The Goblin Cinderella
Lidiya Foxglove
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Fairy Tale Heat Series
About the Author
Prologue
The court of the Goblin King was a busy place these days.
For many years, King Nyar had been cursed, his court transformed into household objects who could not speak to him, his gates sealed to anyone except the maidens he was bound to claim in exchange for a gold coin.
The goblins of the wider realm had no king to turn to. Now that Nyar was on the throne once more, the caves bustled with life, feasts and bonfires were held out under the stars nearly every other week, and the goblins were traveling down long roads to speak to their king. They had years of troubles built up to complain about. Usually it was the simple and tedious business of disputes between landowners or with humans. Nyar must have spent hours listening to the intricacies of goat farming, trade deals, the drawing of boundary lines, and the maintenance of roads. Times like this, he remembered why he had gotten himself into trouble in the first place, back when he was a younger king.
Being a good, fair king was a delicate balance, and also pretty boring. He would rather take up a sword or plan a feast than figure out this sort of thing.
It was his human queen, Sabela, who would put a hand on his knee when he fidgeted and smile at him in a way that said, It’ll be over soon and we’ll have fun tonight. She didn’t just listen to advisers, but consulted books and acquainted herself with the ins and outs of the kingdom. Sabela could dance the night away as well as any goblin, but humans were undoubtedly a more patient race.
“My family never treated me fairly,” she told him. “Now that your people are my family, I intend to do better by them.” Even when she had their first child, a dark-haired little boy with bright golden eyes, she only took two days abed being pampered by her ladies before she was back to the library, reading up on the laws of the kingdom, with the babe at her breast.
When Nyar saw her there, he pulled out a chair and grabbed one of the books himself.
“I’m not about to be shown up by my queen,” he said.
She grinned at him, and called for some hot chocolate.
The reputation of the king and queen only grew, and the court became so lively that the subjects compared it to the legendary reign of King Bradar the second, who was known for being fair and having the greatest feasts (and also for raiding human settlements and stealing flocks of sheep, but that was another story).
One day, a visitor came who evoked such curiosity that word of her arrival preceded her entrance to the throne room.
Dame Kayska was known as a skilled witch; they said she had faery blood on her mother’s side. But it was Kayska’s sister that everyone remembered. Elka the Beautiful, they called her, an entrancing girl who spoke to animals. Nyar didn’t remember her. She had left the goblin kingdom when he was a little boy, but when his oldest advisor Ravok heard that Kayska had arrived, he shook his head wistfully for memories of Elka.
“What happened to Elka?” Sabela asked. “Did she die?”
“She married a high elven merchant from Wyndyr,” Ravok said, his tone sounding very begrudging all of a sudden. “She was supposed to go to Fairhaven for six months to study magic. She never came back. Sailed off with him. Kayska was heartbroken. They were very close, those two sisters. It only figures, as pretty as Elka was, that she was too good for a goblin.”
“What’s wrong with goblins?” Sabela asked, indignant. “I’d rather be a goblin than a stuffy elf. And I’d certainly rather marry a goblin than a stuffy elf.”
“Good thing,” Nyar said.
“Oh, you’d understand if you’d seen Elka,” Ravok said. “She was simply too beautiful for our world.”
“Hmph,” Sabela said. She wouldn’t have it. Sabela, of course, was very beautiful herself.
Moments later, Dame Kayska was announced. Her hair was fairy hair: fine and soft and very long, drawn back across her small horns into elaborate braids. She looked much younger than she should, and alluring in the enchanted way of the fair folk moreso than any goblin. She wore a red dress and a short cloak and a great deal of cheap jewelry, and her claws were grown out to a fearsome length, and in this she showed her goblin side, but the overall effect was that of an ageless, alluring creature who was not quite of either world.
Only, she looked rather sad.
“Welcome, Dame Kayska,” Nyar said, greeting her immediately in the hopes of putting her at ease.
Kayska approached, curtseying to Nyar and Sabela before glancing at Prince Firo on Sabela’s lap with a slightly sad expression. “Your majesties,” she said. “I congratulate you on your new son and recent good fortune. May your son have many sharp teeth.”
Sabela glanced at Nyar.
“That is a compliment,” he whispered to her. Then,
“No need to be formal. Just tell me what troubles you.”
“I am sure you don’t remember my sister Elka…”
“I don’t, but Ravok certainly does,” Nyar said, making the older goblin cough with embarrassment.
“Very nice to see you well, miss,” Ravok said to Kayska. “How is Elka? She never writes.”
“No. She wouldn’t. She’s dead,” Kayska said. “Extremely dead. She’s been dead for almost eighteen years now.”
Ravok bowed his head. “Oh, no. I’m certainly sorry to hear that.” The head lifted again. “And who is responsible?”
Nyar glanced at him. The man looked ready to take up arms and sail to Wyndyr.
