Eleven
Sarah stood making inarticulate noises as the small woman came toward her. How could this even be possible? Lenia was dead; Sarah had seen the body. How could Lenia be here? Had the priestesses of the temple defied the laws of nature and the Pax Deorum to work some sinister regenerative magic?
Perhaps Sarah had not been visible in the gloom of the parlor, or perhaps the young woman had been too absorbed in her own thoughts, because she almost collided with the Goblin Queen, stopping short and exclaiming, "Oh!"
Sarah stared down, her mouth working, unable to make any sound except grunting monosyllables.
The young woman dropped into a respectful curtsey. "Your Majesty," she said. "Forgive me; I didn't realize it was you."
The girl's voice sent a shudder of realization through Sarah—it was high-pitched, verging on squeaky, like a cartoon character's, as unlike Lenia's warm alto as could be imagined. The curtsey provided the other marker of identity—nobody except a trained dancer could drop down like that, the very essence of grace. This, then, was not Lenia at all, and Sarah could not help a wretched spasm of anger, grief, and resentment.
"Ralli?" Sarah found her voice and remembered the dancer's name at the same time.
The head bobbed up and down. Sarah spotted other differences: Ralli's eyes, set too far apart; her face, longer and narrower than Lenia's; the almost s-shape of her nose. But otherwise, the similarity was shocking, something Sarah had not before consciously noted, perhaps because she'd never seen Ralli with her hair down or wearing ordinary clothes. The aubergine gown and cloak were very like those Lenia had crafted for herself, the cloak fastened by a pair of exquisite medallions. The medallions resembled large coins, both etched with the images of eagles, and between them ran a length of chain, the entire piece in solid gold. Sarah had no doubt the thing had been given in token of Ralli's position as Royal Court Dancer.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, to have startled you. I was on my way back to my quarters."
"It's all right," said Sarah. She hesitated, not sure what else to say; it would be grotesque to blurt out to the young dancer how much she resembled the queen's dead kinswoman. Ralli was exactly Lenia's height, about five feet even, and very slim. In addition to the similarity in build, Ralli moved with the same light, quick ease that had characterized Lenia's carriage.
Pure, unadulterated inspiration blossomed in Sarah's mind. She flashed a smile at the dancer and said, "May I ask an extraordinary favor of you?"
"Yes, of course, Your Majesty," Ralli squeaked.
"Have you participated in the court masques?"
Ralli nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty, Picus and I both have, many times."
"Would you like to arrange another?"
The girl stared up at Sarah. "Your Majesty? Is there some occasion?"
Sarah said quietly, "This must be an absolute secret. Nobody else can know about it. You, Picus, whoever you need to help you put it together, but nobody else. It won't be elaborate, but it will require effects, and you'll be at the center of it. You'll need all your skills, not just as a dancer, but as a performer. I'll fetch your costume and bring it to your rooms. What suite are you in?"
Ralli told her, then asked, "Does Her Majesty Queen Petronia know about this?"
"No. And it's vital she doesn't. It's nothing that will harm her, but it's a very serious thing, Ralli. Someone's life depends on it."
The dancer looked apprehensive, but also intrigued. Her unusual eyes held a gleam of adventure, bordering on mischief. This girl had spirit.
"I'll meet with you and Picus tonight, an hour before midnight," Sarah told her. "I'll come via the service tunnels, so don't be surprised. Can I trust you?"
"On my honor, Your Majesty."
"Thank you."
Sarah tore away, leaving the astonished dancer behind her.
(ii)
She had never been to Lenia's rooms, but they were not difficult to find: Sarah used the service tunnels to get into the south wing and followed the corridors marked with the image of an owl. The peepholes showed her a series of rooms: Lady Jacama's, Baroness Gannet's, the inevitable dining rooms, the endless sitting rooms, a presence room. The Owl Suite was almost as extensive and fabulous as Petronia's own rooms. Blessedly, there was nobody about; perhaps Gannet and Jacama were with the queen. At last Sarah found the bedchamber that must have belonged to Lenia and slipped inside.
The suite had not been touched since Lenia's death, although a strong scent of freesia lingered in the air, disconcerting Sarah with the illusion that the rooms' occupant would return at any moment. Sarah did not light any candles, relying instead on her goblin eyesight, which pierced the gloom like a cat's. Lenia's personal effects lay undisturbed, bearing mute, tragic witness to their former owner's absence. Sarah touched nothing, but she stood turning in a slow circle, trying to absorb the pattern of these artifacts, all that remained of her friend, and impress them into her memory.
After she'd gotten her bearings, Sarah moved on silent feet across the carpets into an adjacent dressing room. Here, she suffered another rude shock. Hanging on the door of an open wardrobe was an elaborate gown, a hideous flummery of rich fabrics in silver, green, and purple, bedecked with jewels. The dress itself hung on one hanger; the long train was looped up over another. This must have been Lenia's wedding gown, and Sarah found herself paradoxically relieved that her friend would never wear it. She moved from wardrobe to wardrobe until she found the right garment, rolling up the fabric into a portable bundle. Lenia's jewel box sat open nearby, precious gems and metals scattered in a careless spray across the tabletop. Sarah spotted right away the items she sought. The dressing table also held Lenia's other effects: hairbrushes, combs, all the paraphernalia of female beauty. Sarah followed her nose until she discovered the source of Lenia's habitual scent: a small corked bottle of powder, which Sarah added to her contraband.
