by C. Gockel
Rogier snorts, but Benedal continues, “Wouldn’t you rather stay with me for a while?”
“My mother …” Tara whispers.
Lady Benedal makes a tiny moue. “Would always want what is best for you. Wouldn’t she?”
Tara nods.
“And if you stay here with me, you’ll wear beautiful gowns and jewels, and travel as my attendant. Wouldn’t you like that?”
Tara opens her mouth, ready to say “no.”
“Say, ‘I’d love that,’ Tara of Chicago,” Lady Benedal whispers. She smiles and her eyelashes flutter delicately.
“I’d love that,” Tara says, the words sounding like they’re spoken by someone else.
Stroking Tara’s cheek, Lady Benedal coos, “It will be so.”
At that moment, Tara realizes why Lady Benedal looks familiar. She looks like a painting of perfection, like the dark-skinned police officer who’d overseen the beating of the little elf boy in Chicago.
Lionel lets an insubstantial avatar materialize outside the doors of Lady Benedal’s suite. In the real world, his hands ball into fists. Lady Benedal’s magic is strong, but he has to try again. He grits his teeth and tries to push his avatar through the door. It scatters into useless photons.
Lionel snaps back into his body, a headache splitting his skull. A servant of the House of the Light Wood is arranging his bangs into braids. Another man is flitting about him, pinning his opulent but hastily assembled garments to fit him better. Lionel shifts uneasily on his feet, and not just because he is unused to the attention. His eyes go to the door, and he touches his wrist that no longer has his magic key on it. He gave it to Alemie, the maid in charge of cleaning Lady Benedal’s suite, hopeful that if his avatars couldn’t penetrate it, she would be able to deliver it to his mother.
“Lionel?” Leenine’s question draws him back into the moment.
“I’m … very tired … please go on,” Lionel says. Leenine has been trying to catch him up on the past few centuries since their last acquaintance. He has been doing his best to pay attention, despite his fatigue, shock, and his headache. He tells himself Alemie has probably delivered the key already. His mother and Tara are safe. He is overreacting.
“When you sent out missives with the delegates of the court, my parents were scandalized to find out that you weren’t nobility.” Leenine says, continuing her story. Their story, he reminds himself. If he feels … disconnected from her … it is normal. He’s been told it’s often this way with soulmates. As time goes by, as they get to know each other, they’ll learn just how much they complement each other and enjoy each other’s company. His stomach twists. For now, though, Tara feels more connected to him than Leenine.
She continues with a frown. “I wanted to respond, but they wouldn’t let me.”
Lionel swallows. She hadn’t rejected him; her family had. It doesn’t give him as much peace as it should.
Leenine sighs. “I thought I’d wait them out. It would be horrid to estrange us from my extended kin if we are to have a future.”
If they are to have children is what she means. Someone must pay the price, and without her family, the only one would be his mother. His fingers curl up to clutch the key no longer on his wrist.
Leenine continues. “I hoped they would come around with gentle insistence. It happened faster than I expected.” Her eyebrows rise. “When news of your transformation spread … well, they changed their minds.”
He feels a weight like cold lead in his chest. They can't think that his being a half-breed is of political advantage; they think that who his father might be is of political advantage.
Head bowed, Leenine continues, “I think that they think that … well, the ravens have come for you twice now. I think they think your father—”
“I do not know the identity of my father,” Lionel says. It’s the truth, more or less. It hasn’t been confirmed. But the ravens have come for him three times, not two. Would they really be sent just for the son of a retainer? His eyes go to the servants. They’d paused their activities at Leenine’s mention of his father. At his glare, they resume.
“I don’t care either way,” Leenine says. Her expression grows cloudy for an instant. “I worried when my soulmark became blurry that something dreadful had happened. But everyone says you grew so fast—perhaps it was just adjusting to your stature? Anyway, I’m so glad I found you. I knew you were extraordinary when you opened the gate to Midgard when we were children.” Lifting her eyes to him, she smiles. “It was a grand adventure. I wonder how Hannah and Abraham are doing now, and their adorable little baby.”
“Abraham has been to the Palace a few times on errands for the All Father,” Lionel says. “They are well. Benjamin has joined the Einherjar, and Hannah and Abraham have many more children now.”
