by Robin Jarvis
“Barmy bogle talk!” she snapped hastily. “Just you keep your daft fancies to yourself. I’ll hear no more of them, and when M’Lady gets back, you’d better have a more pleasing song to sing to Her. Not gentle is She and you’d best answer Her with proper courtesy or it’s straight to the torturers you’ll go. Could do with a bit of stretching, you could—and more besides.”
She bustled away, but instead of returning to her stool by the cradle, she headed for the door. She needed to set her devious goblin mind to thinking, away from his suspicious stares and questions.
“Gabbity will fetch you something fitting to wear,” she declared. “’Tisn’t decent for you to meet M’Lady nekkid, wretched raw spectacle that you are. Just you stay sat on that table and don’t be moving or get up to no mischief while I’m gone. If you’re a good beast, I’ll bring you some milk back from the faerie cattle. Best glug you’ve ever tasted, no doubt.”
With a last, piercing glance at him, she closed the door behind her and locked it.
Grimditch’s eyes remained transfixed on that firmly sealed entrance. He was mortally afraid. The impending encounter with the High Lady in all her dark majesty was a harrowing prospect. He was sure he would expire from the fear of being tortured long before a hot pincer came snipping at him.
“Or the thumb twiddlers,” he sniveled, licking every finger in morose abstraction.
Finally, he tore his eyes away from the door and tried to dispel the horrors that were crowding in. For the first time he began to look about him. The chamber was large and gloomy. Swathes of dark gray-green silk smothered the walls. Stone pillars, carved to look like strangling weeds, rose to the lofty, shadow-draped ceiling. Behind him was a high, wide bed, framed on each side by curtains of olive-colored velvet, fringed with silver tassels. The pillows were whiter than a dove’s wing and the coverlet was embroidered with the High Lady’s emblem, the badge of the black owl.
Grimditch marched his gaze across large wooden chests at the foot of the bed, but was too fraught to even wonder what they might contain. He turned his head toward the only source of light within that shadow-thronged place and marveled that he had not recognized it sooner.
The soft pink glow that emanated from the cradle was pulsing slowly. It licked along the interwoven strands of the webbed canopy where large spiders spun in industrious silhouettes, mending their work tirelessly.
At once, the barn bogle forgot about his plight and slipped gingerly from the table to patter across and take a closer look.
Grasping the edge of the cradle, he stood on tiptoe to see inside and his large eyes swam with pity and compassion. The human infant was still sleeping soundly, the pale rosy glow lapping over him.
“Farmer’s littl’un,” Grimditch breathed in a melancholy whisper, remembering that terrible evening, so long ago, when the hillmen raided Moonfire Farm and carried the baby away. “O’ gentle, swainly tot, there you is.”
Cautiously breaking the web, he reached in and stroked the child’s golden head. “Too fair a fly,” he said mournfully. “Kept here so long, with never no chance of scaddling. Trapped bad and proper you be. She binds you close and snares you forever in Her bewitchery.”
And in that moment, the barn bogle’s fears left him. Nothing could compare to the ageless imprisonment of this infant. The sweet bundle that the farmer’s wife had sung over, rocked in her loving arms, and nourished at her breast could never leave this place. Away from the High Lady’s magical restraint, the mortal world would burn away those stolen years as swiftly as Grimditch’s hair was shriveling in the fire.
Sighing sadly, the barn bogle could not imagine any fate worse and he hoped that whatever dreams visited humankind, only the sunniest called upon this tiny one. The farmer and his wife had been the closest Grimditch had ever come to having a family. In his own peculiar boglish way, he had loved them dearly and they had, in their turn, permitted his trespass with kindness and affection. The farmer had even thought him important enough to warrant coming to the entrance of the barn and announcing the birth of his son.
“Ol’ boggart!” his joyous voice had rang. “There be a new member of this household born here this day! A fine an’ perfect son, no less. First of a long line, if the Lord allows us to flourish. So a health to you and a blessing on us all.”
Grimditch sniffed as he gazed down. “Grimditch would give his neck to save you,” he murmured. “If I could.”
