Feast of the Elfs: The Green Knight's Squire Book Two (Moth & Cobweb 2)

by John C. Wright

  Was it deception or decoration? Beneath their illusions of grace and beauty, the elfin maidens in their silks and coronets were still graceful and beautiful. The only difference was that the outward illusions had flashing smiles and glittering eyes: their real eyes were cold, and their lips were pale.

  2. Beneath the Oak Root Lamps

  There was some odd property in the air that made it hard to judge distances. Anything he looked at started looking larger, clearer and closer than it should be.

  The ceiling was a vast dome. Around the circumference of the chamber were stalactites and stalagmites grown together to form pillars as great as any art of men could make, with veins of living silver running through them.

  Tapestries of blue and silver, black and gold hung between these columns, displaying scenes from tales Gil did not recognize, the doings of wolves and owls, of fallen angels, or babes stolen from cradles, or robes stolen from bathing maidens.

  Overhead the roots of a gigantic oak tree were protruding through the domed ceiling like a wide and motionless nest of wooden snakes. Lanterns of many colors were hanging from the lower roots as from a living chandelier.

  Below these lanterns, servants no larger than fireflies were flickering and darting through the perfumed air, as graceful as iceskaters, leaving trails of glittering dust behind them as they sped. When they dove and landed, the servants would swell to human size, the manservants bowing and the maidservants curtseying, proffering whatever dish or cup had been called for.

  Directly beneath the roots of the ceiling was a firepit where seven fires of seven colors were burning. Roasts on spits, or pies on griddles, or bubbling kettles of copper dangling from hooks were steaming. Cooks in white with ladles and brushes doused the meats with spices or wines or chanted spells. Serpents of fire whose voices were songs of hissing crackles moved among flames of the pit, tending the coals or handling whatever was too hot for elfin flesh to touch.

  Maids and potboys armed with meathooks and long-handled spatulas juggled joints and puddings, fish and fowl, or pans or tureens from one hue of the fire to the next, whirling and leaping gaily, stirring the soups and stews with slotted spoons as they did.

  The feast tables were trestles and boards covered with white linen which made three sides of a great horseshoe-shaped curve around the fire pit.

  The high table on a tall dais to the north was at the far side, where lords in crowns and splendid robes of silk and satin, velvet and ermine sat on thrones of carved and gilded wood. To east and west were lower tables and smaller chairs where knights and ladies in embroidered linen sat. And, farthest from the thrones, nearest to the doors, were tables with shorter legs. Here were simpler chairs or stools where magnates, yeomen, and humbler persons were.

  Around the fire pit was a wide space of marble floor where jugglers and clowns, jesters and harlequins, ballerinas and showdogs pranced and leaped, ostriches bowed or white horses pirouetted or wrestlers struggled.

  3. Elf Song

  Every motion in the room was all in time with the music. Each time a knight or prince turned a head or princess raised a hand, it was with the rhythm and beat, as if a great and invisible choreographer had mapped out their motions, and punctuated the stanza with their laughter, or the bright clash of wineglasses.

  For a long moment, Gil forgot himself, and merely stood and looked. As he listened, enchanted, to their talk, he became aware of how beautiful the voices of the elfs and elf-maidens were, and how easily poetry sprang from their lips, sonnets and clerihews, verses subtle and lovely springing impromptu as if from hidden fountains, or finishing each other’s rhymes, or chanting in point and counterpoint simultaneously. How the two voices, weaving their words together in song or speech, could know what the other would say, and match each note or phrase with a balanced answer, Gil could not imagine. What humans could only do in operas or musical theater with a choreographer and lyricist and musician working and rehearsing for weeks and months, these beings could do without effort, as naturally as a man hums a tune or cracks a joke.

  It was very beautiful, but to Gil the sensation was creepy: he found he could not walk or swing his arm except in time with the music, and something was forcing him to breathe not according to his own, human rhythm.

  His feet began to move without asking him, and followed Phadrig Og.

  A pageboy with the head of a monkey blew a blast of sound on a brass trumpet. Phadrig Og sang out, “Majesties and Highnesses! Graces, Excellencies, Eminences, Lords! Ladies and gentlemen of all stations: Behold! The Swan Knight! The Swan Knight is come!”