For a moment she stood, glancing around the room, aching with sadness, then she shook herself back to the task at hand and slipped into the service tunnel, closing the door behind her.
(iii)
Jareth suspected she was up to something. Sarah could tell from his posture, from the bemused, sidelong glances he kept giving her. He said nothing as they dressed for the funeral, and when he gave her his arm to walk down the stairs that led from the Falcon Suite, his eyebrows lifted in an expression both questioning and sardonic. Sarah only raised her own brows in response.
They had opted for a palette of somber monochrome: Jareth in gray tights, white shirt, and a fine black waistcoat beneath a frock coat of the same fabric; Sarah in a gown of silver and white silk, the stomacher panel embroidered in black. Both monarchs had draped black cloaks over their shoulders. Sarah thought they looked like a pair of vampires on their way to a formal evening in a church crypt. Beneath the tightly-laced stays, her pounding heart sent a steady flow of adrenaline through her bloodstream, heightening her senses into preternatural awareness. She hoped she looked calmer than she felt.
The funeral took place in the great hall of the Royal Museum, the site of Petronia's coronation. A far smaller crowd was in attendance for this gloomy event. At one end of the hall, two thrones had been set up on the dais for the queen and king, both of whom were garbed in gray. The royal families sat in the seats at floor level, affording Sarah a closer view of Lenia's body than she wanted. The corpse had been laid out on a catafalque similar to that which Sarah had seen in her vision of Queen Eucissa's funeral, only with an owl overshadowing the head of the bier. In a grotesque fit of mawkish emotion, someone had garbed Lenia in the ill-fated wedding dress. An elaborate matching headpiece had been affixed to the top of her head, which concealed the fatal wound. Beneath the headdress, her dark hair had been left unbound, fanning out around her, dramatic against the white satin drapery. Her arms lay limply at her sides. At Lenia's feet, the train of the gown spilled over the bier, shimmering cloth of silver in the candlelight.
One advantage of the intense cold was its power to preserve the body. There was no odor of decay, and Lenia's skin looked as cold and pale and hard as marble. The body had been strewn about with white roses—perhaps the very roses that would have adorned Lenia at her wedding. More roses and greenery decorated the vast chamber and surrounded the foot of the bier on all sides, and the scent of the flowers verged on overpowering.
Sarah's gaze flicked about, taking in the reactions of the mourners. Tylas and Petronia wore studied expressions of deep grief. Baroness Gannet looked like she'd aged about two thousand years; she sat slumped to one side, her face gaunt, her eyes vacant. Beside her, Lady Jacama sat like a wax dummy, as colorless as her daughter's corpse. On the other side of Jacama sat Alaemon, wearing gray and mauve, composed but still glowering with resentment. Beside her sat her husband, Turnix. Sarah would have loved to flip her middle finger at him.
Across from Jareth and Sarah sat the Varanese contingent. Prince Cerastis, as solemn as ever, appeared to be the only one of his family experiencing genuine grief. To the left of Jareth and Sarah sat Queen Inula and her family, all garbed in sober dark blue, their faces tight with sorrow and distress. The other members of the royal and noble families looked bored and uncomfortable. Nobody liked this evidence of bloodshed in their midst, and certainly nobody appreciated this stark reminder of inevitable mortality.
Sarah made a discreet check, but she saw no sign of poor Drazen, unless the young dancer were hidden somewhere above, observing the mourning rite in secret. Sarah felt meanly glad that she would not have to endure the sight of his irresolute face with its soft, tremulous lips. Not far from the queen's throne sat her coterie of ladies-in-waiting, Lady Vibiana among them. The dancer made a good show of composure, but Sarah noted the periodic twitchy spasms that crossed her face, the way she kept twisting the fabric of her gown in her hands. Her husband Anser was seated among the other guests, and Sarah didn't miss the looks of obvious concern that Anser kept giving his wife.
A priestess of the temple conducted the service, an old woman garbed in the black of the Crone, but not the same priestess who had taken the Crone's role at the coronation. Did the women alternate ceremonial duties, or did Lenia not rate the most prestigious officiant? Sarah couldn't tell, and it seemed a crass question to ask, even of someone as open-minded as Queen Inula. From the balcony overhead, a woman sang a baleful mourning dirge, but it wasn't the Voice of the Goddess. There was no sign of the High Priestess, either, and Sarah felt peevish, miffed that her dead friend had not been accorded higher honors.
Even the funeral litany itself felt generic and half-hearted. The priestess made reference to the untimely nature of Lenia's death, the injustice of a young life cut short by senseless violence. She made mention of the family members and friends left behind. She addressed the wasted potential of Lenia's stolen years, including the marriage that had never taken place. At the conclusion of the ceremony, she circled the catafalque three times, anointing Lenia's forehead and eyelids with smudges of holy oil, blessing Lenia's spirt in the names of the Maiden, Mother, and Crone. Sarah gathered that the body eventually would be cremated, based on an allusion made by the priestess.
"And as her ashes scatter to the four winds, may her spirit find its way to the Blessed Realm, the Summerlands, where she may dwell at ease with her foremothers forever."
