When the world stopped spinning, Sarah found herself clasped tightly in
Jareth's arms, nose buried in the brocade on his lapels. He smelled like
wildflowers, she noticed, with a tang of spice underneath. They stood like
that for a moment, and then Jareth released her so abruptly she staggered
and almost fell down. They were in what looked like a small, ancient
temple, overgrown with green vines and paved with broken marble.
"There has been entirely too much rushing about today," Sarah said, wincing as she sank onto a convenient tumbled pillar. The entire left side of her body felt like it had been repeatedly kicked by a horse.
Jareth stalked up to her, bent down until his nose was nearly level with hers, and snarled, "You idiot. Too stubborn to listen, are you? We could have made a clean getaway if you hadn't been in such a confounded hurry to throw that bolt!"
Sarah couldn't believe her ears. "It's thanks to me you're out of that cage at all," she retorted hotly. "If I were you, I'd be grateful! I couldn't understand a word you were saying before. I've been through a lot today, so don't push it! Besides, it's not like they wouldn't have noticed our escape."
"You blasted ninny," he cried, voice rising to a near yell, "I could have laid a false trail, bought us some time. One moment more and we would have been in the clear. The whole bloody army is probably already mobilizing to hunt us down." His accent sounded vaguely British, with a current of wildness running underneath it. That seemed to describe a lot of things about this man: a polished exterior, with a hint of something dangerous beneath.
"I'm terribly sorry for risking my neck to come back and get you," Sarah said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure they'll be more than happy to lock you up again, and next time I'll wait until Captain Psycho hacks your head off before untimely coming to your rescue. Has it occurred to you that our situation has vastly improved?"
"If you hadn't pulled me through that rift, neither of us would be in this situation!" he flung at her accusingly. "In fact, I think you're allied with Duath, sent to bewitch me no doubt. You're only a slip of a girl after all. How did you escape from him?"
Sarah gaped at him. "I can't believe you just said that! I almost got - he was going to - I could have been raped, all because you couldn't stand his stupid gloating and had to throw dirt at him like a little kid. Besides, I didn't pull you through that breach, you were already in there. I tried to help you out!"
"You dragged me right into his trap!" Jareth roared.
Sarah was so mad she actually started to see red. Bruises forgotten, she jumped up, grabbed his jacket, and dragged his face down to his. "Just because you're angry at yourself for falling for his trick doesn't mean you can take it out on me!" she yelled. "He fooled both of us. But I saved your life and the least you can do is pretend to be happy about it!" She noticed that her hands were crushing his velvet jacket, and forced her grip to relax. "Besides," she continued in a calmer tone, "you're the only person I know in this place. All I want to do is go home, and we'll have a much better chance if we work together." She patted his chest gingerly and stepped back. "That means we have to trust each other. So I'm sorry you ended up here, but it wasn't my fault. Now apologize to me and we can try and decide what to do."
They stood glaring daggers at each other for a long moment, and then Jareth said through gritted teeth, "I admit I may have accused you unfairly."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "I'll take what I can get. How come I can understand you now? You were speaking gibberish before."
His eyes, one icy and one blazing, bored into hers for a moment, then he turned to pace around the clearing. "Orieth," he said. "Wizard's iron. Duath must have forged it himself. It negates any power other than that which created it. You understand me because I placed a spell on you when we were still imprisoned, but it required my freedom from his enchantment to work." His tone was not quite conciliatory, but at least he wasn't yelling. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?" he asked sarcastically. "The most powerful mages in our respective worlds, but we fell right into his trap."
Clearly, there was much more in heaven and earth than had previously existed in Sarah's philosophy. In fact, now that her brain had had a little time to slow down and come out of automatic pilot, Sarah began to realize exactly how incredible her situation was. The fantasy she read so avidly, writers' theories of other worlds - none of it came close to the reality of experiencing it. She looked around, taking in the gray sky, the green ivy, and the calm, unearthly quiet of the ruined monument. "Where are we?" she asked in a whisper, wondering how much her beloved authors had gotten right.
"An old Druid temple, I shouldn't wonder," Jareth said, regarding the crumbling marble around them. "I simply latched on to the first place I could find that didn't feel openly hostile. Unfortunately, that probably means we haven't gone far."
"No, I meant where in the larger sense. What world," Sarah said, running a reverent finger over the marble on which she sat. "We had Druids in our world too," she murmured.