  And the rap of his white wand on the ground was in time with the music, as was Gil’s gracefully executed bow.

  Gil straightened up. His face was stern, his teeth were gritted. The sensation of being led by elfin music to breathe and bow not by his own will was not only terrifying, it was annoying. He held his breath despite what his lungs tried to do, and did not let his legs move when Phadrig Og twirled lightly, and gestured with his hand for Gil to follow him.

  But when Gil did not follow, Phadrig was thrown off his rhythm for a moment, and took an awkward half-step. At the same time, a harpist plunked a sour note.

  A rustle of sound, sighs of surprise mingled with annoyance, traveled through the chamber. Eyes like gleaming stars now turned toward Gil, one and all, wondering at the discord. A dancing ostrich raised its head on a long, thin neck and peered. Even the cooks were staring.

  3. The Least Seat

  Gil stood still. The music was like a wind pushing against him, but he planted his feet like a tree. He was a solid, heavy, human shape in armor, and he did not move.

  Phadrig Og said, “A seat has been prepared for you…”

  The music slid into a sly and mocking theme.

  Gil looked toward the empty seat toward which Phadrig Og gestured. But he saw nothing wrong. The empty seat was at the very end of the last table next to a horse headed man smoking a pipe. But the music was as obvious as the soundtrack on a comedy show: the musicians obviously thought something was funny about the empty seat.

  Gil squinted. There was a glamour over the table. The chair he was being offered was not a chair at all, but a stool, and the colored shadow of the seat was half a foot away from where the seat of the stool actually was. Gil strode with heavy step, mail jingling. He put one hand on his scabbard and seated himself on the stool where it really was.

  With a burble of penny whistles and muffled horns, the music played a pratfall chord. The music was somehow inside his blood, tugging on his muscles, trying to trip him. But instead of Gil stumbling, the music stumbled, for the horns played one theme, a thrill of brass laughter, and the flutes another, a gasp of surprise. The horn theme stumbled into silence when Gil, instead of falling, was seated serenely. Complete silence fell for a space it might take a patient man to take a deep breath.

  Then, gaily, as if nothing had happened, the harpist leading the band, seated with a harp of gold in his lap, lead the musicians into a sprightly tune. And the unicorns raised their muzzles and gave voice to an eerie, haunting, beautiful sound as mysterious as the sea seen at midnight.

  4. The Beast Table

  Next to Gil was a tall creature with the head of a horse. He was smoking a clay pipe and had a red cap on his head adorned with a black feather, but no gloves on his hands, which were hard, calloused, and yellow. He was dressed in an embroidered jacket. It was done up with pearl buttons and had a high, stiff collar that looked uncomfortable.

  Next to him was a goat-legged youth in a toga. Then came a goat-headed man dressed in a saffron robe. Next was a scarecrow in a tall green hat and patched shirt with a painted burlap sack for a head, and his place was set with a bouquet of flowers, but no food. Beyond him was a shapely young maiden with the head of an owl, dressed immodestly in a bathing suit of white feathers. Beyond her…

  Gil wondered if his eyes were cheating him after all. Next to the owl girl was Ruff, his dog.

  Ruff wore a floppy gree
n hat with a wide brim and hatbuckle and a white owl’s feather, and he was sitting upright at the table. He was dressed like a musketeer, with a long buff coat and wide pants tucked into green boots. He was wearing a pair of green gloves, and the gloves were shaped like human hands, with thumb and fingers in the proper places, and not like paws at all. Ruff was using a knife and fork to cut the slab of raw meat that rested on his plate, or used the gloved to pick up his drinking horn. However, his muzzle was still shaped like a dog’s, so he could only lap a little ale from the horn’s mouth.

  Only then did Gil realize that all the people at this table were probably animals, cast under some enchantment so that they were partly turned into human shape, so that they could sit in human seat and use human utensils. It seemed a strange thing to do, and a little cruel.