Sarah half-expected the mourners to respond with "amen," but of course they didn't. As the priestess finished speaking, the gilded double doors at the far end of the great hall swung open. All heads turned automatically, but outside the chamber lay only pitch darkness. A strong, cold wind gusted through the great hall, extinguishing scores of candles and plunging the room into shadow. Only the candles in lanterns high up on the walls still burned, the light they cast feeble at best. A murmur of startled dread rose from the crowd.
From all around came the sound of an eerie, sepulchral moaning, accompanied by atonal, unearthly music, like skeletal fingers plucking the stringed guts of a derelict piano. A cloud of icy mist rolled through the double doors, and the murmurs became startled exclamations of real fear. Sarah had not known exactly what to expect, but this was spectacular.
From the cloud of mist emerged a small, slim figure, eliciting gasps of horror from the crowd. Lenia's revenant walked on unsteady feet down the aisle toward the catafalque, her face gray-white, her eyes hollow black sockets in her face. She was garbed in the crimson gown she'd worn to the coronation, the tattered velvet slack on her frame and glittering with a sheen of frost. Her black hair was wrapped around the ruby-studded gold coronet, tousled and scraggly, strands flying loose; the rest of Lenia's jewelry hung askew from her ears, neck, and wrists. About her wafted the distinctive scent of freesia, perceptible even over the mass of roses. Lenia moved not with her customary grace, but with the rigid, ataxic lurch of muscles contracted by rigor mortis. She looked for all the world as if she'd just crawled out of an underground crypt.
The black gash of a mouth opened, and the ghoul croaked out a dreadful imperative. "Justice," it demanded. "Justice!" Her right arm rose in shaky jerks as she came around the bier's left side, causing the mourners in the front to shrink away. A finger white as bone pointed, and all eyes followed the direction of its incontrovertible accusation: Lady Vibiana.
A thin, high-pitched screech rose up, a sound of undiluted torment. Vibiana was on her feet, trying to flee, but two of the ladies-in-waiting caught her by the arms. By now, though, Vibiana was like a woman possessed, and she yanked away from her captors with such force the outer sleeves of her gown tore off. She stumbled, aiming blindly for one of the exits, still screaming that horrific, anguished shriek. But guards lunged to intercept her, and even her dancer's strength was no match for the three powerful women.
"Bring her here!" Petronia was on her feet, taking charge of the situation despite her obvious state of shock. The guards dragged Vibiana, literally kicking and screaming, before the queen. In the face of Petronia's wrath, Vibiana burst into incoherent, babbling sobs.
"Niece of mine!" Petronia thundered. "You have heard the accusation of the dead! Do you deny the dreadful charges put against you?"
By now, other guards were bringing torches, and Sarah mentally cursed the light that would expose the effect. Nobody approached the revenant, which stood shrouded in mist and darkness, motionless but visibly breathing.
Vibiana sobbed and blubbered, her nose running, her pretty face contorted. The spectacle appalled Sarah, although she already knew of Vibiana's guilt. The dancer's body went boneless and she crumpled to the floor at the queen's feet, weeping.
A male voice cut across the room, piercing the babble of voices.
"Your Majesty, it was me." Anser was making his way out into the aisle. "I murdered Lenia. Please forgive my wife's distress. She can't bear the thought of my being punished."
He was so smooth, his guilt so genuine, right down to the fearful catch in his voice, that for an instant Sarah almost believed him.
Petronia stared down at where her niece lay in an abject huddle on the floor. "Is this true?"
Inch by inch, Lady Vibiana hauled herself to her feet, as if her husband's voice had brought her back to her senses. Sarah waited to see if she would confess or let Anser pay the penalty. The guards hovered close by, their attention divided between husband and wife.
The light in the room grew steadily brighter as more guards arrived bearing torches and candles were re-lit. Anser circled the revenant with superstitious caution as he made his way toward his wife, but then he stopped short, blinking with the incredulity and mounting fury of a man who realizes he's walked with eyes wide open into the most obvious of traps.
"What—what is this?" he exploded. "This is no ghost! It's Ralli!"
Amidst a great swell of clamoring exclamations, everyone turned to stare at the champion dancer, who stood clad in Lenia's clothing, unperturbed.
Lady Vibiana stared also, face contorting into an expression of surpassing hatred. With an ungodly banshee wail, she launched herself toward Ralli, so quickly that the startled guards could not stop her. Sarah had not foreseen this; she leaped to her feet, knowing she was too late to protect Ralli, who stood alone and unguarded. But at the last moment, an instant before Vibiana's outstretched, strangling hands could close around her rival's slim neck, Ralli moved like a cobra-killing mongoose: her torso swung down sideways until it was parallel to the floor while her left leg shot up in a swoosh of red silk, and her booted foot made audible contact with Vibiana's jaw. The queen's niece staggered and was seized by the three guards, who twisted her arms behind her back.
"It was her!" Vibiana screamed, so enraged that spittle was flying from her mouth. Even restrained, her upper body kept lunging toward Ralli. "I thought it was her! That slut, bitch, filth! I should have won! Everyone knew it! I should have won! That frog-eyed no-talent!" Tears were streaming from Vibiana's eyes and mucus from her nose; the guards were doing their heroic best to drag her away. "That conniving whore! So perfect—always so perfect—why can't I be perfect? Why? Why?" Her face crumpled, the ability to speak left her, and all that emerged from her mouth was an unbroken screech, followed by incoherent sobs.