Jareth put a booted foot up on another fallen pillar and muttered, "That is the question, isn't it? What world. Clearly we are not in the Underground." He eyed her dubiously and said, "Am I right in guessing that you are from the Upper Country?" Sarah was at a loss with that one, and he brushed it aside. "I think we can assume you are, because our histories are clear that the Uplands were headed for an astounding level of ignorance when we broke off contact. That leaves one possibility, I'm afraid."
Sarah wasn't sure she wanted to know what that was. Jareth had turned a shade paler as he spoke, and she noticed a pinched sort of look around his eyes. "Knowledge is power," she said, more to herself than to him. He looked at her peculiarly, but seemed to have followed her train of thought.
"Indeed. We are in Tir-na-nOg. Land of Eternal Youth, my dear. And I think we had better put as much distance between this temple and ourselves as we can, or we will find ourselves in worse trouble. If," he added grimly, "that is even possible."
Sarah looked at him, alarmed. "D'you mean they can follow where we went?"
His shoulders shrugged in a gesture that was both lazy and arrogant. "Any wizard worth his salt can find our trail, given enough time. I think it behooves us to take advantage of our head start."
Sarah agreed wholeheartedly. Since it didn't seem to matter much which direction they went, Jareth picked the easiest route. Before they had gone a hundred paces, he spun abruptly and tossed a sparkling sphere toward the temple. Sarah was willing to bet everything she owned, which at that moment wasn't much, that his hands had been empty a moment before. The ball burst above the temple, and he said almost gleefully, "That should confuse even his best hunting hounds!" He took her hand in his and pulled her into a jog. Sarah hadn't gone more than a few paces before she cried out in pain and clutched at her side. Her bruises were far too extensive for rapid movement. Jareth seemed to understand what the problem was at once, and before she knew what was happening he tossed one of his sparkling crystals at her. It exploded above her head and she felt a river of warmth run down her left side. The pain receded to a vague ache, and Sarah held her left hand up to her face and watched the last of her bruise disappear. She gave a low whistle, and then Jareth yanked her onwards.
She soon found that running cross-country for her college and potentially racing for her life from an army were two entirely different things. Her breath came unusually hard and her feet felt like blocks of wood until she began to get a stitch in her side, and then habit and training took over. It wasn't long after that before she began to feel much more optimistic about her situation, enjoying the rhythmic stretch and contraction of her muscles, especially after they had taken such a recent beating.
They traveled at a half-trot for what felt like a very long time. The terrain was unchanging, mostly flat, rolling hills spotted here and there with boulders. Every so often they would see a clump of woods, and Jareth steered them away from those. It would have been a cheerful place except for the flat grayness of the sky. Every few miles Jareth listened for sounds of pursuit, and after a dozen such checks Sarah began to tire. She cast a surreptitious glance at her companion, but he showed no signs of flagging. Determined not to be outdone, Sarah set her will and kept going. A few miles further on, she started to wonder if she would be able to move the next morning. They had traveled almost marathon distances - at a relatively slow pace, but this was still more running than she had ever done before. Sarah groaned and gasped, "I give!" and slowed to a walk.
Beside her, Jareth grinned triumphantly and wheezed, "If you insist." She peered at him suspiciously and noticed that he looked just as winded as she felt.
"Do you think," she panted, "that that's far enough for one day?"
"Now that you mention it," he gasped, "I do think so."
She couldn't help herself. She started laughing, and had to stop walking because it took more air than she could spare. As she bent over, convulsed with laughter, she thought she heard a smothered chuckle from Jareth's direction. When she glanced up, however, he had his nose in the air, aloof and completely self-possessed. There may have been a look of surprise in his unorthodox eyes, however.
Once she had rested for a bit, Sarah found that she could continue walking. They seemed to be moving in a fairly specific direction, and Sarah felt the same sense of unfinished business that she had noticed in the canyon in Arizona. Thinking of Pierce and the others was bizarre. They were so far removed from where she was, and she hoped they were all right and wondered if they were worried about her.
The ground before them dipped between two hills, becoming a narrow vale that wound between them and was shaded with feathery-looking trees. Their feet turned down this path almost automatically, and they hadn't gone far when Sarah noticed signs of cultivation. The valley slowly widened to a broad basin where cropped wheat fields lay fallow on either hand, and the puling of sheep rose in the still air. As they progressed, small wooden buildings became visible beyond the bare fields with the dark shadows of people moved steadily between them.