  Ruff, seeing Gil looking at him, raised his drinking horn in a salute, “Well, hello, there, perfect stranger whom I have never met before! How odd you look to me, since we have never met before! Why are you sitting at the pet’s table?” Ruff then coughed, and turned his head the other way, and addressed the figure at the other side of the table, a young woman dressed in white bodice and long red skirt with a small green cap pinned to her coppery hair, which was piled atop her head. “Begging your pardon, Doctor! Not that everyone here is a pet, exactly…”

  Gil, seeing her, blurted out. “So this is Sheila McGuire!”

  The young redhead looked across the length of the table at him, for she was seated at the head. “I do not recall the pleasure of having met you before, Sir, ah—? What is your name? Do you know me?”

  “I know you! You are the spy mistress for the elfs. Ah…” Gil saw the look of shock on her features. Silence fell across the table where they sat, and the animal-headed figures here were staring at her.

  Sheila McGuire took a slow sip from her wine glass before answering. Unlike the animals’ places, her place had a white cloth laid over the board, her chair had a back, and she was drinking wine, not ale.

  She said smoothly, “King Alberec is said to have a magic throne on the side of a high cliff that reaches from hell to heaven, and from this seat can see at once all the doings of the mortal men in the mortal world. What need has he of spies? Or why would he have a mere human like myself, the daughter of sinful Eve, serve in such a place?”

  Gil sighed, “Riddles, huhn? All right, I give.”

  Sheila blinked, puzzled, and the music in the chamber stumbled through another sour note. “You give what?”

  “I give up. I have no idea why he needs spies or why he hired you.”

  Some of the animals at the table, those in green caps, snorted or wagged their tails. But there were others here in red caps who were staring at Sheila McGuire with hostile glares, as if surprised to learn her true profession.

  Sheila McGuire directed a cold smile toward Gil, saying smoothly. “Young elf, I do not know you, nor whereof you speak. The elfin race is prone to tricks and deceptions…”

  The music changed into something soothing and lighthearted, urging everyone to ignore this false step and get back to the festivities. The animals were soothed by the music, and seemed to shrug and nod, sure that Gil was merely an elf playing some trick. The goat-head man nodded, and the owl-headed maiden reappeared. The soothing tones of music crept into Gil’s ears, and mouth, and…

  Gil spat, as if spitting the lulling music out of him. “Deceptions!” He realized he was angry. “I do not lie! You are Sheila McGuire! You read the elfin books by starlight and found their world and so were snared.”

  She tried to raise her wineglass to her lips for another calm sip, but her hand was shaking too noticeably. She tried to speak, but coughed.

  The horse-headed creature next to Gil coughed with laughter and muttered. “That’s struck the mark!” and blew a smoke ring. The goat-legged satyr next down lifted a drinking horn to hide a wide grin and muttered, “Never seen the Doc so worried! Alberec might turn Granny back to her real age again!”

  Sheila McGuire recovered her composure quickly. “You spin an odd tale, Sir Knight… It is a very amusing, ah, diversion. I am sure that Phadrig Og cunningly prepared many fantastic entertainments for all of us, low and high alike, ah–”

  Gil interrupted harshly, “Anyone who hears my voice knows I speak the truth.”

  Sheila looked relieved when they were interrupted.

  5. Salmon and Seeming

  A white rabbit in green boots wearing a neck ruff and the tabard of a pageboy stepped up next to Gil and held up a golden trumpet so long and awkward that it took two other pageboy-bunnies in boots to hold it. He blew a blast.

  The horn was loud. Gil winced but thought it would be bad form to clutch his ringing ear, so he resisted the impulse. A green boy with a laver of steaming water and a blue-skinned girl with antennae carrying an ewer and a towel appeared in a flicker of magical lights, swelling up from fireflies, to bow and curtsey to Gil.

  “What’s this?” said Gil.

  The horse-headed man next to Gil fiddled with his clay pipe, and whispered. “For washing your hands. Don’t take your gloves off. It is dry water.”

  Gil whispered back, “What is dry water?”

  “Water that ain’t wet! You are a backward hayrick, or I am no Glashan. What part of elfland mothered you?”

  “I was raised all alone, and kept apart from the world.” Said Gil, truthfully. He dipped his gauntlets in the water, and saw the frost and grime and pine stains float away, but when he raised his hands from the bowl, the metal of the gauntlet’s fingers and the leather of the palm were dry.

