In the Coils of the Snake

by Clare B. Dunkle

  “You can see that?” wondered Miranda, rubbing her forehead. “I didn’t know it left a mark.”

  “It’s gold, and it shines a little,” said the goblin, tracing over the script character with his fingertip. “I think it looks attractive.”

  Miranda pondered that, unsure how she felt about displaying a symbol that she herself couldn’t see. She wondered how many other goblins could read it, and whether it really was attractive. Catspaw continued to study her, hesitating over something. If Kings weren’t supposed to seem uncertain, he was breaking his own rule.

  Then he leaned down and kissed her.

  It was a nice kiss, Miranda decided. It made her feel appreciated, and she felt affectionate in return. For once, the smile that she gave her fiance wasn’t a charming mask but an expression of honest feeling instead.

  The goblin seemed to have enjoyed the kiss, too. He looked excited and resolute. “Only two more months until our wedding,” he remarked. “Then I’ll erase this” — he touched the Door symbol — “and write the King’s Wife character there.”

  “Will I notice any difference?” she asked.

  “Yes and no,” admitted Marak Catspaw. “The doors still won’t let you go outside, but they’ll treat you with more respect.”

  A little uncertain, Miranda thought about being his wife, living in luxury, locked in by those iron doors. There certainly wasn’t much left to worry about, was there? What a tidy future. She just wished she would stop feeling so edgy about it.

  It was Sable who finally pieced together the clues and saw through Miranda’s pretense. The elf woman listened to her son Tattoo’s descriptions of the erratic behavior of the King’s Bride and felt wholeheartedly sorry for the girl. It was clear to her that Miranda was struggling to find her place in the kingdom, and this was something Sable could understand. She herself had not had an easy time finding her place in life.

  The black-haired woman combined in one person the sensitivity of an elf and the frankness of a goblin. Polite and distrustful, Miranda never mentioned her problems, so Sable did it for her. “Goblins take getting used to,” she told Miranda matter-of-factly, and the girl felt as if a weight had dropped from her shoulders. Miranda was too reserved to come by for a visit, so the elf woman kept inviting her over until the visits became routine.

  “You’re losing weight,” Sable remarked one morning as she opened her door for the girl. “I have bread and cheese for you in the basket on the table. Tattoo,” she added crisply, leaning out into the hallway to speak to the young man posted at Miranda’s door, “I’ve mended your Guard cloak — again. Come by for it once you’re off duty, and be more careful next time.”

  Miranda walked into Sable’s forest room and looked around with pleasure. The large space was full of dwarfimade trees, hung with tangled cloth greenery, and small fish swam in an ornamental pool by the door. The illusion of a stretch of shadowy woodland worked particularly well for Miranda because she couldn’t distinguish much in the dim light. She sat down on a cushion at the strange low table that was only a few inches from the ground.

  “One week left until your wedding,” noted the elf woman. “It’s a shame that it won’t be held at the full moon. Weddings and full moons belong together.”

  Miranda gave a grimace and rubbed her palms where the knives would cut them. “I’ll be glad when it’s over. Catspaw says he will be, too.”

  “He’s Marak now,” Sable observed. “You should call him that.” Miranda just frowned by way of an answer. She hadn’t yet promoted him into that exalted position, as the elf woman knew perfectly well.

  A small silence fell over the room as Miranda pulled food from the basket and Sable began working on one of her math problems. She sketched it out rapidly in three dimensions a few inches above the table, silvery lines and circles appearing as she drew. Then she set it all into motion.

  Miranda watched the silver figure spin in the air, wobbling slightly as it turned. “Sable, did you always like it here?” she asked.

  “I was frantic when I first came,” the woman answered absently, jotting down numbers. She paused and gazed off into space. “I remember how hard it was to get used to the bright light. My eyes would start stinging after a few hours.”

  “Bright!” murmured Miranda. She could barely distinguish colors in the gloom. “Did you ever try to escape?”