(iv)
"By all the gods in the sky." Queen Inula kept trying to raise a drink to her mouth, but her hands were shaking, and she could not lift the goblet. After a moment, her husband, King Rumex, raised the goblet for her, allowing her to take a fortifying swallow of wine.
They sat in Petronia's outer parlor, where guests waited to see the queen. Jareth and Sarah were on one settee, Inula and Rumex on another, Agrostis and Marsilea on a third. In a large chair sat Ralli, still wearing Lenia's clothes and reeking of freesia, her hands and face scrubbed free of the ghoulish makeup. Crouched beside her was Picus, her partner, handsome face bloodless beneath his mop of golden curls. An hour or more had passed since the confrontation, and he was still white as a sheet. He clutched Ralli's hand as if he never wanted to let her out of his sight again.
King Rumex regarded the female dancer, his blue eyes blinking rapidly. "So it was you," he said. "You, Ralli, were the intended victim. It wasn't Lenia at all."
"I had no idea," Ralli said, her Minnie Mouse voice at odds with her sense of indomitable calm. "I had no idea she hated me so badly."
Sarah told her, "That was an amazing kick. How did you ever learn to do that?"
Ralli made a small gesture with one hand, as if her physical prowess were nothing out of the ordinary. "It's part of our training," she said. "We do kicks in all directions. It seemed like the best way to stop her."
"Good thinking," said Inula. "And fast reflexes."
"Whose idea was all this?" asked Marsilea. "I'm not ashamed to admit I was scared half out of my mind!"
"It was my idea," said Sarah, "when I bumped into Ralli and realized how much she resembles Lenia, especially when you see her from behind. Ralli and Picus planned the theatrics, and some of their friends helped with the effects—the mist, the music. I wanted to shock and frighten Vibiana into confessing. But I thought her motive was political. I never dreamed it was something as personal as losing the dance competition."
Picus said wryly, "It may be the last masque ever staged in Phoebetria."
As if finishing her partner's sentence, Ralli added, "We certainly put on a show people will never stop talking about."
"So, what happens now?" asked Agrostis.
"That's entirely up to Queen Petronia," said Inula.
They lapsed into silence, each locked in his or her private thoughts. Again and again, Sarah's mind went to Hoggle, wondering if he'd been released yet, or if she would have to press Petronia for that as well.
At last the door to the inner presence chamber opened, and a guard emerged.
"Her Majesty will see you now."
The eight of them followed the guard into the presence chamber and took seats before Petronia's large chair. The other people in the room were three ladies-in-waiting, huddled in a corner, and Vibiana herself, seated in a chair to one side, two guards standing behind her. The dancer appeared dazed, almost drugged.
Petronia announced, "King Tylas is with his sister and mother. As you can imagine, this wretched business has been a terrible shock to Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama."
Heads bobbed, and quiet murmurs of sympathy were voiced.
"My niece has been given a truth serum by a priestess of the temple. She has been questioned, and her guilt has been established beyond doubt. However, there still are other matters to settle." She turned her hard sapphire gaze to Vibiana. "Tell them the confession you made to me."
Lady Vibiana stirred from her stupor. In a dull monotone, she said, "I murdered Lenia, believing she was Ralli. I was on my way to a secret visit with my husband, Anser, in the southeast wing. I had just stepped from a service tunnel into the basement corridor of the Shrike Suite, and I saw Lenia right in front of me. I saw her only from the back. I struck her with a lantern I was carrying. I thought it was Ralli. I didn't intend to kill her—I wanted to injure her so she could never dance again. The blow was stronger than I realized, and only when she was on the floor did I realize it was Lenia, and that she was dead. I panicked. I hid the lantern in the service tunnel and ran back to my own bedchamber."
Sarah said, "I found the lantern in the service tunnel. It's in Queen Inula's suite now. There's an albatross engraved on the base of the lantern. I knew it had to be you because of the direction Lenia's body was facing. If it had been Anser, he would have been coming toward Lenia, not behind her."
Through her drugged haze, Vibiana glared at Sarah with an expression of withering hatred.
Queen Petronia addressed Sarah. "Was that charade at the funeral your idea?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." Sarah maintained a calm, serene countenance. "I knew the dwarf couldn't possibly have killed Lenia. I didn't want the murderer to escape justice."
Petronia made a harrumphing noise in her throat. "I do hope you're satisfied."
"I am, Your Majesty. I trust the dwarf has been set at liberty, now that Lady Vibiana's guilt has been established."
"He's been returned to the household of my niece Alaemon for now. When her party returns home, he'll stay here in Phoebetria and be sent to work the salt plain in the spring."
Sarah had all she could do to keep from crying out in protest. But Queen Inula stepped in smoothly before Sarah could speak.
"Your Majesty, my husband King Rumex and I would be pleased to have the dwarf accompany us back to Vitis when the Pax Deorum ends. He surely can be put to some useful employment in our kingdom."
"Very well." Petronia settled the matter with a wave of her hand. Sarah felt weak with a mixture of relief and gratitude. "Alaemon doesn't want him in her sight, so you can have him. I don't understand why anyone would want such a repulsive creature around, but suit yourself."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," said Inula.
