“It says, ‘Forever joined, heart upon heart, world upon world.’ ” Mara cocked her head, reading the words. “Very pretty. Did you write it?”
“What?” Jane jumped back. “It says something?” She looked at her arm, trying to see the upside-down lettering. Why hadn’t she noticed it earlier? It looked the same as always, only now she realized she could read it.
“You are shocked.”
Lady, that’s an understatement. Fumbling around until she found a chair, Jane sank into it. She felt ill with the implications coursing through her head. This was unreal. The Twilight Zone had come to life and trapped her in a sickening rerun. She had tattooed Elven on her arm!
“Mistress Jane?” Mara knelt at her side. “Are you well? Should I call Muttle?”
“No.” Jane all but shouted the word. Her fingers trembled as she traced the design, now legible. She fought a rising panic. “Until today, it was a design, nothing more. It had no meaning.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us. Look, is there anything I can use to write with?” Chalk? Blood? She couldn’t think coherently.
Mara produced paper and a writing instrument similar to a pencil. Jane wrote down the words in English.
Forever joined, heart upon heart, world upon world.
What did it mean?
“See, can you read this?” She pointed to the script she’d written, hoping she was wrong, that this was a hellish nightmare. She had to be in a coma in a hospital back on Earth, right? Lewis Carroll would never do this to Alice.
The other woman peered at the words.
“No, ’tis squiggles.”
Jane winced. This doesn’t make sense. “Mara,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, “until I entered Lowth, the tattoo was squiggles to me, too.”
“Then how did it come to be written on your arm?”
Jane thought back to the first time she’d seen the design. She’d been five or six, learning to read and comprehend the alphabet. A thirst for knowledge had prodded her to copy letters in every free moment. Magazines, the newspaper, even her sister Sheila Perfect’s diary—nothing was sacred.
“The design had fascinated me since I was a small girl,” she explained. “I didn’t know it was writing at first. It didn’t matter when I found out. Its beautiful, flowing lines intrigued me. It was my first choice, years later, when I decided to get a tattoo.” She remembered the anger spewed at her when she’d come home with the fresh markings etched on her arm. At the time she’d thought it was because of the deed, not the design.
The enormity of the words she was about to say caused them to catch in her throat.
“I copied it from something I found in my mother’s journal.”
Chapter Eight
How in hell did her mother know the Elven language? No, there must be some other explanation, Jane reasoned. Marion Drysdale might be flighty at times, but who wouldn’t be, raising five children? She had both feet firmly planted on the ground, and didn’t believe in fairies, sprites, elves, ghosts or things that went bump in the night. She was a solid citizen, ex-PTA member, maker of a pot roast dinner every Sunday, and grandmother of five. How would she know Elven? She’d never been out of the United States!
“Your mother is an elf?” Mara asked, her eyes wide.
“She is not!” Jane exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “She’s American as apple pie.” At the puzzled look on her friend’s face, she sought for a Lowth comparison. “It would be the same as saying you’re as Elven as the Malin.”
Agitated, Jane circled the room. “I don’t understand this. There must be some mistake. Are you sure you read it right? You didn’t make this up to trick me or make me go insane? Because, let me tell you, after all that’s happened the last day or two, I’m about ready to wig out. It’s bad enough I’m trapped in Lowth until the trial, but to think my mother might have been here . . .” She shuddered. “It totally creeps me out.”
Mara sat in the chair Jane had vacated, twisting her hands. “I wouldn’t trick you, Jane. I do not lie and I lack imagination to deceive. The marking on your arm says what I said it did. ‘Forever joined, heart—’ ”
“ ‘Upon heart, world upon world,’ ” Jane finished. “It sounds like a love letter. Why would she write a love letter in Elven? My father was the only man she ever loved. They were married for over thirty years until he died four years ago.” Their marriage had been too Ozzie and Harriet for her mother to be unfaithful. Especially with an elf. And places on Earth to meet and fool around with pointy-eared men were scarce unless you belonged to the Vulcan Swinging Singles Club.
“Maybe she copied it from someplace, the same as you did,” Mara offered.