Jareth ran a critical eye over both of them and said, "This won't do." He produced another of his shining spheres out of thin air and cracked it in his hands. Sarah felt a shiver of wind pass over her and Jareth bared his teeth in an unpleasant grin. "Very appropriate, I think."
Sarah looked down at her hands and gasped, "What have you done to me? I look like a gnome!" She held the gnarled, twisted appendages in front of her face and rage stirred in her gut. She balled the ugly, alien hands into fists and rounded on Jareth, then started as she saw a slim, unshaven soldier with two green eyes looking back in sardonic amusement. He was dressed in white armor instead of dark velvet and he wore an iron sword at his side.
"It's, uh, very pretty," Sarah said. "What exactly did you do?"
"Think, girl. Duath's men will be looking for a King and a maiden, not a soldier and a dwarf. As with all beauty, it is only an illusion. I see the sign of a tavern ahead." Jareth reached down and picked up a handful of gravel. "Convenient currency, don't you think?"
"If you enchant it, that's stealing," Sarah said uncomfortably. "Besides, why would we want to go to a tavern?"
The scruffy soldier gave her a dashing grin. "Where else can we hear all the news over a mug of ale? Come along, Hogwart."
"Hogwart!" she cried. "My name is Sarah!"
"Is it?" Jareth said dismissively. "You can't very well look like that and go about calling yourself Sarah. No, Higgle or Hogface is much more appropriate." He ambled unconcernedly toward the tavern, exciting no more than sidelong glances from the villagers.
"I hate this man," Sarah grated, and came glowering along behind him. Her lumpy appearance earned some open stares which she inquisitively returned. Most of the people looked human, but she also saw a tall, willowy woman with indigo skin and reptilian eyes and a gnarled, knobby creature with a great fanged snout and inch-long claws. The looks that met hers were shuttered and hostile, full of suspicion. She was only too glad to enter the low wooden door of the tavern.
Once inside, Jareth headed for a private table in the darkest corner. The few patrons who were indoors were a silent, seedy-looking crew. As soon as they sat down, Sarah brought up something that had been bothering her since they had left the Druid temple. "Jareth," she asked suspiciously, "do you know where we're headed?"
"Away from Duath," he answered promptly.
"Are you sure?" Sarah asked. "I have the feeling we're being steered towards somewhere."
Jareth gave her a look that she was beginning to feel very familiar with. It was the same sort of look she might have given someone yesterday if she had been stopped on the street and told that she would be abducted by a physical impossibility and dumped into a cage surrounded by an army of goblins. "You ought to patent that look and put it in a bottle," she said crossly. "It would really curl people's hair. So far we've just been reacting. I mean, Duath kidnapped us and the first priority was to escape. Fine, we've escaped. But what now? I don't know about you, but I want to go home. And there's this burning question of why we were kidnapped in the first place."
Jareth said slowly, "I believe that may be the first sensible thing you've said. Let us have a tankard of ale and hold a war council."
Ale turned out to be a thin, sour beer that curdled in Sarah's empty stomach at the first sip. Jareth did some talking and some jingling of the gravel in his purse, which sounded suspiciously like coinage now, and they got a bowl of thin stew and a plate of bread. They also learned that the name of the town was Heldenholm and that Duath's soldiers were a common sight these days. Sarah realized she was ravenous and attacked the food, darting questions at Jareth between bites.
"This is the first thing I've eaten in almost half a day," she began, "but we ran an incredible distance today. How is that possible?" Jareth raised an eyebrow at her enthusiastic table manners and began eating his own portion at a more dignified pace. His movements were as delicate as a cat's, exuding a refined grace that no illusion could disguise. The set of his head, the angle of his wrist - Sarah realized that the man in front of her must be the result of years of living in elegant society. "You said Duath would be looking for a King," she said softly.