"How is Alaemon?" asked Sarah, switching the subject before Petronia could change her mind about Hoggle. "This must be so distressing."
"She's resting in her rooms, and her husband Turnix is with her. This has all been most taxing, especially for a woman who's just given birth." As she spoke, Petronia's hand drifted down to her abdomen, and a suggestion of a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
"It's been a difficult time for us all." Queen Inula made her statement sound like a final pronouncement. She told Petronia, "Your coronation has been far more eventful than any of us could have dreamed possible."
"Indeed it has." Petronia rose to her feet. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I really must rest."
Everyone stood respectfully, waiting until the queen had vanished into her rooms. The guards were hauling Vibiana to her feet, and Sarah wondered what punishment, if any, Petronia would mete out to her murderous niece. She watched the dancer being led away, trying to summon anger or hatred, but all she felt was emptiness and the relief of Hoggle's life being spared. Then Jareth's arm was slipping through hers, and she let herself be guided out of the Eagle Suite, overcome with exhaustion so thorough that it was a wonder she didn't collapse on the spot.
(v)
The queen lost no time passing judgement against Lady Vibiana. Sarah had just finished breakfast the next morning when Marsilea came whirling into the dining room of the Falcon Suite. Her warm brown eyes were alive with excitement, and she fairly quivered with the effort of containing her news.
"Have you heard?" she hissed.
Sarah's heart gave a great lurch, her stomach clenching in dread of some new disaster. "No, what happened?"
Marsilea took a seat at the table. "Lady Vibiana's been sentenced. In the spring, when it's safe to travel, she and Anser will be banished back to Telluraves. They can never come to the mainland again."
That's all? Sarah thought.
Something must have shown in her face, because Marsilea added, in a hushed voice, "Petronia's also moving the succession into the line of her husband's family, just as it's been rumored. Only now, she has justification. She's saying it's because Vibiana violated the Pax Deorum, which normally entails automatic execution." A note of sarcasm crept into Marsilea's voice. "Petronia's chosen to be merciful."
"But with Lenia dead… Petronia surely can't be thinking of Alaemon as her heir?"
Marsilea's golden head swung back and forth. "The king's natural daughter, Kosma. She'll be formally adopted by the queen."
"I thought she's to train as a priestess?"
"She will, but she can still be the contingency in the event…" Marsilea let the sentence trail into discreet nothingness: in the event Petronia's pregnancy didn't come to satisfactory fruition.
"Thank you," Sarah said, her mind awhirl. "Thanks for bringing the news."
After Marsilea left, Jareth began chuckling. He bounced Lizzie on his knee, grinning so widely his jaw nearly split away from his face.
"Oh, stop," Sarah complained.
"You don't see it, do you?" he said.
He knew he could always get under her skin by teasing her about the intelligence in which she took so much pride. As much as it annoyed Sarah, she recognized it as a form of erotic banter; also, Jareth was prodding her to work, to think it through for herself.
She puzzled over Marsilea's bombshell, wondering what aspect of it had eluded her. Then she cursed herself for having not seen something so obvious.
"Son of a bitch!" she exploded.
His chuckles became open-throated laughter.
"She knew!" Sarah fumed. "Petronia knew it was her all along!"
"Vibiana would have been Petronia's first suspect. She had more motive than anyone for wanting Lenia dead, even if it wasn't the motive Petronia assumed."
"And Petronia let me do her dirty work," said Sarah, her face creasing into a ferocious scowl. "She didn't want to accuse Vibiana herself, because it would seem like she was grinding an axe against her sister's family. This way, she gets what she wants and keeps her hands clean. I've given her exactly the grounds she needs to exclude her sister's family from the line of succession."
Jareth bobbed his head in a little mock-bow.
"She knew I'd do it, too."
"You played your hand with that very loud and public defense of the salt miners and peat boggers," said Jareth. "Someone with such a keenly developed sense of fair play would never let Lenia go to her grave without justice. Or see an innocent punished."
Sarah slumped back in her seat. "Shit," she grumbled.
"Would you have done differently, if you'd known?" asked Jareth, more serious now.
"No, of course not." Sarah had saved Hoggle—he might not ever remember who she was, but he was alive, and now he'd be going to a decent home. It would have been a torment to bring him back to the Underground with no memories of his past—Hoggle, and yet not Hoggle. Now he would make a new start in a place where he would not have to endure either Jareth's contempt or Sarah's guilt. It's better this way, Sarah told herself, resolutely setting aside her own heartbreak.
Sarah reminded herself that she also had avenged Lenia, preventing Lady Vibiana from one day becoming queen, and that was no small thing. What depths of spite and bitterness had caused the dancer—young, beautiful, gifted, and loved—to commit such an act? Not only had she murdered Lenia, she'd intended to inflict a crippling head injury on Ralli. Was it the recent humiliations at Petronia's hand, or some longstanding insecurity? "Why can't I be perfect?" she had cried. Or did she suffer an affliction of the mind as a result of inbreeding within the Clade Estrida? Sarah thought banishment too lenient, but then she considered that Vibiana would have to live in Telluraves for the rest of her life, enduring her family's enmity at having cost them their place in the royal succession. Perhaps that was a fitting punishment after all—death by a thousand cuts.