“And where would that be? There isn’t much communication between my world and yours.” Precious little. In fact, none that she knew. You couldn’t walk into Waldenbooks and pick up an English/Elven dictionary. Frommer’s didn’t publish The Best Places to Stay in Lowth. And as far as Jane knew, there’d never been any talk of her mother disappearing.
“Elves do go through the portal,” Mara said. “King Garmade himself once lived on Earth. Perhaps he loved an Earthwoman and wrote a poem for her and somehow it came into your mother’s possession—”
Jane blinked at her in surprise. “I thought you said you lacked imagination. No, there are too many coincidences for all those things to happen—and then I show up in the king’s suite with his words tattooed on my arm? That’s a stretch, don’t you think?”
Mara pursed her lips, her forehead lined in concentration. “There must be an explanation.”
Jane plowed her fingers through her damp hair. “I agree, but I’m fresh out.”
“Perhaps Charlie can help. He has a logical mind.”
It’s not logical, Captain Kirk. Jane sighed. Handing the problem over to Charlie smacked of handing her Earth problems over to her brother Kevin: She didn’t want to do it. Closest to her in age, he always complained she took advantage of being the youngest. Still, he helped her out of jams anyway. He’d been with her when she’d had the tattoo done. She wondered what he’d think if he knew it was written in Elven.
“Let’s tell Charlie,” she agreed. “After we see the king. Mara, this is our secret—mine, yours and Charlie’s. If Eagar knew I had this on my arm, well . . . he might burn me at the stake.”
She didn’t try to hide her dislike of the steward. She’d gathered that the general population thought he walked on water. Of course, they hadn’t accidentally killed one of his people, either. Such a blemish on an immaculate record would turn him to the dark side. Maybe he’d had a bad hair day yesterday. No, wait, he was bald. It must be too-tight shoes. It had to be the shoes. Like the Grinch.
Thinking of shoes made Jane realize she was still wrapped in a towel. She turned to Mara.
“Help me get ready, would you? What type of clothes did Muttle bring over from the king?” She hoped it wasn’t something the monarch had worn himself. It was bad enough that she had to borrow clothes. To wear the king’s second-hand dresses capped an already Marvin-the-Martian experience.
Mara held out a long, flowing, Kermit-green nightgown.
“Okaaay,” Jane said, fighting not to make a face. She realized she lived in a different world, if, she hoped, only temporarily. It was necessary to take advantage of the resources offered, but this poofy dress wasted good fabric. “Is there more?” A six-person tent, maybe?
“Of course. There’s the bodice.” From underneath the yards of material, Mara unearthed a short, vest-type garment, low cut and laced in front. She handed it to Jane.
Jane touched it gingerly. What a weird bustier. “Is this for under or over?”
Mara looked affronted. “Over. Nothing is worn under.”
“Nothing?” Jane gasped. “As in nothing? You’re naked? No bra? Panties?” Her earlier worry about underclothes returned. She didn’t need a bra, having little to lift and separate, but she wouldn’t walk around with a bare bottom
.
Mara stared, perplexed. Jane strode to the bathroom and returned with the clothes she’d worn earlier.
“This is what we wear on Earth,” she said. “At least, some of us do.” She didn’t want to get into a discussion of the natural look or thong underwear. “The bra gives support,” she explained. “Or, in my case, enhancement. The panties are for, well, modesty.”
“Intriguing,” Mara commented. She seemed especially enthralled by the hook-and-eye fasteners on the bra. “Jerrowes the blacksmith could make wire so fine.”
“Of course he could,” Jane said, taking back her clothes. “If you have someone who can sew, you could churn these out for all the women. You’d have a regular Sylthia’s Secret.” Jane thought of the naughty underwear packed in the boxes she’d pulled from her car. She didn’t know if the elves were ready for such a leap of imagination.
“Sharezee is the royal seamstress,” Mara said. “Perhaps she might make you others to wear during your stay.”
The idea had potential. “Sure,” Jane replied. “Knock yourself out. Have her make you some, too. I bequeath the pattern to the women of Lowth. No patent, no copyright, no trademark.”
