Goblin Ball (6 page)

Another chime sounded, and another—she’d lost count. The image grew more focused, and she had the sense he saw her too. He was lovely. She could only see him from shoulders up, but he was obviously athletic, in his late twenties, thirty at most. He had an aura of honorable intensity which she found surprisingly compelling. She smiled. He smiled back.

Bella screamed.

« Chapter 6 »
Max

The Blue Vale

Max, a goblin
of the Blue Vale, downed the last of his jasmine stout, nodded to his host, and belched appreciatively. A repulsive tradition, but what was a gob to do?

“Fine meal, Vulsier. My compliments to your kitchen.” He brought his silver tankard down with force enough to express satisfaction but not so much as to be obnoxious.

There was an art to goblin hospitality, in the giving and in the receiving, and Max appreciated art in all its forms.

The tankard had a fine bright-cut design of flax in bloom. Vulsier’s mahogany dining furniture was exquisitely carved and decorated with inlays of peacock blue, green, teal and pink enamel. The fire crackled on the hearth, punctuating the smacks and grunts of goblins heartily enjoying the stew and stout.

“It’s good to be home,” Max said, more to himself than anyone. He’d lived at court in the faewood far too long.

“You belong with your own kind,” Vulsier said from the other end of the long table. “You’re no courtier.”

“Hear, hear.”

“Right said.”

“Gob’s truth.”

Grunting agreement poured with genuine enthusiasm from the other goblins.

“A gob shouldn’t be so long in the faewood,” Vulsier said. “I feared we’d lost you to the court’s fairy-like ways.”

“It was for a noble cause—to stop Idris and save Boadicea,” said Sturm, on Max’s left. “I call that goblinlike.”

“Hear, hear!” said Drang, on Max’s right. “For my part, I’m damned relieved to be out of that sickening dark bower.”

The twins Sturm and Drang were officially apprenticed to Vulsier, their uncle, but since their adventure in the Bower of Elyse they’d formed a proprietary attachment to Max. The young gobs’ eyes glittered as they clanked tankards across the table in front of his face, winked simultaneously, and downed their ale.

“Oyez! Oyez!” The other gobs grunted and pounded the table with cups and fists. Max acknowledged the boisterous display with a quick nod.

“But he
didn’t
save his sister, did he?” Barkar said. “The faeling saved Boadicea.”

“The result is the same,” Sturm said. “She’s free of the abomination.”

“And maybe the faeling struck the bow, but the gob forged the blade,” Drang said. “Max made
Mistcutter
.”

“There is one thing I still don’t understand,” Sturm said. “Why would the high gods let a faeling take the sword from the stone?”

Everyone fell silent, pondering the mystery. How could a faeling, half human, have freed Boadicea from the abomination when the most powerful gob magic, fairy magic, and wyrding magic could not?

“I’ll not question Brother Sun and Sister Moon,” Vulsier said. Under his breath he added, “Even when they make no sense.”

“Part of the punishment is right,” Barkar grumbled. “Boadicea is out of the glimmer glass, but she’s trapped in the same curse as are we all. Which curse was brought on by
Mistcutter
in the first place, I might add.”

“Hmph.” Max didn’t like all this talk of
Mistcutter
. Until Lilith had brought the sword to Mudcastle, its existence had receded to legend, even in the realm of fae, and Max had hoped it would stay that way. Apparently not everyone at Mudcastle that day had kept silent about the events. But then, between Goldy and Morning Glory, there was never any hope of it.

Max was more worried about Jenna of the Sarumen seeing it. What had she told her grandfather?

“Barkar, you’re a wonder,” Morander said. “You see the cloud inside every silver lining.”

Max liked the young goblin, but it was off-putting how the youth had an opinion on every subject, thoughtful or no. It was unseemly for one no older than seven or eight hundred years to talk so much, even if he did make more sense than most.

Morander turned to their host. “Forgive me, Vulsier. I acknowledge that I’m young, born during the regency, so maybe I’ve missed something. What is this
Mistcutter
everyone speaks of?”