(vi)
The great hall in the in the Royal Museum buzzed with voices, and the air was redolent with the scents of flowers and perfumes. Everywhere people moved was the rustle of rich fabrics. The winter sun was at its zenith, and light the pale gold of champagne poured through the tall windows, flooding the vast chamber with delightful radiance.
After the worry and anguish of the past fortnight, everyone seemed to welcome the celebration; Sarah overheard less bitchy gossip and more expressions of genuine gladness. Petronia herself seemed content to sit over to one side with Tylas and not be the center of attention.
On the raised dais stood the king's cousin, Winsel, and the younger Varanese daughter, Princess Abronia, their faces shining as a priestess of the temple, garbed as the Mother, made them handfast. Sarah thought they made a handsome couple. Abronia had let her spiky crop grow out a bit, and the pale wisps framed her face in a gamine, charming way. Winsel gave a good idea of how Tylas had looked as a youth: tall, slim, tautly elegant. The two appeared quite thrilled to be marrying, and their happiness was good to see.
Sarah watched the ceremony, her mind aswirl with a stormcloud of emotion. This should have been Lenia's big day, although she would have hated every moment of it. Sarah lamented the loss of her friend, but would she have wanted to sit here watching Lenia be forced to marry a man she would never love? Sarah glanced over at the Varanese family, who despite their expressionless faces still exuded a sense of pride. Even Prince Cerastis managed to look happy for his newly-married sister. No, Lenia had effected the ultimate escape.
At the feast afterwards, Jareth and Sarah twirled around on the dance floor, lost in the pleasure of each other. Jareth, Sarah knew, was of course pleased that Hoggle would not be returning to the Underground with them, while Sarah was happy her friend was alive. The outcome suited both of them and would preserve shalom bayit—peace in the home.
The party continued until well into the evening, and when it ended, there was no mad chase up to the highest tower. Jareth and Sarah returned like an old married couple to their rooms in the Falcon Suite, which had begun to feel so like home that Sarah's mental images of their bedroom in the goblin palace had begun to blur around the edges.
(vii)
"What an undertaking," laughed Queen Inula, looking around Sarah's dressing room. "How many clothes did you bring?"
"Most of these I had made here in Aves," Sarah told her. She had divided her vast wardrobe in two: the things she was taking back to the Underground were mostly packed, the trunks shifted into her bedchamber. The rest was displayed all around the dressing room, hanging in open wardrobes and spilling from trunks. Sarah watched the wistful expression that crossed Marsilea's face as she gazed with hungry eyes at the spread of luxurious garments.
Sarah had invited the two women from Vitis to the Falcon Suite ostensibly to say goodbye and to enjoy a last afternoon with her new friends. But she'd had another purpose in mind.
"I want you to have these," she said, indicating the entire room with a sweep of her arm. The two women gawped at her.
"You can't be serious," Marsilea squeaked. "All of them?"
"Everything," Sarah told her. "It's more clothes than I could wear in a thousand lifetimes. Look." She crossed over to one of the big wardrobes and showed Marsilea the outfit that hung from the open door. "There was going to be an outdoor winter carnival, and it didn't happen because of the storm. So I never wore this." The gown was deep red, velvet and brocade, with multiple layers of petticoats in wool and silk, and a matching cloak and hat, both trimmed with lavish amounts of sable.
"But if… when, um, there might be a naming ceremony…" Marsilea trailed off, another non-reference to Queen Petronia's still theoretical heir. "You might have to come back here again sometime soon. Won't you want clothes for that?"
"It might be a different season, though, and I'm sure the fashions will have changed by then anyway." This elicited some chuckles from Marsilea and Inula. "Besides, the two of you have taught a lesson by example: bring my own wardrobe. The next time I travel anywhere, I'm wearing my own clothes, and I don't care what anyone else thinks."
Inula beamed a wonderful, wide smile.
Sarah went on, "Inula, when we first met, you told me your kingdom is poor. There's enough fabric in these gowns to make lovely clothes for scores of people—women, men, children. Jareth's clothes are in those trunks over there." She pointed. "He doesn't need them any more than I do."
Queen Inula appeared stunned by the magnitude of Sarah's gift.
"I could never repay you for this," the queen said.
"I don't expect you to. If not for your help, Lenia would have gone to her pyre without justice, and an innocent creature would have been needlessly punished. You can't measure lives in gold or goods, but I can at least use these things to say thank you."
Sarah's vehemence took both women aback. Inula's eyes held a wise look, as if she realized there had been more to Sarah's investigation than a mere quest for justice.
"Thank you," said Marsilea. "This is so generous. And these fabrics are so warm… so much fur! There are people in Vitis who have all they can do to get through winter… this will help make the cold weather so much easier."
"Take them, with my blessing," Sarah responded.
While Sarah's maids packed the clothes into trunks, the three women sat by the fire in Sarah's bedchamber, drinking wine and reminiscing about the coronation. "The bards'll be singing songs and telling tales about it for centuries," Marsilea predicted.
As her two guests were preparing to leave, Sarah asked Inula, "So the dwarf, is he with your household now?"
"Oh, yes," Inula told her. "Mephitis will be leaving with us tomorrow. My son Agrostis will find a village where he can live, a family that will look out for him. Do you know, he spoke yesterday? He actually said 'yes," when someone asked him something."