  A boy set a place for him: a silver knife and spoon, a tiny cube of salt, a silver cup for ale, a fluted glass for wine, a slab of bread to put his meat on, and a shallow wooden bowl rimmed with silver.

  Next came a pantler with bread and butter, and then the Butler with wine. The Butler bowed and handed him a fork. A serving girl twirled like a ballerina and placed a dish on a white cloth before Gil.

  The delicious smell of salmon cooked in lemon dill sauce and rosemary rose from the plate, and, at first, it almost looked like a fish pan-fried to a delicious golden-brown. But, looking closer, Gil saw that this was another colored shadow. Beneath the shadow was a soggy leather shoe drenched in bog mud, like something plucked from the bottom of a fen.

  Gil said to the Butler, “Your Cook has outdone himself in making a dish appear most delicious to the eyes. There is another who might enjoy the dish more than I, however.” And Gil smiled at the goat-headed creature in the saffron robe seating a few seats down, and told the pageboy to offer it to him.

  The Butler was a handsome young elf with ancient and cruel eyes. He wore a white bearskin draped over his shoulder above his uniform of black. He gestured imperiously. One of the cooks, a round-bellied and big-armed gnome, pale as lichen, came bounding up. He had tufts of hair extending out above his ears nine inches or more. The Butler said, “The young knight dismisses your dish, you villainous churl! Have you nothing worth to set before the worthy?”

  The gnomish Cook pushed forward a silver cart whose upper surface was set plates and platters. Twelve dishes of various kinds of filth were there, each one disguised under a glamour of something delicious and savory: joints and cuts of meat roasted or stewed, a paste of chicken and rice boiled in almond milk garnished with fried almonds and anise; meat pounded and mixed with breadcrumbs, stocks, and egg, poached into a dumpling. There were also meat pies, pasties, and fritters. He saw pork, venison, and peacocks, swans, suckling pigs, crane, plovers, and larks.

  “Sir?” said the Cook with bland politeness, while the music drifted into a sarcastic tune, “Will you have the blankmanger or the quenelle? The wild boar? Fresh herring flavored with ginger and pepper? Porpoise in mustard? I have also Irish Elk, Passenger Pigeon, delicious Dodo bird legs, haunches from the woolly rhinoceros, and breast of Moa, the sweetest of fowl.”

  Gil, who could see through the illusion to the dreadful and putrid muck and maggoty corruption benea
th, said only, “I have never seen dishes prepared in this fashion. I should think this through before I pick one.” Then he noticed what seemed to be a chamber pot on the lower shelf, hidden behind the skirts of the cart. It was a thirteenth dish.

  But the Butler said, “Food from the King’s own table not good enough for the Unknown Swan who flies in from the land of Who-Knows-Where? Your stirabout and grits offend his delicate tongue!” and he clouted the Cook on his ear.

  Gil stood up. He was much taller than the Butler. “Don’t speak to him so, master Butler. Clearly a good deal of thought went into that dish to make it entertaining to this royal company.”

  The young man in the bear skin cloak tilted back his head as if to stare down his nose at Gil. “The gentle born need not intrude on the affairs of servants, Sir Knight. I am not one of King Brian’s good-natured and addle-pated underlings. I am fed from the hand of Erlkoenig, and my mother’s grandfather is the North Wind, born of Eos and Astreus. The blood of Titans runs in me! Who are you, Sir Nameless of Nowhere?”

  Gil said, “I am one who has heard that the Queen’s own cooks serve here at this feast. The doors of this place opened of their own accord to me when they heard me whisper the words Titania is risen.”

  Gil noticed that the musicians had stopped playing a cheerful tune. The song was slow, sad and serious. He looked up. Everyone from the lowest scullery maid to the Emperor Erlkoenig was staring at him. The serving men no bigger than bright bugs who were soaring through the air had stopped, and hovered on silent moth-wings, staring down.

  Gil looked back at the Butler, and continued, “For the sake of her memory, the doors were kind to me, and they are made of stock and stone. Should not we, who are flesh and blood, be made of better stuff? She was known to be the fairest of all wide realm, which is famous for the beauty of its beauties. Titania is gone and will not be reborn into this world again, nor anyone like her. Let us cherish her memory by treating her servants well.”