by C. Gockel
Tavende’s still clutching Tara’s hand. At that simple exchange, Tavende’s whole body goes rigid and Tavende’s pale face goes paler still.
Leenine says brightly, “The All Father and his ravens rescued us.”
Tavende’s nails bite into Tara’s palm, and Tara shivers.
“Excuse me,” Tavende whispers, her fingers relaxing. She tries to draw her hand away, but Tara won’t let her. There is a horrible feeling of wrongness about the whole situation, and she feels protective of the tiny woman. After a second, Tavende squeezes Tara’s hand again, this time without the nails.
Leenine turns her elegant head in Tavende’s direction. The tiniest of creases forms on her brow. “Lionel, who is this?” she whispers.
Lionel’s frame stiffens, and then he turns to Tara and his mother. “Leenine, this is my mother, and Tara of Chicago.”
Leenine’s eyes pass quickly over Tavende, which annoys Tara. The new elf woman gives Tara a much longer look, appraising her from head to toe. “You’ve rescued another human, Lionel?” Leenine asks.
“Another?” say Tavende and Tara in unison.
“I didn’t rescue Abraham, Hannah, or Benjamin,” Lionel protests.
“Rescue who?” says Tara.
“Three runaway slaves,” says Leenine. She tilts her head. “Did he find you in such a circumstance?”
“Tara found me unconscious behind her house,” Lionel says. “I managed to get her kidnapped by Dark Elves.”
Leenine puts a delicate hand on Lionel’s upper arm. “But then you brought her here, delivering her from their clutches.” She smiles sunnily at Tara. “It’s so nice to meet you, Tara of Chicago.”
Lionel scowls. “Actually, it didn’t quite go like—”
From across the courtyard comes a shout. “Steward, members of the House of the Light Wood, and Tara of Chicago, you will report to Her Majesty’s Audience Chamber immediately.”
The silence of the crowd is shattered as everyone starts moving again. Leenine pulls Lionel forward, and Tavende pulls Tara forward, but an elf in garb as elegant as Leenine’s slips between them and the couple and says, “Wait.”
It’s the oddest thing, but Tara suddenly feels very heavy. She and Tavende both halt, and then Tara blinks. Dozens of elves are between them and Lionel, all wearing shimmering garments that she swears must have hypnotized her. Tavende yanks at her hand. “Come on.”
Tara stumbles toward a palace as white as ivory. She and Tavende climb some stairs, pass through great double doors, and suddenly Lionel is nowhere in sight. There are elves everywhere, all going in different directions. They peek at Tara, but hurry along.
“Tara of Chicago?” Tara turns and finds herself facing an elf dressed all in black. He looks more like Lionel looks now—tall with broader shoulders. He has a slightly olive cast to his skin, brown eyes, and brown hair. Only the tell-tale ears give him away, and his seemingly supernatural good looks.
She nods at him.
“It’s so unusual for humans to come to Alfheim,” the man says, eyes intent on her.
“I’m trying to get home,” Tara says.
“I’d be happy to assist you,” he says. “I know of a gate to—”
Tavende interjects, “We were summoned by the queen. We must enter her audience chamber.”
The man bows to Tara. “If she should not grant your request, you must seek me out.”
“You are?” Tara asks.
“Count Darerick … but you can call me Dare,” he says. Stepping forward, he reaches for her hand, but Tavende pulls her away fast.
“What’s wrong?” Tara whispers as they slip back into the crowd.
“He’s a Night Elf,” says Tavende through gritted teeth.
“Like a Dark Elf?” Tara asks. Is he on a diplomatic mission?
Tavende shakes her head and yanks her into another hallway. “No … the Night Elves are allies of the queen.” She squeezes Tara’s hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Tara blinks and looks over her shoulder. The Night Elf is standing motionless in a moving sea of courtiers, his eyes still on her. Discomfited by the intensity, she looks quickly away. “He looked … more human.”