Sarah's eyes welled. "That's wonderful," she managed. When she had control over her voice, she said, "Don't you think he needs a better name?" Both women gave her puzzled expressions, and Sarah said, "Mephitis… it's the name of a skunk."
Inula's head bobbed up and down. "Oh, yes, in that case we absolutely will find another name for him." With a shrewd look she said, "Do you have anything to suggest?"
"I once had a good friend, whose name was Hobbart," Sarah told her. "He's gone now, but I still think about him all the time. He was braver than anyone ever gave him credit for, and more clever than even he knew."
"Hobbart." Inula nodded. "I like that."
"Me, too," said Marsilea. "I think it will suit him."
The three exchanged embraces, and Sarah said, "Don't leave tomorrow without saying goodbye!"
Inula squeezed her hard and told her, "Not a chance."
(viii)
That night, Sarah dreamed of summertime, of wandering an endless meadow full of wildflowers. The sun shone in a cerulean sky, and a sweet-scented breeze moved through the tall grasses, which rippled like ocean waves.
She had no sense of how long she ambled about this place, no destination in mind, no urge or desire to do anything; it was enough to drift here and there, admiring the flowers and enjoying the balmy air.
From the distance came a rhythmic thumping: faint, but growing louder. The sound caused Sarah no alarm, and it didn't surprise her at all when a beautiful white horse came into view. The glorious beast had black eyes, a black mane, and a black tail. Riding atop him, bareback, was Lenia. She wore a loose-fitting gown of red silk, and her hair blew long and loose about her shoulders, her smile as radiant as the sun.
"Hi," said Sarah, as if they were only bumping into each other at some social gathering. "Are you on your way?"
"It would seem so." Lenia was unafraid of whatever lay ahead. "I wanted to thank you, first."
"It was nothing," Sarah told her. "I'd have done the same for anyone." Feeling awkward, she asked, "Are you all right?"
"Oh, yes, no worries at all."
Sarah blinked. "It's not fair. You were so young."
"And so I ever will be." Lenia smiled down from her perch atop the horse, benign and beatific. "Don't weep, Sarah Williams. We'll meet again, one day."
Sarah wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I can't help it," she said. "We'd barely gotten to be friends. I'll miss you."
"Don't. When the time comes, the years will seem as moments. You'll see."
"I'll take your word for it." With a shaky laugh, Sarah said, "Well, you'll never have to marry the fourteen-year-old."
Lenia burst into merry laughter. "The poor thing. They'll marry him off to someone, some girl who'll make him happier than I ever could have."
"You should've seen the dress they were making for you—it was hideous."
Lenia grinned again. Sarah would miss dreadfully that endearing sideways smile.
"Have a beautiful life," Lenia told her. "Live, love, laugh. Have more children. Dance and play. Do all the things I won't be able to do now."
"I will," Sarah told her. "I promise."
That seemed to satisfy Lenia. She whistled to her horse, and the animal broke into a gallop, bearing his rider away. Sarah's last glimpse of Lenia was a flash of crimson silk against the green grass and blue sky. Sarah stared into the spot where horse and rider had vanished until the landscape blurred and became indistinct, and then she was staring up at the canopy over her bed. It was morning, and the Pax Deorum was almost over. It was time to go home.
(ix)
Beside her, Jareth stirred. He stretched, and his fingers sought out Sarah's beneath the covers.
"Were you dreaming?" he inquired.
"Could you tell?"
"I can always tell."
"Lenia came to me. She's gone now. Gone to the Summerlands."
"Hmm," said Jareth.
"What, don't you believe it exists?" asked Sarah.
"I can wait to discover if it's real or not," Jareth told her, drawing her into his arms.
"A very, very long time," Sarah agreed.
(x)
The big parlor nearest the south gate entrance to the city was alive with noisy activity, guests embracing in farewell before transporting themselves home. Servants, luggage, all the retinues of the royal families had already gone on their way.
Queen Petronia and King Tylas circulated around the room, bidding farewell to their fellow-monarchs, thanking them for attending, apologizing for the unexpected drama.
Outside the tall windows, snow-clearing activities were in full swing. With the Pax Deorum lifted, magic could now be used, and Sarah watched, open-mouthed, as Lady Jacama raised her arms, causing a small tornado of snow to lift into the air, clearing a path right down to the flagstones. The swirling white cone traveled over to a nearby snow pile and added its burden to the already staggering heap. With the path cleared, Lady Jacama vanished out of sight, moving on to another part of the palace.
"She'll be out there all day," said Jareth, standing by Sarah's side.
"It might feel good," Sarah remarked, "to do something physical. Something useful." Her arms tightened around Lizzie, and she breathed in the scent of her baby's hair. Having carried a child, given birth, held that infant in her arms, watched it grow, she could not fathom Lady Jacama's depths of grief. A beloved child was such a blessing, and Sarah could think of no greater tragedy than having that child torn away by violence. She blinked back tears, feeling she'd done nothing but cry for the past forty-eight hours. Jareth's hand caressed her shoulder.
A voice cut into Sarah's reverie. Marsilea came skipping across the carpet.
"The houses in the Outer Boulevard were all flattened by the snow," she whispered, leaning her head close to Sarah's in confidence. "They're being rebuilt."
