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

by John C. Wright

  Bertolac squinted at Gil, and then turned and said to the huge black and white dog at his side, “That armor is of strange fashioning… I seem to recall some rumors from a dozen years ago or so… And, come to think of it, I do not see Doolaga the Yeti seated among us.”

  Gil licked his lips, wondering if he should say something.

  Erlkoenig surprised Gil, and perhaps the whole chamber, by speaking in his emotionless, dry tones. “The Swan Knight in valiant combat slew him, bravely and without any act of deceit or sleight of elfcraft, and the Yeti’s brother Gulaga as well.”

  Bertolac said to Gil, “I salute you, then, as one knight to another! Hard indeed it is to pierce the hide of an Abominable Snowman! ’Tis said they know the secret the Nemaean Lion knew.”

  Gil said, “I thank you, Sir Knight, but I cannot accept your praise. The name given me is, for now, a form of honor without substance. I am a squire, and not a knight.”

  Alberec said, “Do not ask him his name or lineage, for he will not give it, nor ask him which knight he serves, for I have decided it shall be you.”

  Bertolac looked dumbfounded. “Ah… as Your Majesty, um, commands. Is assigning complete strangers of unknown houses to the service of your knights a new custom of the feast? Is it replacing the custom of everyone waiting hungrily while the golden boar-meat gets cold for someone to utter an insult and start a fight, because, if I may, I always thought that such a custom was wasteful of good insults and good soldiers, not to mention good meat.”

  Alberec said, “That custom was kept this night and most fearfully, and the court was saved from dishonor by this unknown boy. But I see you doubt my wisdom?”

  Bertolac bowed, “Never let it be said that any ear ever overheard Bertolac, the King’s own champion, utter any doubts about the wits of the king! Doctor McGuire’s spies are not that good, for one thing.”

  Ruff said, “Hey! I heard that!”

  The white dog next to Bertolac said, “Sgeolan, is that you under there? Shut your yap. You are a terrible spy.”

  Ruff said, “Oh? Oh? I should report that you mocked the King’s espionage service to McGuire.”

  “McGuire! The King’s pet mortal! May the cat eat her and the devil eat the cat!” said the great white dog with scorn. “You are the pet of a pet!”

  Ruff said, “Nope! I am out of the spy business. They gave me to the young knight here. He’s awesome, so you shut your yap!”

  The big white dog barked back, “Not my yap! Your yap!”

  Ruff barked, “Yap! Yap!!”

  Alberec under the table tapped Gil on the knee, snapped his fingers and pointed at Ruff. Gil nudged Ruff with his toe and shushed him. Ruff whimpered, “Sorry, King! Sorry, boss!” and fell silent.

  At the same time, Sir Bertolac put his hand on the white dog and said, “Vertifran, heel!”

  The big white dog subsided and sat on his haunches.

  Alberec said, “Swan Knight, show Sir Bertolac the sword you carry.”

  Gil stood and unhooked the scabbard from his belt, and held it over head in both hands.

  3. The Generous King’s Blade

  Bertolac said, “Sire…?”

  Alberec gestured at Gil to seat himself. Alberec spoke. “You doubt my wisdom in placing this quire in your care, my Champion, but doubt me not. Behold the Fair White-Hilted Sword called Dyrnwen, the sword of Rhydderch Hael the Generous of Alcluith. He was called generous because it was his custom to offer the precious sword to any man willing to draw it and bear it, but knights in those days were wiser and refused. Some call it the first of the Twelve Treasures.”

  Sir Bertolac said, “Can you unsheathe the sword, and allow me see the blade?”

  Gil said, “I cannot, Sir Knight. I was told not to draw the blade in this company. It is peace bound.”

  Alberec said to Bertolac, “It is the self same blade. I see by signs unknown to you.” Then he turned his head. “Knights of Corbenec! Do you recall the riddles Ygraine of Corbenec wove about this far-famed sword? She knew more of the lore of the three worlds than any of us. Do you recall whereof I speak?”

  Sir Aglovale stood. “In a way, sire. My lady mother often spoke profound things, and…”

  Sir Lamorak, grinning, interrupted, “More often, sire, than we understood them!”

  Sir Dornar said grimly, “I paid heed, even if others did not. She spoke in threes. One of her triads was this: Whose is the brand from the king called generous? Which is the brand that should not burn? Where shall it be sheathed when not sheathed?”