Walking briskly, Tavende nods quickly. “Lionel thinks it’s adaptive. It makes it easier for them to—” Her voice cuts off abruptly, and she looks upward and gasps. So does Tara. They are in a great hall, with glittering walls and a ceiling that soars above their heads. It is packed to the brim with elves, both on the floor, and above on balconies. Tara searches, but she can’t see Lionel. At the far end of the room, on an enormous throne, sits a woman in robes of pale yellow and white. She has pale skin, jet-black hair, and blue eyes that appear Asian. On either side of her stand elves that resemble every human race. Without exception, they are pointed-eared, petite, slender, and perfect. They wear gowns of silk with embroidered scenes that move like films.
The queen’s eyes shoot to Tara and seem to look through her. Tara touches her throat. Surely, she’s imagining that; there is no way the queen glimpses her in the throng.
Inclining her chin, the queen says, “Tara of Chicago, please step forward. We wish to speak to you.”
The crowd around Tara and Tavende parts like the Red Sea. Tavende whispers, “Go forward.”
Tara steps toward the throne. Glancing behind, she sees Tavende following. The little elf woman is looking about fearfully. If the natives are afraid … Lifting her head, Tara walks as confidently as she can, stops a few feet before the queen, and gives her best curtsy.
“We wish to hear all about how you came to our land,” says the queen. “And how you came to be before us.”
Composing herself, Tara says, “I think it really began when I was driving home and I saw an elf child being beaten by—”
Murmurs rise in the hall. “There are no elf children in Midgard,” someone protests. The queen waves a hand. “Start with when you found my steward.”
Tara blinks, and her brow furrows. Why would the queen not want mention of that? But she curtsies again and does as bidden. When the queen asks exactly how Lionel killed the each-uisge, Tara explains that he did it with his bare hands. That causes more murmurs to rise, and they don’t sound precisely complimentary. Tara hastily tells how he warded away the other monsters during the night with a circle. That seems to make them less riled up. She doesn’t mention the fire, or summoning the Destroyer … she can’t precisely say why.
When she gets to the part where the villagers saved them, the queen asks, “Did they ever say what they were doing in the Delta of Sorrows?”
Tara’s brow furrows. She doesn’t want to lie to the queen. Hadn’t there been something about elf queens in Tolkien being able to see into hearts? Biting her lip, she tells a truth. “They told Lionel they were out collecting mushrooms.”
“How odd,” says a lady standing next to the queen. Her complexion and hair look very much like Tara’s own.
Tara looks at the floor and tries to distract them with a little humor. “I’ll say. I don’t think there is any fungus that could make me brave a velociraptor.”
The hall erupts in laughter, and Tara’s shoulders relax.
When it is finally quiet again, the queen commands, “Lionel of the South Vale, step forward.”
Tara hears the shuffle of feet. Turning, she sees the crowd part for Lionel. He’s somehow managed to get a shave. His clothing has changed, too. He’s wearing a golden robe with a pattern of leaves that swirl as though they’re caught in a breeze. He looks like a prince from a fairy tale. No wonder she hadn’t spied him when she’d first came in. He’d apparently taken a detour.
On his arm is Leenine. Tara drops her eyes.
“Has the human spoken the truth of your adventures?”
“Yes,” says Lionel, coming to a stop just a few feet away.
There is more chatter. The dark-skinned woman next to the throne leans close to the queen’s ear. Tara blinks. The woman looks vaguely familiar.
The queen raises a hand and silence fills the hall. “Tara of Chicago, the World Gate to Chicago is once again under Dark Elf control.”
Tara gulps.
“It may not be back in our power for some time, and to send you to it would be to risk your death …”
Murmurs drown out Tara’s sharp intake of breath. Raising her hand for silence, the queen intones, “However, there are other gates. Lady Benedal is returning to the Middle Lands on the morrow. On the route, just a few hours from here, is a World Gate that opens to the region known as San Francisco in the province of California … Would that be close enough to Chicago to suffice?”
Tara’s brow furrows as she imagines all the logistics of it. Popping into San Francisco without money, an ID, or even a phone will be rough; but … she counts down on her fingers. Tomorrow is Monday, or Mondayish, if she’s got her dates right. She’ll be late for work, yes, but she can tell Dr. Eisenberg the whole story and maybe he’ll believe her … or maybe she should just say she came down with a case of Clostridium difficile. It’s always running around the university hospital. She bites her lip.