Tired of the subject of underwear, she gathered together the voluminous folds of the gown and departed to the bathroom.
Mara had failed to mention the Lowth equivalent of panties—knee length white bloomers with a drawstring waist. Jane rolled her eyes when she found them hidden in the folds of fabric. Grumbling, she put them on, followed by the chemise itself, yard after yard of green silk. Finally, she pulled on the bodice which, when laced in front, pushed her breasts up and forward, making her feel very serving-wench-ish.
As she entered the bedroom ten minutes later, her feet encased in soft leather slippers, she saw Charlie standing in the doorway to the outside corridor. Their gazes met. Her breath caught. Charlie, her protector, her own Clark Kent.
From his expression she knew he’d forgotten the previous night’s harsh words. The look in his eyes told her everything would be okay. She didn’t have to worry about residual anger from him. Or anything else.
“You look . . . pretty,” he said.
Did she? Jane wished there’d been a mirror to check. There didn’t seem to be any in the castle. She twirled, letting her skirts float around her ankles.
“I feel like a fraud. I’m not used to silk and lace.” Or the open admiration in his eyes. Her cheeks warmed. “It’s different from what I normally wear.”
“The color suits you. It complements your eyes. I wondered how you would look in green.”
He’d wondered? The warmth in her cheeks grew to a full-fledged bonfire. This new side to Charlie caught her off guard. She knew the I-like-my-rut Charlie; she liked to goad the what-have-you-done-now Charlie; but the I-wondered Charlie unsettled her. None of her previous boyfriends, though there hadn’t been many, had ever treated her as if she were a cherished glass ornament at the top of the Christmas tree. The look in Charlie’s eyes made her feel delicate and rare.
Jane glanced away in confusion. Across the room, Mara watched, obviously enjoying the encounter.
Don’t start matchmaking yet, Jane thought. We still have to weave an O.J. defense before we break out the bubbly.
Her pleasure at Charlie’s gaze spiraled back to reality. The trial. Eagar sitting in judgment. A presumed-dead elf. Hoo-boy. Yes, flirtation would have to wait.
“Right, then,” she said. “Let’s go see the king. Afterward, Charlie, Mara and I have a surprise for you that will rock your world.”
Bemused, Charlie took her arm. Half the time he didn’t know what she talked about, the other half he regretted asking. He didn’t need another surprise, but with Jane it was like telling the wind not to blow.
He approved of her change in attire. The pants she’d worn earlier distracted him. Rarely did an Elven woman clothe herself in anything other than a dress. The gown suited Jane. Along with her coloring and the triangular shape of her face, she looked more Elven. It would be a slim advantage in proving her innocence, he decided.
Muttle met them at the door to King Garmade’s suite.
“He be not well,” he warned, his eyes whirling shades of yellow and green.
“Does he want to see us?” Charlie asked. He’d wondered if the previous night’s excitement had been too much for the monarch, precipitating a breakdown of an already weak mind.
The Belwaith nodded. “Aye. But be quick.” He stepped aside to let them enter.
Jane’s sharp intake of breath prepared Charlie for the worst, but Garmade’s deterioration still shocked him. The night before, the man had been semi-energetic and coherent. Now, lying with almost deathlike stillness on the royal bed, he was feeble and barely lucid.
“Come closer,” the monarch said before the three could make obeisance to him. He gestured them forward, his shaking hand not rising from the mattress.
Charlie, Jane and Mara took positions at his side.
“Speak, my lady,” King Garmade whispered, his gaze on Jane.
The compassion in her face bordered on tears. “Sir,” she said, dropping into a curtsy. “Of what? So much has happened to me.”
“Powers.” A rattle shook the king’s chest as he exhaled on the word.
She nodded and took a deep breath. “Twice yesterday the castle did what I wanted. The first time, when you sent Muttle to my cell, I reached into a small hole in the wall and stretched it large enough to pass through. The second time . . .” She hesitated, steadying herself. “The second time, when I made a hole, I could feel the thoughts of Nenius, the man who set the stone in place some three thousand years ago. Sir, it frightened me.”