Then in a low, unpracticed voice, the barn bogle began to sing. It was one of the lullabies he recalled hearing in those long ago dusks when he would creep out into the yard, to hear the farmer’s wife comforting her child. Sometimes he pretended it was meant only for him, and he had memorized every cherished word.
A peaceful smile spread over the child’s face. Grimditch no longer cared what would happen to him. He had caused the precious baby to be happy. That was the only thing that mattered now.
FAR FROM THAT CHAMBER, in one of the deepest regions of the Hollow Hill, in the remote sepulchre of the royal house, Lord Fanderyn waited. It was a grim and lonely place, forbidden to all save Rhiannon Rigantona, and he was risking everything by calling a meeting here. But where else was safe from spying eyes and straining ears? By the feeble light of a partially covered lantern, set upon the magnificent tomb of High King Ragallach, Lord Fanderyn nodded courteously as those he had summoned entered. Solemnly, he welcomed each one to this most secret and treasonous gathering.
The twelve figures who had stealthily made their way to that secluded spot were now standing before the imposing stone tomb and regarding one another warily. Five tall elfin nobles, from the highest-ranking families, were present: Lord Limmersent, descended from a house of princes in a lesser kingdom long fallen into ruin; Marquess Gurvynn of the lost land that bordered the Cold Hills; Earls Brennant and Tobevere of the Flowering Woods, long since burned; and the Lady Mauvette. She had been lady-in-waiting to the late Queen Winnifer, whose dust now lay in that very tomb alongside the bones of her beloved husband, the High King. Also gathered in that cool mausoleum were four kluries: Ambert Bilwind, Dolofleur Spony, Hengot Vintril, and Trimple Munnion. The remaining three were goblins: the knights, Sir Begwort and Sir Hobflax, and the commander of the door guards, Waggarinzil.
Lord Fanderyn held up his hand to quell their anxieties and draw their attention to him alone. If anyone else had summoned them here, they would not have come, but Lord Fanderyn commanded much respect and trust among the nobles and better creatures of the Hollow Hill.
“Put your doubts aside,” he reassured them, his calm voice echoing somberly around the walls. “There are no spies here, no hidden ears nor clacking tongues to report your attendance.”
He paused and Earl Tobevere, aged and venerable with a sunken face and a wispy beard that cascaded in silver curls from his chin, said what the majority was thinking.
“How now, my lord,” he began in cautious tones. “Why are we sent for? ’Tis not long since the passing of noon in the world above. Why bid us hither from our beds and why such unseemly haste?”
He gestured to his attire. He was still dressed in his robe and slippers.
“And why do the galleries reek of burned hair?” asked Earl Brennant, flicking at his drooping nose disagreeably. “I cannot chase the foul fume from my nostrils.”
The goblin knights both nodded grumpily and Sir Hobflax rubbed the drowse from his yellow eyes. They had not even had time to put on their hauberks and felt ill at ease without the weight of cold mail hanging from their shoulders and clinking when they moved.
“It is certain death for us to even approach this vault!” Hengot Vintril uttered in a scared whisper. “I should know, I scribed it in the law book myself whilst M’Lady stood over me. I doesn’t like it. I doesn’t like it.”
Lord Fanderyn smiled gravely. “What better spot to speak of that which we crave most?” he said. “Here we may speak freely, and he
who would betray our trespass would betray his own. Each of you knows that, and I judge that each of you desires the same as I.”
“And what is that?” demanded Lord Limmersent, proud and raven haired and determined not to trust anybody.
“Liberty!” Lord Fanderyn answered. “To rid ourselves of Her tyrannical yoke once and forever more.”
He had spoken so loudly that his voice bounced off the other tombs and the echoes took many moments to die. There was a stunned silence. Never had his audience heard such audacious words, voiced so openly and with so little regard for secrecy and discretion. They had expected a furtive meeting of whispered malcontent and an airing of grievances and displeasure. This was too much.
The kluries, who were smaller in stature and lineage than the rest, spluttered and shushed and threw their hands up in horror. The noblemen stiffened and turned pale, while the Lady Mauvette stared desolately at the tomb of her dead mistress.
The stone was ornately carved in the image of a beautiful faerie woman sleeping next to the likeness of her royal husband.