The queen inclines her head.
Tara glances to her side. She doesn’t expect Lionel to be looking at her, but he is. Up close, she can see he still has dark circles under his eyes, no matter how otherwise polished he looks. His lips part, as though he’s about to say something, but no words come.
Tara swallows and clasps her hands behind her back. Tavende scoots closer to her and Tara remembers how Tavende’s attentions had reminded her of her own mother. Her mother who will be worried to death if she doesn’t get home to at least text very soon. There is nothing for her here. She’ll handle popping into San Francisco without money, ID, or phone somehow. “Yes,” she says. “That will work.”
The dark-skinned Elven woman smiles at Tara, her eyes sparkling. Why does she look so familiar?
There are a few murmurs and the queen waves a hand at Tara and Tavende. “You may step back. We wish to address my steward and the Lady Leenine of the Light Wood.”
Tara curtsies. She and Tavende step back into the crowd.
The queen eyes Lionel and Leenine. “It has come to our attention that a soul match between a servant and a Lady of a Great House has occurred.”
Murmurs rise in the crowd, and someone near Tara whispers, “And that he is a half-breed.”
“What was his mother thinking carrying to term?” says another, and someone else answers. “Who would have paid the child price?”
Tara glances at Tavende. The tiny woman is trembling. Tara wraps her arm around her. She’s afraid Tavende may fall over without support, and also, if she doesn’t do something with her right arm, she may do something regrettable … like slap someone.
The queen lifts a finger and the crowd goes silent. “Some amongst us say that such a union is unheard of, especially with Lionel of South Vale’s unique heritage.” Some of the elves standing beside the throne scowl at those words. “But,” says the queen. “We will see the marks.”
Tara feels hope rising in her chest at the thought that the matching soulmarks could be a mix-up, and then feels like she might vomit out of sheer disgust with herself. She and Lionel can’t be together; she has to go home.
Leenine and Lionel roll up their sleeves. The queen glances briefly and then intones solemnly, “Their marks are of the same design. They are soulmates. We approve. Lionel of South Vale, you belong to the House of the Light Wood now.”
There are roars in the crowd. Lords and ladies from the far side of the room throng around Lionel and Leenine. Tara pulls Tavende forward. She should see her son, and Tara wants to see him, too. A chance to say goodbye. That’s not too much to ask, is it?
She presses past a few elves, keeping her eyes on Lionel, towering above the crowd. For a brief moment, they make eye contact. He says something she can’t hear above the din, but then someone next to him must speak because he leans down, a look of consternation on his face.
“Tara of Chicago?” The voice to her and Tavende’s left makes Tara turn. She finds herself eye to eye with Lady Benedal, the one who promised to take her back to the World Gate to San Francisco. The lady smiles. “You must come with me. We need to prepare.”
Tara gapes. Lady Benedal is beyond beautiful … she is ethereal.
“I am coming with her,” says Tavende, still huddled beneath Tara’s arm.
Lady Benedal’s lips purse and her eyes narrow at the woman. “You may go now.”
Tavende wavers as though buffeted by a strong breeze.
“She’ll be safe, better than safe. You may go now.”
Slipping from Tara’s arm, Tavende leaves. Tara watches in shock.
“Oh, don’t worry about her,” says Lady Benedal, eyes returning to Tara. “I’m sure she has a farm to attend to. Mustn’t keep her from her dinosaur dung, Norns know.”
Tara’s brow furrows. It’s so noisy in the hall, it’s hard to think. That sounded nasty, but Lady Benedal can’t be nasty. Her voice is like water over rocks in a stream.
“Come with me.” The lady spins on her heel and exits the hall.
Tara follows obediently, but when they enter a stairwell, she blurts out, “I have to see Lionel again.” Inwardly, she cringes at how frightened and desperate she sounds.
… But she desperately hopes Tavende finds Lionel before she leaves.
Why does she hope that so much?
Lady Benedal turns on the stairwell. Two women move to flank her on either side. They wear dresses the same color of midnight blue, but without the flickering pattern of stars. Servants maybe?