  Alberec turned toward Bertolac. “These riddles I solve this day in your ears. Brand is an old word for blade. The blade of the generous king belong to him, Rhydderch Hael. The brand that should not burn is the blade called Dyrnwen, for the burning of the blade is a sign of bloodshed. The final riddle I see things from my throne of wisdom, and my missing eye is in the darkness and knows it. Many shades serve me. The place where this blade shall be sheathed when not in its sheath is the heart of Ysbadden!”

  There was a murmur of fear through the chamber.

  Since Gil had no idea whose name this was, or what it meant, he could but listen in bewildered wonder.

  “Through the contriving of Merlin, the blade Dyrnwen was given to one of Arthur’s knights, and it burned as bright as thirty torches in his hand, but after all the Table Round was shattered at Camlann, the blade was taken at Arthur’s last command by the King of Cats to Caer Sidi, the Tower of Glass, beyond the sail or sight of the mortal world. Many years ago it was lost, and that it was found again is a wonder.”

  Alberec nodded to himself, and sighed. He continued: “And of all the wonders in that story, the greatest wonder is that Arthur, the King of Camelot was able to command Carbonel, the King of Cats, to obey him in anything. When before or since has a cat obeyed any order given?”

  Bertolac looked doubtfully at Gil. “Sire… if that blade is the only hope against Ysbadden, it should go to the hand of some most stalwart knight, Bran the Blessed, or some other equally mighty…”

  Bran, his vast head near the high ceiling, spoke in a mild rumble like summer thunder, “I would not take it. This boy stood before the Knight of the Green Chapel, and defied him to his face.”

  Sir Dornar spoke up, “Your Majesty, I add my voice to Bertolac’s! That this unknown yearling should hold this most potent and magical blade is unthinkable!”

  Alberec raised his hand. “Silence! The boy has proved himself worthy beyond any here. Let no one envy his heavy fate!”

  Bertolac laughed aloud. He saluted Gil, and turned to Alberec. “Sire, I accept the commission and will exchange oaths with the youth in the sunlight in some bright place where the air is not fogged with wine fumes.” He turned to Gil. “Stay in your seat, Swan Knight, and welcome to it! I ask leave of Your Majesty to retire, for the peril and fatigue of my journey has wearied and battered me.”

  Gil tried to say something polite in return, but he found himself yawning and had to hide his mouth behind his hand.

  Alberec said to Gil, “I see weariness sitting on your eyelids like a night-hag. In an hour we mean to clear the tables away and begin the pavane and saraband, cabriole, gigue and sprightly gilliard.”

  From beneath the table, Ruff muttered, “Those are dances.”

  Alberec said, “Indeed, they are dances most formidable! If you have not for six hundred years suffered under the demanding tutelage of a haughty dancing master to learn the footing of each of our six hundred figures, bows and graces, flourishes and foot positions, both on the floor and in the aerial maneuvers, the entertainment might fail to display your virtues to best advantage.”

  Gil said, “I would be pleased if Your Majesty felt free to speak more clearly to me: I am at your service and I don’t get what you just said.”

  A sense of pressure came once more into his ears. Gil realized that Alberec was casting an illusion in his hearing. The illusionary voice said, “You need not stay for our first night of dances. My fairy court, w
hile they might be cajoled to honor the fortitude of a warrior for an hour, cannot be forced to forgive an awkward dance-step in an eon. Depart to your bed, before glory you have gained this night be spilled like wine from a shattered goblet.”

  But aloud, outside the illusion, what Alberec said was, “Follow Sir Bertolac. He will assign you quarters in his apartments. On the morrow you depart for the training grounds.”

  Ruff muttered, “The king is getting rid of you as quick as quick can be, so that you do not embarrass him.”

  Alberec said, “And take your dog with you.”

  Chapter Ten: Training Ground

  1. Spy Kit

  Gil was awakened by the sensation of Ruff licking his face. He sat up, blinking. It was pitch dark.

  “Is it morning?” he asked.

  Ruff said, “We’re underground, so it is hard to say, but I heard people moving around like it is the beginning of the day watch. I got your pack. You left it in the entry hall. Do you have a flashlight or something in there? Otherwise you have to light your sword on fire.”

  Gil said, “I am not using Dyrnwen as a torch.” He groped around and found the knapsack. One strap was wet from the dog’s mouth. His flashlight was hanging from a convenient clip. The beam seemed dazzling in the utter darkness of the room.