“Every twilight I came here,” Lady Mauvette said, her hazel and amber eyes bereft and brimming. “To lay flowers and keep the candles burning—until the High Lady forbade it. To what purpose was my life then? I, who had served my queen with my every breath. Yes, I would be done with Her bans and Her vicious reign.”
“And you others,” Lord Fanderyn continued. “Each of you has, at one time, murmured discontent to me—of the slights, the humiliations, the cruelties, the false charges brought against those closest to you, the banishments, the murders done for spite and sport. I know what stirs in your private minds. You would be rid of this loathly Lady and bring an end to Her tyranny.”
“Do not presume to speak for me!” Lord Limmersent decried, his haughty face scanning the surrounding darkness suspiciously. “I want no part of this conspiracy. Long may the daughter of Ragallach remain upon the throne and longer still shall I, and all in my household, pay homage and swear fealty unto Her.”
With a scared expression, he turned on his heel. Were they all mad, speaking so brazenly of rebellion? She would find out; She would learn who was there and what was said. Her agents lurked in every shadow, even here in this forbidden place that Fanderyn the fool deemed so safe. There was no sanctuary in the Hollow Hill. The whole reckless plot would be exposed before dusk. Perhaps if he fled directly to Her chamber and confessed everything, She would be lenient with him.
He was about to leave when a heavy, gauntleted fist closed around his shoulder.
“Stay a moment, my lord,” Waggarinzil said gruffly. “Hearken a whiles longer.”
Lord Limmersent pulled himself free of the goblin’s tight grasp. “Do not dare lay your claw on my person!” he commanded.
Waggarinzil brought his piggish snout close to the aquiline nose of the frightened noble and snorted threateningly. “By my old nanna’s lung spots,” he said with a growl, “you doesn’t think you’d be let out of here with your head still wed to your shoulders, does you?”
Lord Limmersent pushed him away and, with a superior sneer on his face, strode toward Lord Fanderyn.
“Her fair, ageless Majesty shall hear of this!” he threatened. “And all of you shall pay with your lives. Aye, and the lives of your families and servants also! Now, command that swinish brute to let me pass. Hail to our deathless Queen!”
“Deathless?” Lord Fanderyn shouted back. “Do not be so sure of that!”
“What riddles do you speak?” Lord Limmersent cried. “How can you question the immortality of Rhiannon?”
“Yes,” said Earl Tobevere, eyeing Lord Fanderyn shrewdly, with his wrinkled hands clasped over his beard. “What flows beneath those words? You are not given to idle talk. Our very presence here is a testament to that. There is no other with repute enough to fetch us from our beds to this forsaken place.”
The others murmured in agreement and stared at Lord Fanderyn expectantly.
“Waggarinzil,” he began. “Tell them where our most supreme Lady is this very hour.”
The goblin stood to attention, which caused his ears to flap and bounce in front of his scaly face.
“Riding,” he reported. “In the wild forest—with the Redcaps.”
“How many?”
“All of them, my lord.”
Eleven pairs of curious eyes regarded him keenly.
“Out there?” exclaimed Sir Hobflax, blustering with indignation. “Without an escort of knights?”
“With those untameable savages?” gasped Lady Mauvette. “They can turn in an instant.”
“Oh, the keepers are with them,” Waggarinzil added. “They was ushered out by whip and by rod, not two hours since.”
“’Twas only a few nights ago the court trooped through the forest,” one of the kluries blurted in confusion. “Why should She ride again so soon? The bounds have been beaten and honor given unto to the ancient serpentine forces as tradition insists.”
Lord Fanderyn observed the astonished and puzzled faces of his audience.
“That is not the only intrigue this morning,” he continued. “Before that, the spriggans were called out. Only three of them have returned and She came back unhorsed.”
His listeners shook their heads in disbelief. What was happening? This was unheard of.
“Hagwood is throttled with secrets,” he resumed. “Yet this is one that even She is afraid of. Yes, even She. Out there, under oak and beech, something has happened, a thing that has never occurred before. Rhiannon Rigantona is in fear.”
Lord Limmersent stroked his sharp chin thoughtfully. “How can the Deathless One be afraid?” he wondered. “’Tis only the promise of death that disquiets the spirit.”