  “No,” answered Sable. “I couldn’t go back. My people would have hunted me down. You don’t know what elf men are like, Miranda. They’re horrible brutes. I don’t think they’re born with a heart in their bodies.”

  Miranda pondered this interesting disclosure. “Isn’t Seylin an elf man?” she asked. “He’s not a brute. Marak never said that elf men were horrible, just that they were pretty and silly.”

  “Of course Seylin isn’t an elf,” replied Sable. “He’s a goblin; he just looks like an elf. And Marak never had to live with them like I did.”

  All in all, it was a strange coincidence that Miranda learned what elf men were like that day. That very night, an elf man returned to his ancestral home, and Miranda’s tidy future began to crumble.

  Chapter Three

  Marak Catspaw and his two lieutenants stood outside the cliff face that concealed the entrance to the goblins’ underground kingdom, studying the early night sky. The northern constellation that the elves called the King’s Throne was glowing very brightly. The W of stars appeared to flicker and flash.

  Seylin was beside himself with excitement. “It’s the traditional summons to a truce meeting!” he exclaimed. “A meeting between goblins and elves. But how?”

  “And not just any summons, but the highest level,” reflected Marak Catspaw. “Adviser, what do you advise me to do?”

  “Go, of course,” replied Seylin. “The goblin King always went personally to a King’s Throne summons. And I certainly advise you to bring us along. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  The three of them walked through the whispering forest not far from the Hallow Hill mansion, where Til was holding a supper party, and up the hill toward the old truce circle, wondering what it might contain. Its double ring of ancient oak trees guarded that secret well, the massive trunks blocking completely any view of what lay within. Marak Catspaw was pleased and intrigued. Some elves still existed, then, and they still remembered their manners, unlike Sable and Irina’s savage band. Perhaps his reign would prove important. Richard was remembering the last time he had faced elves, and they had tried to turn him into a rabbit. They wouldn’t find that so easy to do this time. Seylin was attempting to recall useful lore from his studies, but the thought of elves blotted out all else. His powerful elf blood gave him a powerful interest in the subject. The goblin Scholars believed that he himself had found the very last elves thirty years before. It had been the disappointment of his life that they were so primitive.

  The men passed through the rings of gnarled, hoary trees that enclosed the crown of the hill and walked to the center of the large, open circle of turf within. The half moon lit them with its pale light. A single elf stepped out of the shadows and walked over to join them.

  When Seylin had hunted for elves in his youth, he had hunted for an elf like this. The man was noble and stately, and he was dressed as his people had always dressed. He wore a sleeveless, belted tunic and loose breeches of dark green cloth cross-gartered up to the knee, leather straps wrapping around the lower legs in X patterns to hold the breeches close to the calves. His short boots were of soft deer hide. Over tunic and breeches, he wore a dark green cloak, the hood pushed back, and at his belt was a proper elf knife sheathed in leather. The belt lacked the sophistication of a buckle. It simply crossed through a loop in one end and knotted over itself, the free end hanging. No metal, noted Seylin: the cloak tied with leather thongs. True elves, he knew, hated metal.

  The man who wore this true elf clothing was a true elf in every sense. The smooth skin of his pale face glimmered with a silvery sheen in the moonlight, and his eye
s were large and black. His black locks clustered around the pale, high forehead and fringed the edge of his face, just brushing the cheekbones. In the back, thick, loosely curling hair just reached the lowered hood. Seylin shared with this stranger the impatient eyebrows that slanted up where a human’s eyebrows slanted down and the well-formed, pointed ears that showed through the black hair. But even to Seylin, who saw an elf every day in the mirror, this stranger’s appearance was remarkable. Strong and strikingly handsome, he possessed a cold authority that demanded respect. The chronicles told tales of great warrior lords who had slaughtered goblins like sheep. This man could be such a warrior, concluded Seylin.

  The goblin King merely noted a properly dressed elf man who had the black eyes of an aristocrat. Good, he thought: a rival with manners and distinction. His reign might turn out to be quite interesting.