Green eyes glinted at her. "To answer your first question," Jareth said, "that is part of the magic of the Eternal Land. Those who live here are sustained by it and live to a very great age. We will need little food and less sleep during our stay here. My world and yours are like two sides of the same coin. Between them lies Tir-na-nOg, the middle of our metaphorical coin, in which charming domain we now find ourselves." Sarah happily recognized story time. The fact that magic was real, even if not in her own world, was intoxicating. Jareth continued, "To travel from my world to yours, one must pass through this place. Our legends say that communication between the Underground and the Upper Country was once common through a twin set of Gates, monumental feats of both architecture and magic. A thousand years ago a madman raised an army of criminals and mercenaries and seized control of the road through Tir-na-nOg, intending to invade the Upper Country and then subjugate the Underground. Obviously neither world was conquered. Legend has it that forces from both realms rallied to slaughter his monsters, and the earth ran black with their blood. Even today, the fields of the Underground that lie where the Black Gate is supposed to have stood bear no fruit. I rode there often as a child, so I can bear witness to that tale. Before he could be captured, the madman, a renegade who descended from one of the great noble houses of the Underground, realized his defeat and retreated to Tir-na-nOg, sealing the Black Gate behind him with words of enormous power. The Underground was cut off from the Uplands, but nearly a generation of peace followed. When the old High King lay dying, the Gate cracked opened one last time. A massive attack almost succeeded in breaking through. We still hunt the descendents of those creatures in the wilder lands."
"Saint George and his Dragon," Sarah murmured.
"The family name of that madman," Jareth said coolly, "was Duath."
Sarah blinked and swallowed hard. "This can't possibly be the same Duath, can it? You said people live for a long time here, but a thousand years?"
Jareth spun a sliver of bread thoughtfully between his fingers. "The rift into which we fell was different than a Gate," he mused. "The strongest magic in the Underground was used to seal the Black Gate after the last attack. There is, of course, the Gate of the Sun, the sister Gate which leads to your own lands, but you cannot open one without opening the other. Like a river, you see, the road through the Deathless Lands flows with power, which requires both an entrance and an egress. Duath mentioned sacrifice. Blood magic might just be strong enough to crack that seal." Jareth began crumbling the unfortunate crust to bits. His tone got steadily darker, and Sarah could hear the wild current in him rising to the surface. "It's disgustingly clever. Opening a small, harmless rift into both worlds would be sure to attract the attention of the strongest mages in each realm. By trapping us, Duath removed the principal strength that would oppose him and availed himself of two very powerful blood sacrifices in a single stroke." His fist convulsed on the table. "It was most cleverly done," he hissed.
"But could it be the same man as before?"
Jareth's long fingers roamed restlessly over the table, searching for something else to destroy, but no small objects were forthcoming. "A thousand years might pass like a single decade in Tir-na-nOg," he said.
"Could he be a descendent?"
Jareth shook his head and said, "Impossible. A man can be killed in the Eternal Land, but natural death does not exist. As there is no death, there is no life - no children are born. In the old days, some supposedly came to Tir-na-nOg seeking eternal life, but they quickly found that the price was more than they were willing to pay. To never see the sun set, to never hold your grandchildren? I pity Duath's followers, trapped here when he sealed the Gates. You must have noticed the look in the villagers' eyes. Like walking death." Jareth shuddered. "Maybe they launched a second attack in a desperate attempt to escape, rather than a desire to conquer."
"Duath said he was expecting you," Sarah said thoughtfully, "but how is that possible if both Gates are closed?"
An elegant flick of his fingers dismissed her words. "A powerful scrying spell could identify the King who ruled the land where he planned to open his rift. The strongest mages are always Kings. Otherwise, the family loses its power, and its throne, to those with greater abilities. I imagine Duath has been spying on our worlds - though where he got the power for it, or for that damned rift, is a mystery. That blackguard simply didn't have the aura for it."
"So you are a King?" Sarah pressed.
The soldier's mouth twisted and he said sardonically, "King of the Goblins, Lord of all the Eastern Marches - those parts that haven't fallen entirely to bits, at any rate - and heir to obscurity, at your service." The last words were bitten off and steeped in bitterness. Sarah felt a strong urge to take his hand in hers, and hastily sat on her hands as a preventative measure. This King didn't want pity, and he'd probably bite her hand off if she tried to offer it to him.
She cleared her throat. "We'd better get one thing straight right now. Duath may have been expecting you, but there's a reason I was a surprise. I don't have any magic, no one on Earth does. Well, except Pierce maybe, he's always thought he had something special. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Jareth's eyebrows rose. "No magic? Surely not. The Upland mages were once famous for their power. No, they may be hidden, but I am sure they exist. They probably play their secret games of manipulation behind every throne, building their wealth and influence unbeknownst to you. The Underground is full of such schemers."
"But Pierce even started an organization to try and find people with something like magic," Sarah argued. "The closest we got were crazy tarot ladies who seemed to be right half the time. He owns every book of spells and witchcraft you can find. He's been inducted into every secret society known to man, and they might pretend to be mystics but it's all mundane once you get down to the core. And Earth doesn't have any thrones any more. Well, not many at least," she amended.