"Where'd you hear that?" Sarah murmured.
"One of the guards told Queen Inula this morning."
"I'm so glad," Sarah responded. "That's wonderful news."
"Her Majesty and I sorted through the things you gave us," Marsilea went on. "We separated out the woolens and are giving them as a gift to the families of the Outer Boulevard, so they'll be able to make some new, warm things for themselves."
"That's so generous of you," said Sarah, wishing she'd thought of it herself.
Queen Inula, King Rumex, and their son Prince Agrostis had been saying farewell to Petronia and Tylas, thanking them for their hospitality, and now they came over to say goodbye to Jareth and Sarah.
"We do hope you'll be able to attend the flower festival next summer?" asked Inula.
"We wouldn't dream of missing it," Sarah responded before Jareth could say no.
"Splendid," Inula beamed.
The two families shook hands and exchanged embraces, Lizzie babbling wistfully at young Delonix. At last, the family from Vitis stood in a tight cluster, and King Rumex uttered the incantation that would return them home.
"And the goblins are the last to depart," said Petronia, sweeping across the carpet. "And here I thought you'd spirit yourselves away as soon as the Pax Deorum lifted."
"It's been an eventful month," Sarah responded, ignoring the jibe.
"I hope that's not a complaint!" Petronia exclaimed.
"Not even remotely," Sarah assured her. "Your hospitality is unparalleled." Petronia swallowed her up in a strong, bosomy hug. Sarah's keen ears detected the tiny, fluttering heartbeat of Petronia's developing child, her embryonic heir, and she drew away with a smile, sliding her hands down Petronia's arms and giving the queen's wrists a knowing squeeze.
"Blessed be," she said.
"Blessed be." Petronia now was behaving as though Sarah were her very best chum, and why shouldn't she? Sarah had been the instrument, however unwitting, of the Clade Estrida's ruin, though it pleased Sarah to know the Queen of Aves was in her debt. If the day should ever come that Sarah had a particularly desperate need, she would not hesitate to call in the favor. Right now, though, she was content to let that bit of capital accumulate interest.
King Tylas shook hands with Jareth. "Don't be strangers," he said.
"With my lady queen organizing our social calendar, I dare not," Jareth responded, to which Tylas responded with his empty social laugh.
After a final round of goodbyes, the goblin monarchs stood together, and Jareth produced one of his crystals. At his command, the sphere expanded to encircle them, and with an uttered incantation, they were gone, leaving the Kingdom of Aves behind them.
(xi)
"Spittledrum!" Jareth roared.
The mayor of Goblin City, taken unawares by the abrupt arrival of his king and queen, leapt up from Jareth's throne. A crystal appeared in Jareth's right hand, which he pitched at the ersatz monarch with a wicked, underhanded bowling motion. The crystal erupted into a blazing ball of fire, which chased the mayor out of the throne room and down the corridor. Even when he'd gone tearing out of the palace, Sarah could still hear him shrieking as he tried to avoid having his ass barbequed.
"It's good to be home," she laughed. "I should go find where Spittledrum's locked up Sir Didymus."
"Start with the dungeons," Jareth advised.
Lizzie squirmed in Sarah's arms, and Sarah released the little girl, watching as she levitated upward with a happy squeal.
In its nest over Jareth's throne, the vulture gave a dirge-like croak. Sarah glanced up, then did a double-take. She gave Jareth a nudge.
"Yes, he's always nested up there," Jareth said.
Grinning, Sarah said, "I think he is actually a she. Look."
Jareth gave the nest a closer inspection. Over the untidy tangle of twigs poked a tiny ball of white fluff, out of which protruded a distinctive vulture-face. The young bird's entire head seemed to consist of nothing but its beak, like a cotton ball with a single black briar attached. Astonishingly repulsive. Lizzie, now floating level with the nest, pointed, bubbling with excitement at this novelty.
"Don't touch the baby," Sarah admonished. "Momma bird has sharp talons. C'mon, sweetie, let's go find Sir Didymus." Lizzie drifted down, and Sarah remarked to Jareth, "Should we name it?"
"The chick?" asked Jareth, eyebrows lifting.
"No, the mother vulture."
"Name that thing?" he scoffed.
"Petronia would suit, don't you think?"
Jareth burst into loud peals of laughter, and he drew Sarah in for a sideways embrace, kissing the top of her head.
Feeling marvelously content, Sarah headed for the dungeons, Lizzie in tow, leaving Jareth to get the rest of his kingdom back in order.
(xii)
After a lavish homecoming feast that night, Jareth and Sarah went out to walk the Labyrinth. Sarah inhaled and exhaled, reveling in the sense of home. Their castle might be plain, even rude, their kingdom humble, its denizens chaotic, but Sarah relished the familiarity. The change in climate also could not have been more welcome: after a month in Aves, winter in the Underground felt like July in Miami.
"I never got you a Yuletide gift," said Jareth. He'd been quiet, pensive.
"What, those ridiculous clothes didn't count?" Sarah teased.
"Not now that you've given them all away."
Sarah laughed, squeezing his arm. "Let me think about it," she said. By the time they'd finished their walk, inspiration had struck, and Sarah described to Jareth what she wanted. He didn't seem surprised and agreed to her request without argument. Sarah hastened to her rooms to fetch her writing desk.
To be continued…
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