“Of course, dear child, you will see him again,” says Lady Benedal, her smooth brow pinching the tiniest bit, her sympathy swelling in every syllable. Tara is ashamed that she’d blurted out her desire so frantically. “At dinner, but first we must prepare you. You need a bath, and new clothes … you can’t wear those horrid peasant trappings.”
Tara’s brow furrows, and she smooths the satchel hanging at her side. Inside are her dress from the night before, and her shoes, also … “I like the boots the farmers gave me,” she whispers. It feels important to say so. She wants to say, and the dress and the shoes, but it’s hard to speak.
“You will not dress like a farmer,” Benedal says.
“Oh,” says Tara. “Of course.”
Lady Benedal’s eyebrows lift expectantly.
“Thank you,” says Tara, and she is rewarded with a beautiful smile.
“It is my pleasure.” She reaches out with fingers tipped with nails like diamonds, as though she’s going to stroke Tara’s chin. “Now come along.” Spinning again, she leads Tara up the stairs.
They haven’t gone more than three steps when Tavende’s voice rises from behind. “Lady Benedal, Lady Benedal, I must go with Tara. I’m in her debt.”
Whirling around, Lady Benedal smiles. “Peasant, you will stop right there. Tara is safe with me, safer than she would ever be with you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Tavende.
Tara feels her heart falling for the tiny woman. She wants to speak, but her brain and her mouth feel disconnected.
“Now, how did you get to the palace?” Lady Benedal asks.
“I rode a pony,” Tavende says, her voice very soft.
“Go get your pony, and ride home,” Lady Benedal commands.
“I will get my pony and ride home,” says Tavende, her tiny body wavering just three steps below Tara, confusion writ large upon her face. Curtsying, she turns and goes. Tara wants to go with her, but can’t, for the life of her, think of why.
One of the maids murmurs, “What a horrible peasant. We must refer this incident to the queen.”
Sighing, Lady Benedal says to Tara, “Right this way, my dear.”
A few minutes later, they step onto a landing and pass through double doors inlaid with gold. Tara thinks they may have designs carved into them, but her vision is oddly fuzzy around the edges. Inside the double doors, she
gets the impression of fine fabrics and gold everywhere, but can’t really focus on anything.
“Lady Benedal,” a masculine voice cuts through the haze. “Is that a human you have there?”
“Yes, and she’s so much more striking than Loki’s low-class little human strumpet.” She sighs. “That one never has any class.” She gestures to her chest in a bawdy way, which Tara associates with men laughing about big boobs. It makes her skin heat. She wants to frown, but can’t, which makes her want to ball her hands into fists but only manages to tuck up a single finger.
“Girl, look at me!” says the man. Tara turns, feeling like the mechanical ballerina she had in a music box as a child. An elf man with long black hair, ivory skin, and crystalline blue eyes is just a few feet away. He wears an ornate robe that is open at the front and nothing underneath. Tara quickly averts her gaze.
The man laughs. “Oh, is she from one of those modest cultures?” Approaching Tara, he puts his hand under her chin. Stumbling, she pulls from his grasp.
“How charming,” he says. And then in a lower voice, says, “Don’t move, girl.”
Tara swallows and can’t move.
Benedal snaps, “You will not be charming her before dinner, Rogier. She needs to get changed. She’s covered in road filth and those clothes are atrocious.”
“But for all that, she’s beautiful!” the man who must be Rogier declares.
“Oh, I agree,” says Lady Benedal, stepping in front of Tara. She smiles up at Tara, and Tara can’t help but smile back. “She is a lovely creature. I promised the queen I’d return her to her people.” She tilts her head. “But I don’t really think it’s best. She’s from that horrid United States, one of those so-called democracies. They have …” She switches to English. “Racism.”
Rogier tsks.
“There is no Elvish word for that,” Tara says in amazement. Her words sound like they come from someone else. They’re too slow and too soft.
Lady Benedal laughs. It sounds like bells. “Of course not, elves are not so silly.” She takes Tara’s chin. “I will return you, as I promised I would, but there is nothing that says I must return you tomorrow.” The lady tilts her head. “If I were a human, I’d look exactly like you, I think …”