Head cocked in disbelief, Jareth demanded, "Then how do you govern yourselves? Surely you have not descended into anarchy!"
"The country I live in is a democracy," Sarah explained. "We vote for representatives and they make the laws."
The look of horror on Jareth's face was almost comical. "The commoners decide who rules them? The ruling class depends on a popular vote? Barbaric! Such a thing undermines every principle of modern society."
"And your system is better?" Sarah asked, riled. "Absolute monarchy? Serfdom? People starving in the streets while you dine on caviar and champagne in your shining castle?"
"I never heard such rubbish," Jareth scoffed. "A King is supremely responsible for the welfare of his subjects. The good of the kingdom depends on a benevolent monarch. Any tyrant would be ostracized, completely cast off from society."
"I can't believe that everybody shares your altruism," Sarah said.
"They can't afford not to. It's a matter of politics. All the monarchs are very much involved in each other's affairs, you see, and unsupported dynasties are quickly undermined. You must be a very inconsequential kingdom indeed to escape their meddling," Jareth said, his tone suddenly smooth and distant.
Aha. So that was why he was so angry at the world.. Fitting that tidbit into the puzzle that was gradually forming a picture of her reluctant companion, Sarah said, "So where does this leave us? Can we go home and warn everyone? No one on Earth will believe me, except Pierce."
She caught the flash of his eyes as he darted a glance in her direction. "Who is this Pierce you keep mentioning?" he asked in a lazy voice. "Is he a man of great influence and power?"
"No way," she said, laughing. "He's a loony. The sweetest guy you ever met. He has gobs of money and he's very generous with it, but nobody pays any attention to him. Even the tabloids leave him alone now."
"Tabloids?"
"Yeah. On account of, well, you know. Terry." Sarah could tell he had no idea what she was talking about. "Forget it," she sighed. "He's like a grandfather to me, but I don't think he'd be able to do much about this."
"We don't even know what sort of threat we might be facing," Jareth said. He suddenly sounded almost cheerful, Sarah thought. Well, there was no accounting for what adversity brought out in some people. "A theory of possible invasion by a thousand-year-old madman will raise eyebrows even in my country. What's that sticking out of your jacket?"
"What? Oh." Sarah looked down her nose at her ripped shirt, which had gradually worked its way out of the jacket as she ate until it squatted like a grotesque jabot under her neck. She was interested to see that the illusion Jareth had set on her apparently left her clothes untouched. "Um, I had to find some sort of disguise before I came to rescue you, but I didn't want to leave my clothes with Duath." She shuddered. "There's no telling what sick thing he'd think up to do with them. I had a really strong feeling that I shouldn't tell him my name or give him anything of mine. Is that crazy?" She pulled the shirt all the way out, and a rain of paper fell out of it.
Idly gathering the papers, Jareth said, "It's not crazy at all. Duath obviously has developed certain unsavory talents, and you never know what a dark mage will try to use. Best not to give them anything." He cast a glance at the papers in his hand, then went very still. "Where did you get these?"
Sarah looked over at the bundle. "I grabbed them off Duath's desk before I left. I forgot all about them. What do they say?"
The script was strange to her eyes, very flowery in some ways and in other ways full of harsh angles and sharp lines, but it obviously meant something to Jareth. His eyes practically devoured the first page, and he murmured, "A letter to Malocoli Duath from someone signing himself Draeda Duath, detailing troop movements and plans to rise against a group of insurrectionists who had seized a certain piece of land in an attempt to interfere with what he ostentatiously refers to as 'The Plan.' It seems that the madman must indeed have had a son, and that son must have fled with him into Tir-na-nOg. 'Draeda' is an ancient term used by the head of a family." He flipped to the next page, lips moving as he scanned it. "Reports of supplies dwindling dangerously low due to another failed harvest. Not surprising when all import is cut off from a land that stagnates when left to itself. The miracle is that they lasted this long, and they must have spent magic like water to come this far. Otherwise, nothing of significance." Jareth continued through the pages, throwing out isolated words and phrases, and Sarah impatiently moved around the table to peer over his shoulder even though she couldn't read a single word of it.