  Ruff was sitting on his haunches and hands. Hands? Gil blinked, wondering if he were still asleep. But no, Ruff had donned his elf gloves on his forepaws so had fingers and thumbs. Next to Ruff on the floor were some towels, a water kettle, and a basin filled with dark liquid.

  “What is that for?” asked Gil.

  “I got stuff from my spy kit. I am going to dye your hair. I was thinking black because my hair is black.”

  Gil said, “With white patches.”

  Ruff said, “Oh! Oh! Good idea! I can put white patches in your hair, too! Make you look distinguished.”

  “Or like a skunk. You really have a spy kit?”

  “Sure! Sure!”

  “What’s it got in it?”

  “Normal stuff. Disguise stuff in case I want to pass for a terrier or a collie. Gas-powered grapnel and line gun. Bugging devices. Shortwave. Peppery smoke pellets for throwing an enemy off the scent. Tongue antiseptic with a bottle of first-aid spit. A rubber chew toy disguised as a bone that squeaks. A land surfboard for crossing the great deadly desert. Boomerang. You know, normal stuff.”

  “Boomerang?”

  “Sure. Sure. Comes back to your hand when you throw it. I can throw it with my mouth. It is for hunting kangaroos. Dangerous critters! They kick!”

  “How often do spies have to hunt… no, never mind….”

  “There is a great and powerful fairy kingdom that Alberec cannot enter hidden in the middle of the great deadly desert in Australia. I’ve had to go there on three missions. ‘Ops’ we call them. Black dog ops. To gather intel.”

  “Intel? What’s that mean?”

  “Yup. That is short for, ah, intel. Anyway, I’ve got the dye.”

  “Why am I dyeing my hair?”

  “Everyone around here knows your mother, and if they see your magic silver hair, they will know who you are.”

  “They saw me last night.”

  “You were wearing your coif the whole time. It covers everything but your face.”

  “I meant the chambermaids.”

  “Oh! Oh! Don’t worry about them. That kind of fairy is called is pisky: they have amnesia every night at the stroke of midnight. All their short-term memories gone. Poof! They remember how to talk and do their chores, but that is about it. It is some ancient punishment for gossiping. Otherwise the elfs would not trust them not to speak of things they see while cleaning and fetching and stuff.”

  Gil shivered. “Let’s hope the training ground is not a creepy as this place. Go ahead. Dye my hair. Will we have to do this every day?”

  Ruff said, “You just have to touch up the roots, depending on how fast your hair grows out.”

  2. Up the Spiral Tower

  Trumpets and bells sounded the hour. There was a knock on the door, and Bertolac, surrounded by a cloud of little lights, came in. His strange yellow eyes glinted in the half-light. He was dressed as he had been last night, in his armor of pure gold and his lion-skull helm and lion-skin cloak, but this time he had sword and shield. At his heel was his giant wolf-faced white dog, Vertifran. Vertifran and Ruff circled each other warily, sniffing.

  Bertolac wasted no time on pleasantries, but said only, “Come!”

  The tall, golden man led Gil up one dark corridor adorned with scorpions and up a second decorated in centipedes, to an irregular stairway lit by brass snakes hanging by their tails and holding lanterns into their mouths.

  The two dogs trotted after, whispering and gossiping in low growls, talking about hunting seasons of days past and days to come, and which dog was bred with which and when, and what litters they had.

  They emerged from a sliding panel onto a wide, curving balcony large as a boulevard, gleaming under soft silvery light.

  The balcony curved away left and right. Wide, pointed archways facing inward looked upon a vast shaft of air into which captive moonlight poured down. There were ranks of archways, one atop the other, reaching upward and downward as far as the eye could see. It was all one balcony, winding upward like the groove in the horn of a unicorn.

  Flitting like motes through this shaft of moonlight were winged servants, bug-sized or doll-sized or child-sized, toting mops or yokes of buckets or baskets of laundry, going from lower balconies to higher or back again. No one of higher rank seemed to be stirring yet.

  Gil turned his eyes down. The moonbeam, glinting with motes, stretched down and down like a silver finger into the bottomless well. From far below, Gil heard the sound of thousands of hammer blows on anvils: an army of smiths busily at work.

  Bertolac spoke, “Can you fly?”

  Gil said, “That is not one of my talents, sir.”