Magic. Charlie stared, looking for physical proof of a change in Jane. She remained the same, with tousled honey-brown hair and eyes moist with suppressed tears.
Magic bestowed itself unpredictably. Still, without checking Lowth’s history books, Charlie knew not of a mortal with magic. What did it mean?
“A great gift,” King Garmade wheezed. “More is to come. Guard it well. A strength returns to the land.” He closed his eyes. His breathing continued laboriously.
“Enough,” said Muttle, cutting off their chance to learn more. “He sleeps.”
Calme appeared to stand at the king’s side. Her mate all but pushed the others into the corridor.
“We go to the village.” From his tone of voice, Charlie could tell Muttle’s reluctance to abandon his king. Only the direct order from Garmade to watch over Jane would keep the Belwaith from his master’s side.
The door shut behind them. Charlie looked at his sister-in-law and his charge, and saw both weeping copiously.
“Don’t cry,” he said, digging in his pocket to find a handkerchief for Jane. Mara had one of her own.
“Will he die?” Jane asked, scrubbing away the tears and blowing her nose in the white linen.
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “He’s been sick a long time.” Charlie knew the king had become obsessed with ending the Dymynsh, but to see him weakened to such a state—
“What will happen to the monarchy without heirs?”
“I don’t know that, either.” He turned a corner and started down a staircase. The others trailed behind him. “Legend tells that there have been Malins at Sylthia since the time of your Nenius. Two brothers, Malin and Malik, fought over the land. Malik lost and moved north, to christen the Malik Forest and build the castle of Shallen. Malin stayed here, to become the first king and build Sylthia.”
“Then there are heirs in Shallen?”
Charlie shook his head. “The two families have fought for centuries. The last battle was fifty years ago, in King Garmade’s prime. He slew King Rodom, Malik the Sixty-third. No heirs exist.” They descended more stairs.
“Who rules Shallen?” Jane asked, trying to keep up with him. Mara and Muttle followed farther back.
“Blacwin, a wizard. Rumor has it that he is the source of the Dymynsh.”
�
�The Dymynsh? Charlie, what are you talking about?”
He didn’t have time to answer. They rounded the last corner to the level where his office was located. Eagar stood outside his door. The steward looked angry.
Instinctively, Charlie placed himself in front of Jane, protecting her. She’d had enough to upset her over the past two days. Eagar’s wrath, while rare, was formidable.
“Why was I not informed of the new plans for the prisoner?” Eagar spat the last word as if it tasted bitter.
“It was late when the king changed them. You were not around this morning.” Charlie knew Eagar lived by a precise schedule; he’d been at the stables for a routine inspection when Charlie arrived at the castle. Instead of taking time to inform the steward, Charlie’s first thought had been to see Jane again. She needed more than Muttle’s surveillance to keep out of trouble.
“Humph,” Eagar commented. “It should have been brought to my attention. She is in my charge.”
“No,” Charlie said, annoyed. “She is in Muttle’s. And mine.” He didn’t like the idea of Eagar claiming possession of Jane, any more than he’d liked seeing her in King Garmade’s arms the previous night.
“Now wait a minute,” Jane said, elbowing Charlie out of the way to push herself in front of Eagar. “I’m not some toy you boys can fight over. I’m a person, with thoughts and feelings.” She punctuated her words by thumping the older man’s chest with her finger. Charlie tried to catch her hand, but she slipped through his grasp.
“I have certain rights,” she continued. “It’s in the Geneva Convention. Okay, maybe you don’t have the same rules here on Lowth, but I know you obey your king, and he says I’m free to go wherever I want. Muttle is to look after me.” She touched the Belwaith gently on his shoulder.
“I think—”
She interrupted Eagar. “Don’t. It will get you in more trouble. This whole thing is your fault, you know. If you’d run a decent prison, Colonel Klink, your prisoners wouldn’t escape all the time and I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Charlie smiled at her spirit in defying the most respected man in the kingdom. He admired her ability to defend herself, though he didn’t need her bravery upsetting one of the men who would decide her fate.
What Do You Say to a Naked Elf? Page 7