Kayska smiled faintly. “No one is to blame for that, exactly, although you have the right idea, sir. A sickness took her. I suppose that could happen anywhere, although the way high elves talk so highly of themselves, you’d think they would be above such problems, wouldn’t you? But she left behind a daughter who was an infant at the time. Elka’s daughter should not be without a mother. I offered for the girl to come live with me to be raised among her mother’s kin, but her father wrote me and said he loved her dearly and would never give her up. All well and good, I suppose.” She sniffed. “I mean, she could have been a goblin witch, but I suppose if she’d rather be some merchant elf-daughter, who am I to judge?” she said, judgmentally.
“A little later, he wrote me again and said he was getting married so little ‘Ellara’”—she sounded scornful at the elven name—“would have a new mother. And still worse, a little later after that, Ellara herself wrote me and said her father had died, and begged me to come and take her home with me. That was the last I ever heard of her.” Her eyes flashed. “My sister’s child, and for all I know, she’s been turned out on the streets.”
“That is certainly a concern,” Nyar said. “You didn’t go to her?”
“I can’t travel all the way to the high elven lands all alone,” she said. “A lot of the territory between here and there isn’t safe for a woman. I need an escort, but as long as you were cursed, naturally…I had no one to turn to. The goblins that were left have simply been trying to hold on in your absence, and besides that, my mag
ic was needed here. So my poor niece has been alone in the elven lands without any kin to care for her for the past six years.”
Nyar, for the hundredth time, had to shove off a wave of guilt. Sabela gave him her reassuring wasn’t-your-fault look again, but it only went so far. “I am very sorry to hear this. Please, I will arrange an escort for you, and I know you are familiar with witchcraft. If there are any spells in the arsenal that you think might be useful for locating Ellara beyond your own magic, tell the mistress of spells that I have given permission for you to take a spell or two if we aren’t in immediate need of them.”
Dame Kayska bowed. “Thank you for your generosity. I will certainly make use of it. I will see that my kin has a life worthy of her mother’s blood.”
She left the room and Nyar looked at Ravok. The old goblin shifted position, his lightweight leather armor creaking. He might have had white, receding hair and weathered skin that showed his years, but he was still very fit, and quick with a weapon. Fine company, too. He had a pleasant singing voice and was a lot of fun—especially with a drink or two in him, as he tended toward shyness without a little encouragement.
“Do you want to escort her, Ravok?”
“Oh, well, I don’t know,” he said gruffly. “My place is here, I suppose, isn’t it. I’m quite old to be running around the elven lands, I suppose. Knees aren’t quite what they used to be. And it’s been a long time since I was in the company of a female. I suppose I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“You suppose a lot,” Nyar said.
“You are in my company all the time,” Sabela said.
“You protest a little too much for a man who doesn’t want to go,” Nyar said.
Sabela laughed. “And besides, she is an older woman. She might like an older man for company.”
Ravok’s ears turned red. Sabela was just trying to tease him at this point.
“If it is your command, my lord,” he said.
“It is my command.” Nyar waved a hand vaguely. “Like it or not, you’re going to Wyndyr. And come back with some good tales. I’ve always wanted to see the Palace of Waterfalls.”
The next morning, they woke early to see off Dame Kayska and her escort, who was still looking a little flushed. Maybe once he’d had a crush on Kayska’s sister, but the witch was no unappealing creature herself, and probably more in his league.
“I wish you well,” Nyar said.
Prim, the cook, presented them—with the air of a lady bestowing a sacred sword on a knight—a sack of spice buns, cured sausage, and hard cheese. “For your journey.”
At this point, Prince Firo burst into loud squalls, apparently displeased with the morning’s commotion, and Sabela said a hasty goodbye before taking him aside.
“I’ll avenge Elka,” Kayska said, with a firmness that made Nyar ever so slightly nervous.
“Please do bear in mind, I don’t have the resources to go to war with the high elves. Don’t kill anyone.”
“I won’t,” she said.
As she turned away, Nyar caught Ravok’s eyes and tapped his own eye, then pointed at her retreating back. You watch her.
Ravok nodded, but damned if the man didn’t already look smitten. You couldn’t trust a smitten man.
Oh well.
Nyar waved as they mounted horses, and then went to the library, where he knew Sabela would be.
“Nyar,” she said. “Can you guess what potion the witch took from our stores? Of all the things she could have chosen?”
“No, but I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
“A love potion.”
“A love potion?”
“Yes. Who avenges someone with a love potion?”
He sat down and put his feet up. “As long as she doesn’t start a national incident, I don’t care.” He paused. “I should have told her that.”
“If you’re not worried…,” Sabela said. “I thought it was curious. I hope she’s not just taking advantage of you. I know you feel guilty that you weren’t there for your people for those years, but you have to stop being so nice.”
“I know. Some goblin I am. But you won’t let me go on a sheep raid.”
“No, I will not.”
“I’m sure it will make a good tale, whatever happens,” he said.
She shrugged, picking up a book. “Ouch.” She looked down at the nursing Firo. “You know, as soon as you grow those many sharp teeth, we’re done.”
Chapter One
Ellara
“Hurry up, you lazy goblin! You still have to do my hair,” Cerralyn snapped, frowning at my reflection in her looking glass.