  For a moment, none of them spoke. Seylin was too excited. Richard knew his place. Marak Catspaw didn’t intend to speak first. What the stranger felt, knew, or intended was impossible to guess. His expression was very guarded. His eyes betrayed only the slightest gleam at the sight of the goblins, the faintest hint of fascinated distaste.

  “I have to speak to Marak, the goblin King,” he informed them in English.

  “I am Marak, the goblin King,” replied Catspaw. “These are Richard and Seylin, my lieutenants.”

  The elf turned toward Seylin, his manner relaxing somewhat. “I know of you,” he said. “You are the goblin who showed himself to be a friend to my people. Even though you raided for brides, you didn’t murder the men. You left them in safety and provided them with supplies.”

  “We did that on the orders of the old goblin King,” answered Seylin.

  The elf paused, and his expression once again became guarded. “The old goblin King,” he murmured, looking at Catspaw. “You are a new goblin King. And unmarried.”

  His tone was hostile. Seylin considered the matter from his point of view. The most dangerous thing in the elf world was an unmarried goblin King. The Kings had always tried to capture brides from the very highest noble families.

  “A good guess,” replied Catspaw calmly. “And who are you?”

  “My people call me Nir,” said the elf. This revealed nothing. Nir was only a polite term of address, the elvish word for “lord.”

  “What sort of lord are you?” demanded Seylin. “Did your ancestors lead a camp? What is your proper name?” But the elf just glanced at him and then turned back to the goblin King. He plainly intended to stay with business.

  “I am here to propose a treaty,” he announced. “My people were widely scattered after the death of our King, and we have been hunted down to a handful. Over the last twenty years, I have gathered all of the remaining elves.”

  “All of the elves you could find,” corrected Marak Catspaw.

  “All of the remaining elves,” declared the lord in a firm voice. “In order for my people to survive, we have to come back to our own land and live in our own forest. I need the goblin King to swear that he will do what is best for the elves. He must swear not to hunt us or allow brides to be taken during his reign. We must be able to live freely on our land, with no goblins spying on us.”

  “How many elves are left?” asked Marak Catspaw.

  The lord hesitated as if he were ashamed. “Sixty-seven,” he replied bitterly.

  “Such a treaty is reasonable,” mused the goblin King. “We couldn’t raid such a small number for brides and expect the elves to survive it.”

  “But that isn’t all,” continued the stranger. “You goblins took the magic books from my people so that we couldn’t defend ourselves. We lack many spells that we need to survive, spells for healing and for making our way of life. I must have those books back.”

  “That you can’t have,” answered the goblin King. “We use those books ourselves.”

  The elf lord’s expression hardened. “The books belong to us, and you have your own magic,” he said heatedly. “What do you need with ours?”

  “We can work elf magic, too,” said Marak Catspaw, “and the spells are essential to the care of the elves who live with us.”

  At this mention of captives, the distaste in the stranger’s eyes became definite. He glanced away from them, looking over their heads at the stars.

  The goblin King gave the matter further thought. “I well understand your need for the spells,” he concluded. “I would be willing to give you copies.

  The elf lord looked at him again. “An elf should copy what elves have written,” he replied. “I would rather copy the books myself. They will be safe in my care and promptly returned. But I must have writing materials and the materials for books. My people don’t yet have these things.”

  Marak Catspaw was well aware of the importance of the elves to the goblins. The discovery of sixty-seven elves still alive was an event of tremendous significance. Catspaw didn’t mind meeting the lord’s demands, either, and even augmenting them with his own concerned vigilance. But the new King was growing tired of this pretty stranger’s arrogant attitude.

  “The elves are asking a great deal of the goblins,” he remarked blandly. “What do they intend to do in return?” Nothing, he was sure, and he wanted to make this elf admit that and swallow a nice dose of humility.

  But the elf lord didn’t look in the least humiliated. He glared at Marak Catspaw. “We will give this unmarried goblin King a bride,” he retorted.