Leenine laughs with delight. “The little baby I held is a mighty warrior? How I’d like to see him someday.”
Lionel can’t help but smile at the memory. Not every noble girl would have been so forgiving of a peasant who dragged her through a World Gate, or would have jumped so readily to help a human woman in distress. And she’s beautiful, with her fiery hair, sparkling eyes, and magic that is a soft purple color that nearly fills the room. He tilts his head. Although, he understands why his people say that wild humans can be more beautiful than elves. He thinks of Tara’s extraordinary features that are just … more … expressive, different, unforgettable. He feels a lump in his throat. Of course, those features will fade quickly. Leenine will remain just as she is forever.
Will you, Lionel? a tiny dark voice whispers, and he feels himself go cold.
Focus on the moment, Lionel tells himself. You’ve found your soulmate, and although she is a lady, she is kind and wise. That Leenine thought to slowly change her family’s mind isn’t a mark against her—it means that she didn’t presume that his lower family would pay the child price.
And yet … and yet …
His hand goes to his wrist, and his missing key. He hears footsteps to the right near the door, and raises his head. But it’s only Leenine’s mother. His stomach clenches. Where is Alemie?
“It is time for the Light Wood Elves to make our appearance at Her Majesty’s table.” The Lady of the Light Wood frowns at Lionel. “Your manners will have to do for tonight.” She looks at Leenine and speaks as if Lionel isn’t in the room. “You’ll have to teach him how to set aside his lesser ways.”
Lionel finds his teeth grinding, though he shouldn’t be upset. He’s heard much worse from nobles about the manners of servants, peasants, merchants, and basically anyone not themselves. But it is different when it’s coming from someone supposedly your family. He thinks of Tara’s irritation at him for calling her a lesser race, and flushes at the memory.
To Leenine’s mother he says, “I’ll do my best not to embarrass you, Lady.” He’s too tired to hide the sharpness in his tone, and Leenine’s mother’s eyebrow hikes.
“I will see you both in the hall,” she replies haughtily. With that, she turns on her heel and leaves the room.
To the servants, Lionel says, “You’ve done fine jobs.”
“Yes, you have,” Leenine says. “You are dismissed.”
As soon as they are gone, Leenine smiles a tad mischievously. “You’ve upset Mother … but she’s wrong.” Stepping close, so she is just a hand’s breadth away, she cranes her neck to look up at him and whispers, “We Light Elves must change if we wish to survive. Now that the Dark Elves are emigrating from the Delta of Sorrows to Midgard, the queen can’t enforce her laws. Concessions must be made.”
“Emigrating?” says Lionel.
“We’re not supposed to talk about it,” Leenine says, voice hushed. “Especially around servants.” Her eyes flit from side to side. “It will give them ideas.”
Lionel’s shoulders fall with the implications. The Delta of Sorrows is the prison for all Light Elves that break the queen’s laws. Its dark waters pervert magic and destroy elves’ natural i
mmortality. When Odin had bothered to enforce the law that kept magical creatures out of Midgard, it had worked well … His lips form a grim line. He hadn’t realized the Dark Elves were emigrating; the queen had hidden it from him. She hadn’t even concealed her visit with Loki as well as she’d hidden this.
He touches his brow. This isn’t just a threat to the queen’s rule, it is a danger to humans. Not every Light Elf banished to the Dark Lands is a comparatively innocent violator of the child price. Thieves, murderers, and rogue sorcerers are sent there.
“The queen must relax her laws. The child price is too strict,” Leenine murmurs. “And there is magical talent among the peasants and servants that isn’t acknowledged.”
Lionel exhales. The only reason he’d been able to rise from peasant to steward was because of Odin’s influence … because Lionel was the son of a retainer … or because … He swallows.
“We must bend, for the sake of Alfheim,” Leenine says.
She’s right. He shouldn’t have needed Odin’s influence to exonerate him from the crime of being a magically-bright peasant child and accidentally tripping through a World Gate.
She’s so close. He’s exhausted, and tells himself that is why he doesn’t feel any desire. Managing to kiss her forehead, he murmurs, “You are wise.”