“Wait—not yet.” Gwynamer caught my hand. “You call that a proper Vermonese braid circlet? Do it again, from the beginning.”
“Gwyn, we won’t be ready in time if you do a Vermonese braid circlet.”
“Well, I would rather be late to dinner than look like my hair was dressed by a stupid little wench. We’re not just having any old guests over. I hear that Lord Hassari has more gold than a king.” Gwyn twisted her fingers around my wrist before letting my hand go. I could see the marks of her hard fingers, where they had dug into my skin.
I glanced at the clock, suppressing a sigh. They weren’t late. They still had bloody two full hours to get ready for the dinner party. Which meant I still had a lot of this to go.
To say I hated my stepsisters would be kind.
I despised my stepsisters more than vomiting, maggots, and smelly old Toothless John the rag seller telling me I looked pretty and should smile. I despised them more than all of those things combined. The only person, thing, or concept I hated more than my stepsisters was my stepmother, because she had raised these horrid creatures.
It was hard to believe my father had ever fallen in love with her, had ever replaced my mother with her.
“Cinderella, my dear.” I was trying to fix Gwyn’s braids, but stiffened as soon as I heard her voice in the doorway. It was a lovely, musical voice, and every time I heard it, it was like something from a nightmare. I don’t know if I would ever grow used to the nickname, even though I’d been hearing it for years now. “When you are done with the girls’ hair, could you come speak to me in the parlor?”
“Yes,” I said, annoyed every time she called that room a ‘parlor’, which was a fashionable new word. When this was my house, me and my father’s house, we just called it the ‘hearth’, a word that made me think of warmth and home and safety. But all those things were gone now.
“Yes…?” Her sweet voice was barbed.
“Yes, madam.”
She nodded.
“You’d better be quicker than that,” Cerra said, watching my hands carefully twist Gwyn’s fine blonde hair into braids. Gwyn kept fussing with cosmetics on her desk, moving her head. It was not uncommon for my sisters to spend hours in front of their vanities, primping and preening, caking makeup on their faces.
My stepmother was very beautiful. My stepsisters…a little less so. They had the beautiful elven hair that was so cooperative, unlike my coarse black goblin curls, and the refined features. But something was…off. They looked pinched and mean and beady-eyed; exactly as ugly as their true natures. And although they would never admit it, I knew they knew it. They were not popular in town, and when they did attract a beau he didn’t stay for long. I think they spent so much time at the mirror because they were hoping that makeup would change things.
But makeup can’t fix rot that comes from the inside. At least, that’s what I told myself. I wished I could take more satisfaction in this thought than I did.
Maybe, deep down, I was just angry.
“Please, try to be still,” I said, in the gentlest voice I could manage. It was impossible not to annoy her. If I told her what to do, she would snap at me, and if I didn’t and messed up her braids again, the result would be the same.
“I bet you wish you could come to dinner,” she said, apparently deciding that it would be more fun to nibble at my confidence today tha
n grouse about my braiding skills.
“I’d rather be alone anyway,” I said, which was not quite true.
“It’s too bad. You could have been very beautiful, I think, if your mother was an elf. Sometimes—here, turn your head to the mirror for a moment.” Reluctantly, I did as she said. “Yes, I mean, you do have elven cheekbones and a nice enough mouth.”
Cerra snorted. “As long as she doesn’t open it.”
With my mouth closed and my goblin fangs hidden, I did almost look like an elf. I stayed like that, looking at myself, just a moment too long. Gwyn beat my hand with a hairbrush. “Go on, lazybones. This is my mirror, I only gave you permission to gaze in it for a moment.”
When I was done, Gwyn’s long fair hair formed an elaborate crown around her head. Cerra was the younger sister and she liked her strawberry locks to be styled younger and looser, so for her I only braided the front sections and then pulled them back, twisting them around her loose hair, fixed with a cascade of flowers.
“Hmm,” Cerra said, drawing out the moment just to torture me.
I fidgeted. Their mother was waiting for me, and they knew it. Finally, I had to say, “I beg your pardon, misses, but may I be dismissed?”
“I suppose. Hurry back to help us with our dresses.”
“No one yanks on corset strings better than your muscular goblin arms,” Cerra said, with false sweetness, attempting to make me sound like a brute.
Truly, though, although my arms were strong, I didn’t look that strong. I was rarely fed more than boiled vegetables and broth, except for the scraps I ate off their plates when they were finished. Goblin women were already known for being lean and scrappy, but I really had not grown much since my father died, as if not just hunger but also grief had sapped me of my will to achieve adulthood. My breasts had half-heartedly grown, while my stepmother kept me from my goblin birthright: looking dangerous. She insisted I trim my claws and wear a loose kerchief over my head to hide my horns. Only my fangs, she could do nothing about. But she didn’t let me leave the house, so no one ever saw them, except the various delivery boys and peddlers who came to the door with rags, pans, milk, oysters, flowers, and countless other things, for we lived in the capital city of Wyndyr with its throngs of aggressive merchants.
The Goblin Cinderella Page 1