"Ah, here we are," Jareth said, holding up the second-to-last page. "An unfinished letter from Malocoli to his father, informing him that the signs are right and that an attempt will be made to advance to the next step as soon as possible. Two strong mages are anticipated. the main strength of the army is in position around the Black Gate. and here, at the bottom, he writes 'I have every hope that the Gate will be opened within the month.'" Jareth dropped the paper thoughtfully to the table. "I'd say that this confirms our theory of a planned invasion. Now all that's left is to decide to do about it."
He paid for their meal with gravel and asked the barkeeper if there was an inn close by. Receiving a surly reply that there were rooms overhead aplenty, Jareth dug out more gravel and they were guided up a narrow set of stairs to a pair of low doorways. "We can both use a rest," he said curtly in response to Sarah's look, and ducked through one of the doors.
Sarah took one look inside her room and headed back downstairs. The barkeeper gave her a look of complete incredulity when she asked for a place to bathe, but seemed to decide that she was probably mad, and a mad dwarf was best humored. "If people don't stop giving me those looks, I'm going to convince myself I really have lost my mind," Sarah sighed as the grumbling fellow led her down another narrow passage to a back room.
It turned out to be a cramped stable, and the bath was a horse trough at one end. "Oh god," Sarah whispered when she saw it. "I can't - I just can't." Running back upstairs, she banged on Jareth's door and nearly fell inside when he yanked it open under her fist.
"What is it?" he asked irritably.
"I feel absolutely filthy," she told him, "and there doesn't seem to be - that is, I was wondering - oh, for goodness sake. Can you use your magic and put a tub of hot water in my room?"
His eyes traveled over her, and she felt herself blushing furiously. Funny the way his gaze had taken almost the same path that Duath's had, yet when Jareth was the man doing the looking, she didn't feel threatened, only embarrassed. "You do look a little on the shabby side," he remarked.
"Thank you very much for pointing that out," Sarah snapped. "If you'd be so kind, I'll see what I can do about that."
He laughed and produced one of his crystal baubles, balancing it on the tips of his fingers. "My lady," he said mockingly, bowing as he offered it to her. She took it, nose in the air, and retreated to her room with as much dignity as she could muster.
As soon as she closed her door, the crystal hopped out of her hand and dropped to the floor, turning into a very elegant marble tub full of steaming water. A row of soaps and jars appeared at one side, and half a dozen soft towels folded themselves on the bed in readiness. "Heaven!" she cried happily. As she lowered herself contentedly into the near-scalding water, she realized that her hands looked like her own hands again and her body certainly looked like hers and not some scabby dwarf's. Presumably Jareth had lifted the illusion when he handed her the bauble.
Sarah scrubbed herself all over and washed her hair twice, noticing with pleasure that the water never seemed to get dirty. When she finally arose, a towel was spread open and waiting for her. "You know," she remarked to it as it wrapped her in warm folds, "I could really get used to this." When she turned to look for her clothes, she found that they had disappeared and a pageboy sort of uniform in colors of brown and gold lay on the bed instead. "If it's clean, that's all I ask," she said, but she couldn't help feeling just a bit uneasy about how all this was coming about. Surely Jareth wasn't watching? Just in case, she dressed herself under the towel and tried to convince herself that she was being ridiculous.
Once she had pulled the brown shirt over her head (which, she had to admit, was a real improvement over the grubby and oversized uniform she'd stolen from Duath's tent), the marble bath folded in on itself and turned elegantly into a small chair and sitting table such as might be found in a lady's boudoir. Sarah sat down, picked up a large soft-haired brush, and proceeded to discover just how much she had taken blow dryers for granted. It took a ridiculously long time to towel and brush her hair into a state of slight damp. She had half-risen from the chair with the intent to make the best of it and go to bed, when suddenly she stopped and reached for the mirror. Setting it on the edge of the table, she took a long, hard look at herself.
She saw a girl with an oval face, pale cheeks, and bones that could be called fine if the beholder was generous. Her dark hair was beginning to get its gentle curl even in its state of semi-dampness, and tumbled unbound to her waist. Sarah brushed it absently and saw the curls spring back against the brush. Unruly, she thought. That's what she was. Not elegant or graceful or cultured, or any of the other fifty adjectives that came to mind when she thought of noble houses and great lineages of Kings and Queens. She was as un-princesslike as you could get. What else was she? "Honest. Earnest. Willing. Brash. Headstrong," she labeled herself in the mirror. Her eyes, she admitted, were a nice, comfortable chocolate color, but they didn't sparkle with mysterious allure or dazzle with otherworldly beauty. "'She walks in beauty/like the night' and the Goblin King thinks her a fright," Sarah whispered. She laid a finger against the glass, then rose abruptly and went to bed.