“Thank you,” she replies pertly with a smile. “Come, let’s go to dinner.” She threads her fingers through his and pulls him toward the door. “I wonder if Lord Beddel will be at dinner,” she whispers. “He was one of those charged with rounding up the emigres from Chicago. He could tell you more.”
Lionel stops mid-stride, remembering meeting Lord Beddel at the World Gate in Chicago. “I thought he was rounding up rebels,” Lionel whispers.
“Most consider them the same,” Leenine replies.
Lionel remembers Tara’s talk of an elf child being beaten—he’d ascribed that to her people. Lionel closes his eyes, feeling dizzy, sick, and weary to his bones.
“Lionel?” Leenine says.
Opening his eyes physically hurts. He takes her arm, more so he can lean on it than feelings of camaraderie, or anything else.
Long minutes later, they enter the dining hall. The queen has not yet arrived and the din of conversation fills the cavernous space. He sees Tara at the far end of the great table. On her left is Lady Benedal. Tara doesn’t seem to notice him; her eyes are focused on her plate. He’d thought that she’d forgiven him, but maybe she hasn’t. He swallows. Maybe she shouldn’t.
Ashamed, he looks away. “Where is my mother?” Lionel asks, searching the crowd.
“Surely she’ll be joining them in a few moments? The chair next to your human friend is empty,” suggests Leenine.
Lionel rubs his forehead. His thoughts feel like they’re as thick and dull as day-old porridge. Humans are visitors and exist outside Elvish hierarchy. He’s not surprised Benedal would have Tara next to her, but he can’t believe she’d let a peasant sit at the great table. Could she be making an exception? Maybe he just can’t see his mother in the crowd of servants beyond the table?
Beside him, Leenine says, “Oh, Prince Rogier is here.”
Lionel’s jaw gets hard. He hadn’t seen Rogier’s crest on the palace wall, but it isn’t unlike the prince to surprise Her Majesty.
“He’s very entertaining,” Leenine adds.
That isn’t how Lionel would describe Rogier, but then again, he’s a servant, and had seen a very different side of the man.
Craning his neck to look past the diners, Lionel continues to search for his mother.
“He’s sitting next to your friend,” whispers Leenine. “How lovely for her.”
Lionel’s eyes snap back to Tara. Sure enough, Rogier is seated next to her. His fingers flex beneath the table and magic dances beneath his skin. Will Rogier treat Tara as a de facto lady, being that she is a guest to their realm? He glares at the prince.
Behind him, he hears a scurry of footsteps and a child’s whisper. “I must speak to Lionel.”
“He’s not the steward anymore, and this is not your place, girl,” someone else says, his voice barely audible above the din.
“No,” says Lionel, swiveling in his seat, knocking into the person sitting next to him. He sees Alemie. Alemie is still a child, but she is still completely trustworthy. She is also tiny, even for an elf, and usually invisible to royalty. Now she is cowering behind two servers in the shadows. “Let her in.” The servers—Blix and Dritely—look at each other in confusion, and Alemie skips through in their moment of inattention.
“Lionel?” says Leenine. “What’s wrong?”
“Did you give it to her?” Lionel asks Alemie.
Alemie holds out her hand, his key in it, and gives it back to him. “No, I couldn’t find her anywhere. I’m sorry, Steward, I mean …” Her brow furrows.
“I know you did your best, Alemie,” Lionel says. To Leenine, he says, “I have to find her.”
“Hush!” says Lionel’s mother-in-law to be. “Here comes the queen.”
Alemie scampers away, quick as a shadow. Quiet descends upon the room as the queen enters followed by the Queen’s Guard, their spears upraised. Lionel falls silent with the rest of the crowd. His eyes go to Tara. If she is aware of him, she makes no sign.
Tara is going to be attendant to Lady Benedal. She loves that idea. Really. She stares at the plate in front of her, wondering, when food materialized on it.
“Raise your glass, Tara of Chicago,” Lady Benedal says.
Tara does. The queen speaks, her words strangely muted. The room seems blurry. Tara puts her glass down and feels Rogier’s hand on her thigh under the table. It is the only thing clear in her mental fog, and she rips his hand away.