The other gobs went silent. They looked everywhere but at Max. The muscles in his neck and back twisted and burned like hot worms crawling beneath his skin, and he felt the lines in his face deepen.

“
Mistcutter
is the goblins’ greatest glory,” Vulsier said, “and our most terrible sorrow.”

All goblins were hideous. All suffered burning sinews and wore deepening scowls, but this wasn’t always so.

“Our ugliness is a curse laid upon us all long ago,” Max said. “A collective punishment for a single goblin’s horrific creation. The fabulous weapon,
Mistcutter,
the sword which can pierce all magics, wyrd or fae.”

Sturm and Drang took deep drinks from their tankards.

“Long ago Utros used
Mistcutter
to break the wards on Tintagos Castle. His object was the lady of the castle, Igraine, and their coupling produced the magnificent King Artros of the Round Table.”

“Not a bad outcome,” Morander said.

Max tilted his head and grunted. “But the castle wards had been placed there by Brother Sun and Sister Moon. When Utros used
Mistcutter
to break the wards, it was like breaking the world. Humanity’s collective consciousness altered. It was as great a leap as when Adam and Eve ate that pomegranate, a great leap in human knowledge.”

“I understand,” Morander said. “With the right weapon, humanity could defy the will of the gods.”

“It was always thus,” Max said, “but how dangerous can a truth be if no one knows it?

“But why did you do it, Max?” Morander said. “Why did you forge
Mistcutter
?”

Max sighed. He’d created
Mistcutter
at the urging of the devious wyrding man, Merlyn. He’d forged the weapon out of vanity, taking Merlyn’s flattery seriously.
One day you, Max, will be the goblin king.
How could he be so…

“Stupidity,” he said. “Hubris.”

“And we all paid for your hubris,” Vulsier said.

“We pay yet,” Barkar said.

“Outrage drove the gentle gods beyond pity,” Vulsier said, “and their curse inured to all goblinkind. Brother Sun and Sister Moon laid it collectively, took away our legendary beauty.”

“In my every waking moment, this cursed ugliness reminds me to have a care before wielding my art. Too late, I know. But I hope never again to create a thing just because I can. I will be ugly forever, but I will strive to impart beauty and good purpose to every object I bring into existence. It’s the only penance I know how to give.”

“And a proper creed,” Vulsier said. “One every gob should look to.”

“Perhaps that explains the faeling,” Morander said. “Maybe part of the punishment for forging such a weapon was to be forever denied from wielding it. No offense meant, Max.”

“None taken,” Max said. Morander was one of the more thoughtful of the younger gobs.

“But then why didn’t the high gods curse the wryd for Dumnos iron?” Morander said. “The death of Queen Sifae—I don’t call that inconsequential.”

“Dumnos steel was meant for cauldrons and long swords,” Max said. “Nothing to thwart the gods’ will.”

“True,” Vulsier said. “The queen’s death was horrible, but the means to achieve it didn’t come close to the power of
Mistcutter
.”

“And I don’t lay Sifae’s death at the feet of the wyrd,” Max said.

“But they ambushed the trooping fae, right on the trail.”

“Did we ever know they were wryd, truly?” Max said. “Those quarrels… I never believed they came of a wyrding spell. True they were made of Dumnos iron, but that’s just it. Dumnos iron isn’t toxic to fairies. They had the feel of dark fae magic.”

“Even so, I still blame the wyrd,” Barkar said.

“But why?” Morander said.

“The Great Wyrding created Dumnos iron,” Barkar said. “Without it, the deadly quarrels could never have been made. I blame the wyrd. And now one has got our prince. A human. A wyrding woman.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Max said. “Dandelion always verged on going solitary, long before he met Beverly Bratton. He was never happier than when Idris banished him to Mudcastle.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Vulsier said. “But Max, you’ve made me think. If those quarrels came from the dark, we should know about it. We’ve only just come out of our own dark times under Idris. If there is another enemy out there… we need to be forearmed.”

“Oyez, oyez.” The gobs grumbled and grunted their agreement.