  “A what?” gasped Seylin. Catspaw just stared. The elves never sanctioned the marriages of their women with goblins. Goblins stole elves. They didn’t accept them.

  “I will give you a bride,” repeated the elf lord emphatically, his handsome face set in a look of bitterness and contempt. “My people are too poor and too few to wage battle. We won’t survive without our own land and magic, but we aren’t strong enough to take them. I will give you one bride in exchange for these things. I have no other choice.”

  He dropped his gaze and stared at the ground, plainly overcome with despair at the thought. Good, thought Marak Catspaw. He’s taking that dose of humility after all.

  “Sixty-seven elves,” mused the King. “But how many of those could be brides?”

  “I’ve been forbidding the marriages,” replied the elf lord. “Four women are unmarried, and one is old enough for marriage at the full moon.”

  “Five women,” considered Catspaw. “Is any from the high families?”

  The elf studied him with loathing. “I don’t know their ancestry,” he replied.

  “What color are their eyes?” put in Seylin. Now those black eyes glared at him.

  “Blue. Gray. Green. Blue. Green,” he enunciated carefully.

  “It doesn’t sound as if they are from the nobility,” said the goblin King. “I reserve the right to take any female child, even a baby.”

  “To keep like a penned sheep,” retorted the elf lord angrily. “Then I demand a right as well. I want to see the elves you already have penned up. I need to see for myself that these women are not mistreated before I let another one fall into your hands.” He glanced down at the goblin King’s hands as he spoke, saw the great paw, and looked away with a grimace.

  “Very well,” replied Marak Catspaw. “When will we meet?”

  “I can return with my band in six nights,” replied the elf. “We will be here on the night of the new moon.”

  “Then I wish you a safe journey,” concluded the goblin King. He turned and left the truce circle. As he and his lieutenants reached the outer ring of trees, he glanced down at his chief adviser. Follow him, he told Seylin in his thoughts.

  Seylin gave the barest of nods and dropped behind as they walked into the forest, assuming his cat shape and cloaking himself in shadow. He waited a prudent amount of time and then crept through the forest to the other side of the circle. The elf was already gone. Seylin hissed the Tracking Spell. Now he could see the elf lord’s footprints, bright against the dark grass, only a few minutes old. Seylin did
n’t follow them directly; this elf might be watching for him. Instead, he slunk on his belly within sight of those prints, keeping to the thickest shade under the trees.

  In the morning, he woke up and stretched luxuriously from head to toe. He was very stiff. Stiff and cold. He had fallen asleep out in the woods. Seylin glanced down, a little confused. He had fallen asleep as a cat!

  He jumped and sputtered as memory broke in on him. The elf lord! The tracks! What had gone wrong? Fluffy tail drooping, he looked around. The great trees of the truce circle towered behind him. The elf had stopped him before he had gone thirty feet.

  • • •

  As Miranda came into the royal rooms to accompany Catspaw to breakfast, she could hear Seylin speaking loudly and a little frantically. Not just any lord, either,” he was protesting. “I’m telling you, goblin King, he’s one of the great elf lords, a descendent of the elf King’s own lieutenants!”

  “Maybe;” Catspaw answered, unruffled and a little amused. “But

  you should tear yourself away from your books, adviser, and practice

  your spells a little more. Great elf lord or not, you gave yourself away.”

  Miranda put her head in at the door, and the two men looked up, startled. The Guard, knowing that she would be the King’s Wife in a week, didn’t bother to announce her anymore.

  “Who is a great elf lord?” she asked. There was a slight pause.

  “An elf has turned up,” replied the goblin King. “But don’t mention it to anyone, Miranda. It shouldn’t be known.”

  “Of course not,” she said with a smile. “Are you ready for breakfast?” There was another slight pause.

  “No. I don’t have time,” answered Catspaw. “Go without me.” So Miranda went on her way. She was feeling cheerful this morning. A great elf lord, she thought idly. She liked the sound of that. The men watched the door shut. Then they stared at it for a few seconds.