“Tara of Chicago, you must stop fidgeting,” Lady Benedal says.
Rogier laughs. “I rather like her feisty, though.” He leans toward Tara’s ear and she jerks her head away.
Chuckling, he whispers, “Stay sharp, Tara of Chicago.”
Stay sharp …
Tara sits up straight … she has to stay sharp, but she can’t for some reason. It’s the conversation in the room, or all the candles on the table making it too warm, or the smell of wax, maybe. She has to get away from the table, to think, but she doesn’t want to offend Lady Benedal. That would be wrong. The lady only wants to help her, to keep her safe. Her brow furrows. She has to clear her head …
To Lady Benedal, she whispers, “I need to use the facilities.” That was politely phrased, wasn’t it?
The lady sighs. Sounding put out, she says, “Go. You know where it is.”
Tara’s heart soars, feeling as though a window has been opened and she’s flown free.
“But come right back,” the lady says, and Tara feels as though the window is shuttered again. Still, she rises quickly from the table and exits the dining hall, taking a corridor she remembers from earlier. It’s cooler in the hallway, and she feels a little better. Her feet head in the direction of the bathroom, even though she doesn’t really need to go, but she can’t stop them. She enters and finds herself alone. Besides stalls of commodes and washbasins, there are mirrors and gilt edges everywhere, and a towel holder shaped like a tree she swears is made of solid gold. Turning to a mirror, she catches her reflection. She is wearing a beautiful ballroom dress of cobalt blue edged with silver, and a silver net woven with tiny crystals holds her hair back from her eyes. Both catch the light and brighten her face, but the expression she wears is horrifying. Her mouth is hanging open, her eyes are dull, and she looks drugged.
She gasps. She has to get out of here. She has to get away from Lady Benedal. She’s taken over her mind somehow. As soon as she thinks that, she remembers that she has to go back to the woman. Her feet move to the door, and she finds herself walking down the corridor to the dining hall. Lionel and Tavende had warned her that the nobility could do this … she remembers how Tavende had wavered like she’d been caught in a gale at Lady Benedal’s words. Tavende wasn’t even st
rong enough to resist. Her only hope is Lionel, but Tara hadn’t seen Lionel in the dining hall; he’s probably off in soulmate-induced bliss. She’s all alone and has to figure this out herself. She wills herself to stop moving, but her feet keep shuffling. The door to the dining hall is just about fifty feet away when Rogier slides into the corridor in front of her.
Smirking, he saunters toward her. “Hello, Tara of Chicago. Stop right there.”
Tara feels like her brain has been disconnected from her feet. She stops moving.
Rogier smiles, showing all his teeth.
Damn.
As conversation resumes in the hall, Lionel’s eyes slide toward the queen. Her Majesty’s focus is on the lady at her right, but as though feeling his gaze, her eyes meet his. He has worked for her for over a century, and he doesn’t remember that ever happening before. Her eyes are a sharp, crystalline blue and for a moment, he is mesmerized, like the prey of a basilisk. And then a flurry of movement catches his eye. He sees Tara, dressed in an elegant blue and silver gown, leave the table.
He turns to Leenine. “I have to find her.”
“It can wait until after dinner,” says Leenine. “Do you really expect your mother to be in any danger?”
Lionel’s brows draw together. It would be very unlike Lady Benedal to commit any act of physical violence in or around an event like this. He could imagine her finding a way to poison his mother’s tea in her cottage, or to have a wyrm slither out of the Dark Lands and attack Tavende while she works her fields, but Lady Benedal wouldn’t dare attempt something near the queen.
“No,” he says.
Leenine drops her hand on his thigh. “We’ll find her,” she promises in a whisper. “But for now, let’s not provoke a scene. It would displease Her Majesty, and we need her good favor.”
Lionel’s eyes go to Tara’s empty chair. He swallows. Leenine is right, and Lady Benedal promised to take Tara to a World Gate to Midgard. Considering the only World Gate Lionel could take her to is in the heart of the Delta of Sorrows, and how treacherous a journey that would be, he shouldn’t interfere. Something about Lady Benedal’s promise niggles at him, though …