“I wouldn’t want our thousand nights and a night of dancing spoiled.” Vulsier winked and raised his tankard. “We’ve only just got the ball rolling again on courtships and weddings. Before the end of the dancing, I want to see my nephews married.”

“Well said, Uncle!” Sturm said.

“Here’s to my lusty bride,” Drang said. “May she have hair as blue-white as starlight and eyes merry from constant laughter, and may she be a good dancer and a great cook—and may I find her soon, by the gods!”

Max finished the last of his stout and stood. “Best be on my way.” He meant to visit Faeview in the human realm tomorrow morning before the gifting. The Blue Vale’s present was bulky, and he wanted to deliver it to the house before the picnic so Cade and Lilith wouldn’t have to deal with it.

“Maxim, sit, sit. It’s early yet.” Vulsier frowned. “Surely you’ll stay for the dancing, one or two reels at the very least.”

“I must be at Faeview tomorrow early,” Max said. “I’ll have to work through the night as it is to finish our gift.”

“Ah, yes.” The creases in Vulsier’s face deepened. “One loses track of human time. The bed is near finished, then, and no doubt perfect.”

Max merely tilted his head. He wouldn’t openly brag on his own work. But yes, the enchanted bed of carved yew wood was perfect.

“Our queen’s grandniece,” Vulsier said, almost dreamily for a goblin. “Think of that.”

No one at the table needed a reminder. There had been no royal children born to the Dumnos fae since Dandelion and Narcissus. Alexandra Lowenwyn Beverly Glory Marion Elyse Bausiney was technically only half fae—and who knew if she’d express her fae nature?—but she was the closest thing to an heir to the Moonstick Throne the Dumnos fae had.

“The queen has called for a full gifting,” Vulsier said. “Fairies, brownies, leprechauns, pixies and sprites will attend, but the Blue Vale’s gift will outshine them all.”

“Don’t forget the wisps,” Barkar chuckled, but if he’d thought of a wisp joke, he kept it to himself.

With a nod to his host, Max turned away. He made it to the front door of Vulsier’s meandering bungalow before he heard footsteps rush up behind him.

“Max, wait!” Morander emerged from the hallway. “I have a long night ahead of me, too, working on this.” From the work bag slung over his shoulder, he withdrew a sheet of copper about four foot square and pounded out thin. The half-finished, bright-cut design sparkled under the light of the wall sconce.

“This is good, fine work,” Max said. “You’ll be a craftsman yet.”

“It’s to be a teakettle.” Morander glowed with pride at the compliment.

“Forging your trousseau, then?” Max said. “You must have convinced that girl to dance with you.”

To celebrate the Blue Vale’s release from the rule of Idris, Vulsier had proclaimed a thousand nights and a night of dancing. On the first night, Max had caught Morander brooding over unrequited love, but before he could discover who the lucky lady was, their conversation had been interrupted by the queen’s arrival.

“Not yet.” The young gob blushed. “She’s going through a difficult time right now.”

“Well, may your skill be worthy of her.” It was the customary good wish for a happy courtship. Max moved on, but the young gob kept up with him.

“That’s my goal, Max. I want to have worthy skill, skill like yours. Skill worthy of a queen.”

“What are you saying?” Was Morander mocking him? Had he guessed at Max’s feelings for Cissa?

“I’m asking to be apprenticed to you. Sun and moon, didn’t think you’d be angry about it.”

“You never.” Max stopped. He hadn’t seen that coming.

He reexamined the copper sheet. It really was good, fine work, but… with a shock—and with no small disappointment in himself—Max realized he had no desire to mentor. Who knew? Maybe some of Dandelion’s solitary tendencies had rubbed off.

“I’m a hard worker,” Morander said, and Max recognized the agony of hope on the gob’s face. He’d felt it once himself, long ago, when he’d begged to be Vulsier’s apprentice.

“No doubt, no doubt. Go to Vulsier. Tell him I’m of the opinion you’re ready to be assigned to a journeyman.”

“I want to be assigned to you,” Morander said.

“Forget it, kid. I’m no teacher.”