  Bertolac grunted. “Too bad. I just lost four pence to Puck wagering that you could. Well, I hope you have strong legs. It is quite a climb to the surface.”

  For a long time they climbed the spiral ramp. There was no one else walking in the corridor except one old lady hobbling toward them. She was dressed in a shapeless black cloak and a tall pointed hat like a dunce cap. When she passed in front of a mirror, Gil saw a line of empty-eyed ghosts, gray as fog, following in her train.

  She came closer. The old hag had an owl on her wrist, which she carried as a lady might carry a falcon. Her face was a liver-spotted mass of wrinkles; her hook nose and chin practically touched. Gil wondered at the look of sorrow and despair in her eyes.

  Ruff growled, “Don’t stare. That is a witch.”

  But Gil stared nonetheless when the old granny climbed onto a broom and soared up into the beam of moonlight.

  Bertolac heaved a sigh of relief. He said, “Do not be so saucy with your eye before your betters. I am taking you to a place where your bumpkin manners, or lack thereof, will neither dishonor you nor put a donkey’s head on your shoulders. Elfs are dangerous and fickle people, and their servants more so.”

  Gil said, “But you are a servant of the elfs.”

  Bertolac, without any change in expression, clouted Gil on the side of the head. He was not wearing helm or coif, so the blow caught him on the ear and stung like the dickens.

  Ruff bristled and growled. “Hey! Hey! Watch the hands! Should I bite him?”

  Gil rubbed his ear and gritted his teeth bowed to the knight. “I deserved that, sir.” And then he added, “Down, boy!”

  Bertolac said, “Do not forget to whom you speak, nor that I am as fickle and dangerous as the rest. My task is to see to it that you become dangerous, too. As much as I can make you in the short span you have.” He sighed again and shook his head. “Come! Let us see what wind you have. We will run to the exit.”

  Gil was strong and sound, but trotting along in his forty pounds of armor up a continuous slope, he was soon wheezing
and panting as he tried to keep pace with Bertolac.

  They ran past wide gates leading into parks and gardens green and bright beneat small artificial suns, made wide-seeming with illusions. Then, they ran past various doors and gates at which stood sentries, who flourished their pikes in salute of Bertolac, who did not return the salute, but continued trotting onward. They jogged past nicely appointed rooms, indoor lakes of strange fluids, museums, libraries, treasure chambers, ballrooms, and other chambers whose purposes could not be guessed.

  Gil developed a stitch in his side, and sweat was running into his eyes. He snatched a glance toward Bertolac. The man was not even breathing heavily.

  That earned Gil another sharp blow to the head. “Eyes ahead! Run like the White Christ Himself was after you, manikin!” And Bertolac, whose armor was surely heavier than Gil’s own, now broke into a sprint.

  Gil ran and ran. Now that they were higher up, the doors opening up onto the spiral balcony were narrower and meaner, unadorned. Apparently, the elfs put their servants and underlings near the surface.

  Now they passed arsenals, barracks, and underground stalls or kennels or mews where steeds and hounds and hawks were kept, or creatures odder yet, smilodons and woolly mammoths, Tasmanian tigers, Irish elk, a shining hippogriff.

  Gil, wheezing like a broken jalopy, was beginning to look forward to the cold outside and began to imagine, over and over, how refreshing it would be to fall face-first into the snow and never move again.

  Bertolac turned around and was running backward now, staring at Gil’s sweat-drenched face. He rolled his eyes in disgust, turned a cartwheel or two, leaped like a dancer, kicked his foot against the roofbeam, and still managed to stay well in front of Gil.

  Ruff was running, too, his tongue lolling and panting. Vertifran was trotting easily alongside, but his tongue was behind his teeth.

  They turned from the main spiral up a narrow and steep stair. Jerking his knees high, Bertolac bounded up the stairs as lightly as a deer, calling on Gil to hurry.

  Gil’s vision swam. He did not see or notice by what door he exited the underkingdom. He stumbled through the green grass, blinking at the bright sun that blinded him. He saw crooked trees covered in Spanish moss. In the distance were white sand and an expanse of dark water. Nearby on a green hill loomed a large mansion with white pillars holding up a roof of green tiles, all overgrown and blotchy with lichen. Around were several smaller buildings with green moss-covered roofs. Four totem poles as tall as trees carved with leering faces of vultures and goblins, painted in garish colors, stood in a wide square about the mansion.