and Lord Astreus rose to his feet. The elf king regarded him in silence. Finally, he asked, “And where have you tarried, these three centuries, since last you danced with us at Forestholme? Come share with us tales of the sights you have seen and the far places you have journeyed. We have missed your counsel and your company.”
Astreus replied with knightly courtesy. “Sire, I have been about the business of the queen.”
King Alastor turned to Queen Maeve and quirked his brow. “Indeed? What pursuit is it you send my courtier about which keeps him so long from my side?”
“Lord Astreus teases, Sweet Alastor. ’Tis no business of mine,” she replied, the color high in her cheeks.
Lord Astreus regarded the queen. A smile born of something other than mirth curled at the corners of his lips, and something unrecognizable flickered in the depth of his eyes, which had shifted color from gray to storm black. “Indeed, your majesty is mistaken. For I would not tarry at such tasks were it not by your explicit will and order.”
Queen Maeve laughed sweetly. “ ’Tis a private matter, milord, of which I will speak to you anon.”
King Alastor inclined his antlers in assent. To the servers he called, “Maidens, bring a chair for our Lord Astreus, for he has the look of one who has traveled far and is need of rest and succor. Gentle lords, make room, that Lord Astreus may sit at my right hand.”
“Thank you, Sire,” Lord Astreus replied. He glanced about the hall, breathing deeply of the aroma of the feast. As he looked over the assembled company, his glance fell upon me and passed on. I wondered if he recognized me, or if he even remembered the tryst he had made and broken. Probably not.
Unexpectedly, his gaze returned, fixing on me with dawning recognition. His dancing eyes were now as blue as sapphires.
“Miranda!”
“Trifle not with the Aftercomers,” declared Lady Floramel. “ ’Tis the queen’s wish that they be shown no favors, beyond that of being allowed to sup in our august company.”
Astreus halted. He cocked his head and gazed at the queen with eyes as silver as mirrored glass. Anticipating he would heed his queen’s will, I sighed with unexpected disappointment, which was quite foolish. After all, he was an elf. It was amazing he remembered me at all.
“Surely, Lady Floramel, you mistake our queen’s intent,” Astreus replied. “For no elf, be she maid or queen, would fail to honor the Handmaiden of Divine Eurynome, who is adored by all true elves.” Bowing toward King Alastor, Astreus continued, “Sire, I appreciate the favor you show me, but respectfully decline. Do not oust my brethren from their seats on my behalf. Let me sit, instead, beside this fair maid, and speak with my servant Mab regarding the fate of my people. For I have been long absent and would hear how they fare.”
“My lord, an elf lord supping with a mortal maid? ’Tis not done!” said Queen Maeve. Her voice remained girlish and sweet, but her young eyes were wintry. King Alastor regarded the queen, then Astreus, then me. His gaze was penetrating, as if he saw far more than mere appearances might reveal. As he examined me, a half smile on his lips, I noticed anew that the elf king was a comely man, well-favored, and much admired by maidens and matrons alike. He had a reputation for beguiling ladies who drew his regal attentions. As my Lady’s Handmaiden, I was immune to his charms, but I lowered my lashes demurely nonetheless.
Now I was most glad I had not chosen to sit among the ice sprites. Astreus’s defense of me more than made up for the elf queen’s slight! Yet, as I waited for the elf king’s decision, my initial delight faded. What motivated Astreus? Did he truly desire to dine in my company? A flattering thought, but rather unlikely, considering that he had not only failed to appear at the rendezvous he himself had solici
ted, a mere seven years after we had first met and danced, but also he had avoided my company at whatever Centennial Masquerade Mephisto claimed he had attended. More likely, this was some subtle stratagem meant to discomfort the elf queen, whom he seemed bent on needling. If so, I wished he would leave me out of his schemes. The elf queen was not an enemy I wanted to cultivate.
Finally, the elf king spoke. “I see no harm in letting our wayward lord sup beside Eurynome’s lovely handmaiden. He has been away so long on your behalf, my queen. Be merciful, and do not stand between him and his chosen amusements. Sit, Lord Astreus, dine, and be merry. When this feast is through, come to me, and we shall speak at greater length.”
Lord Astreus bowed. “It will be my pleasure, Sire.”
The queen frowned, and her ladies pouted, but there was nothing to be done. The elf king had spoken.
Victorious, Astreus came to stand beside me, his chosen entertainment. As he went to place a chair brought by a serving maid between Mab and me, he halted with some surprise. “Mephisto!”
“Astreus,” replied Mephisto. They gazed at each other solemnly, and a glint of something like hope leapt in Astreus’s eyes, changing their color to leaf green. Then, Mephisto gave his usual goofy grin, and the glint died away. Oblivious, Mephisto chattered on. “Good to see you again, Mr. Elf.”
Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I Page 39