As she lay facing the pitted wall, Sarah found that her mind insisted on replaying the terrible scene in Duath's tent over and over again. Terror welled up as fresh as when it had happened and she felt completely bereft, alone in a strange country and surrounded by people who would cheerfully kill her, or worse. Before she could prepare for it, the silent tears had turned into heaving sobs. She pressed her hands to her mouth but it was too late to hold in that first betraying sound. Hopefully the walls would be too thick for Jareth to hear. Curling herself into a fetal ball, Sarah smothered the sounds of her weeping and gave herself up to misery. So intent was she on purging her sorrow that she barely noticed as a pair of strong arms picked her up and settled her against a warm body. Clinging to him, she sobbed herself to sleep on brocaded velvet, and dreamed of wildflowers with sharp, hidden thorns.
"There has been entirely too much rushing about today," Sarah said, wincing as she sank onto a convenient tumbled pillar. The entire left side of her body felt like it had been repeatedly kicked by a horse.
Jareth stalked up to her, bent down until his nose was nearly level with hers, and snarled, "You idiot. Too stubborn to listen, are you? We could have made a clean getaway if you hadn't been in such a confounded hurry to throw that bolt!"
Sarah couldn't believe her ears. "It's thanks to me you're out of that cage at all," she retorted hotly. "If I were you, I'd be grateful! I couldn't understand a word you were saying before. I've been through a lot today, so don't push it! Besides, it's not like they wouldn't have noticed our escape."
"You blasted ninny," he cried, voice rising to a near yell, "I could have laid a false trail, bought us some time. One moment more and we would have been in the clear. The whole bloody army is probably already mobilizing to hunt us down." His accent sounded vaguely British, with a current of wildness running underneath it. That seemed to describe a lot of things about this man: a polished exterior, with a hint of something dangerous beneath.
"I'm terribly sorry for risking my neck to come back and get you," Sarah said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure they'll be more than happy to lock you up again, and next time I'll wait until Captain Psycho hacks your head off before untimely coming to your rescue. Has it occurred to you that our situation has vastly improved?"
"If you hadn't pulled me through that rift, neither of us would be in this situation!" he flung at her accusingly. "In fact, I think you're allied with Duath, sent to bewitch me no doubt. You're only a slip of a girl after all. How did you escape from him?"
Sarah gaped at him. "I can't believe you just said that! I almost got - he was going to - I could have been raped, all because you couldn't stand his stupid gloating and had to throw dirt at him like a little kid. Besides, I didn't pull you through that breach, you were already in there. I tried to help you out!"
"You dragged me right into his trap!" Jareth roared.
Sarah was so mad she actually started to see red. Bruises forgotten, she jumped up, grabbed his jacket, and dragged his face down to his. "Just because you're angry at yourself for falling for his trick doesn't mean you can take it out on me!" she yelled. "He fooled both of us. But I saved your life and the least you can do is pretend to be happy about it!" She noticed that her hands were crushing his velvet jacket, and forced her grip to relax. "Besides," she continued in a calmer tone, "you're the only person I know in this place. All I want to do is go home, and we'll have a much better chance if we work together." She patted his chest gingerly and stepped back. "That means we have to trust each other. So I'm sorry you ended up here, but it wasn't my fault. Now apologize to me and we can try and decide what to do."
They stood glaring daggers at each other for a long moment, and then Jareth said through gritted teeth, "I admit I may have accused you unfairly."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "I'll take what I can get. How come I can understand you now? You were speaking gibberish before."
His eyes, one icy and one blazing, bored into hers for a moment, then he turned to pace around the clearing. "Orieth," he said. "Wizard's iron. Duath must have forged it himself. It negates any power other than that which created it. You understand me because I placed a spell on you when we were still imprisoned, but it required my freedom from his enchantment to work." His tone was not quite conciliatory, but at least he wasn't yelling. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?" he asked sarcastically. "The most powerful mages in our respective worlds, but we fell right into his trap."
Clearly, there was much more in heaven and earth than had previously existed in Sarah's philosophy. In fact, now that her brain had had a little time to slow down and come out of automatic pilot, Sarah began to realize exactly how incredible her situation was. The fantasy she read so avidly, writers' theories of other worlds - none of it came close to the reality of experiencing it. She looked around, taking in the gray sky, the green ivy, and the calm, unearthly quiet of the ruined monument. "Where are we?" she asked in a whisper, wondering how much her beloved authors had gotten right.