“Yet even now she is abroad,” Waggarinzil stated. “Attacking a foe that has already scattered one army and caused Her to flee for reinforcements.”
The kluries glanced at one another nervously. The goblin knights glowered as they clenched their fists and the nobles frowned as they considered this disturbing revelation.
“If She is afraid,” Marquess Gurvynn said slowly, “then surely the Unseelie Court also has reason to fear. We should be battling alongside Her. This unknown enemy is like to destroy us all.”
Lord Fanderyn laughed. “If this menace was a threat to the Unseelie Court,” he assured him, “She would not ride out to meet it with the lowest ranks and keep we nobles unaware. No, She has encountered a thing that imperils She alone, and we are to remain ignorant of it, lest we also use it against Her.”
“What can it be?” Lady Mauvette asked. “An enchanter, mightier than She?”
“Some monster crawled from the bogs on the moor?” added Trimple Munnion.
“A magical device with power enough to blast Her to dust?” Dolofleur Spony suggested, with a hopeful grin on his wide face.
Lord Fanderyn smiled at them. “I too have pondered hard on this,” he said. “But now, I believe, the answer is found.”
They stared at him and waited.
His keen eyes gleamed at them. “Long ago,” he said, his clear voice resonating in that dismal place, “when the Puccas still labored in the forge, making artful toys for the royal prince and princesses, there was rumor of one special trinket, most cunning and splendid.”
“Rumors do not overturn thrones,” Sir Begwort interrupted with blunt impatience.
Earl Tobevere stroked his silver beard and half closed his eyes as he thought far, far back.
“There was whisper of something at the time,” he remembered. “But the nine Puccas were ever secretive at their labors. Was it not some great gift for the King?”
“Surely,” Lord Limmersent interjected, “that was just before the murder of Ragallach—by Alisander, his own son and heir?”
Lord Fanderyn nodded. “So it was,” he said. “And thus was it forgotten. When
the heinous murder was discovered, the Redcaps slew the Puccas, for they had made the crystal-handled knife that had killed the King. Then, with the spriggans, they hunted Alisander through the forest and shot him with poisoned arrows as he was crossing the Lonely Mere.”
“A black time in our history,” Earl Tobevere commented grievously. “We had dared to hope the evil years were over. The troll witches had been defeated and, for a brief while, the forest was fair and wholesome. Dunrake it was called in those faraway days. Then a curse fell upon Ragallach’s house. Clarisant, the High King, Alisander, all gone. … The forest grew dark and hostile and Dunrake became Hagwood.”
“And shadows lengthened beneath the Hill,” Lady Mauvette agreed.
“And this trinket?” the Marquess asked. “Do we know what it was?”
Ambert Bilwind, the klurie, had not yet spoken, but now he cleared his throat with a stuttering cough and peered up at them through one of the three pairs of spectacles that were balanced on his beaky nose.
“My elder brother, Yimwintle,” he began in a sorrowful voice, “was librarian to the High Lady. Two days ago, she killed him. Why, I do not know, though does She ever give a reason? Whim and fancy are enough.”
No one said anything. They knew the lethal caprices of Rhiannon Rigantona and the countless she had put to death without cause.
“There, among his books, she murdered him,” Ambert murmured softly. “His lifeblood spilled across his beloved scrolls and tomes, flooding through and spoiling the pages, blotting out the words he so adored. I cannot forgive Her for that, and so I tell you now what I have told my Lord Fanderyn and what Yimwintle once whispered unto me. My brother knew what the Puccas forged for the King. It was at Rhiannon’s bidding. She said it was to be a present for her royal father and stood by them in the forge to oversee its making. The Puccas put all their skill and cunning into this gift for their beloved King, but they had been lied to—Rhiannon wanted it for herself alone.”
He paused to take a much-needed breath, while his listeners held theirs.
“The thing they made,” he continued, “was a box—an enchanted, golden casket. Not large, yet stronger than the hardest diamond, and, once locked, impossible to open without the one magical key. As soon as it was complete, Rhiannon, or Morthanna as she was called then, snatched it away.”