"An old Druid temple, I shouldn't wonder," Jareth said, regarding the crumbling marble around them. "I simply latched on to the first place I could find that didn't feel openly hostile. Unfortunately, that probably means we haven't gone far."
"No, I meant where in the larger sense. What world," Sarah said, running a reverent finger over the marble on which she sat. "We had Druids in our world too," she murmured.
Jareth put a booted foot up on another fallen pillar and muttered, "That is the question, isn't it? What world. Clearly we are not in the Underground." He eyed her dubiously and said, "Am I right in guessing that you are from the Upper Country?" Sarah was at a loss with that one, and he brushed it aside. "I think we can assume you are, because our histories are clear that the Uplands were headed for an astounding level of ignorance when we broke off contact. That leaves one possibility, I'm afraid."
Sarah wasn't sure she wanted to know what that was. Jareth had turned a shade paler as he spoke, and she noticed a pinched sort of look around his eyes. "Knowledge is power," she said, more to herself than to him. He looked at her peculiarly, but seemed to have followed her train of thought.
"Indeed. We are in Tir-na-nOg. Land of Eternal Youth, my dear. And I think we had better put as much distance between this temple and ourselves as we can, or we will find ourselves in worse trouble. If," he added grimly, "that is even possible."
Sarah looked at him, alarmed. "D'you mean they can follow where we went?"
His shoulders shrugged in a gesture that was both lazy and arrogant. "Any wizard worth his salt can find our trail, given enough time. I think it behooves us to take advantage of our head start."
Sarah agreed wholeheartedly. Since it didn't seem to matter much which direction they went, Jareth picked the easiest route. Before they had gone a hundred paces, he spun abruptly and tossed a sparkling sphere toward the temple. Sarah was willing to bet everything she owned, which at that moment wasn't much, that his hands had been empty a moment before. The ball burst above the temple, and he said almost gleefully, "That should confuse even his best hunting hounds!" He took her hand in his and pulled her into a jog. Sarah hadn't gone more than a few paces before she cried out in pain and clutched at her side. Her bruises were far too extensive for rapid movement. Jareth seemed to understand what the problem was at once, and before she knew what was happening he tossed one of his sparkling crystals at her. It exploded above her head and she felt a river of warmth run down her left side. The pain receded to a vague ache, and Sarah held her left hand up to her face and watched the last of her bruise disappear. She gave a low whistle, and then Jareth yanked her onwards.
She soon found that running cross-country for her college and potentially racing for her life from an army were two entirely different things. Her breath came unusually hard and her feet felt like blocks of wood until she began to get a stitch in her side, and then habit and training took over. It wasn't long after that before she began to feel much more optimistic about her situation, enjoying the rhythmic stretch and contraction of her muscles, especially after they had taken such a recent beating.
They traveled at a half-trot for what felt like a very long time. The terrain was unchanging, mostly flat, rolling hills spotted here and there with boulders. Every so often they would see a clump of woods, and Jareth steered them away from those. It would have been a cheerful place except for the flat grayness of the sky. Every few miles Jareth listened for sounds of pursuit, and after a dozen such checks Sarah began to tire. She cast a surreptitious glance at her companion, but he showed no signs of flagging. Determined not to be outdone, Sarah set her will and kept going. A few miles further on, she started to wonder if she would be able to move the next morning. They had traveled almost marathon distances - at a relatively slow pace, but this was still more running than she had ever done before. Sarah groaned and gasped, "I give!" and slowed to a walk.
Beside her, Jareth grinned triumphantly and wheezed, "If you insist." She peered at him suspiciously and noticed that he looked just as winded as she felt.
"Do you think," she panted, "that that's far enough for one day?"
"Now that you mention it," he gasped, "I do think so."
She couldn't help herself. She started laughing, and had to stop walking because it took more air than she could spare. As she bent over, convulsed with laughter, she thought she heard a smothered chuckle from Jareth's direction. When she glanced up, however, he had his nose in the air, aloof and completely self-possessed. There may have been a look of surprise in his unorthodox eyes, however.
Once she had rested for a bit, Sarah found that she could continue walking. They seemed to be moving in a fairly specific direction, and Sarah felt the same sense of unfinished business that she had noticed in the canyon in Arizona. Thinking of Pierce and the others was bizarre. They were so far removed from where she was, and she hoped they were all right and wondered if they were worried about her.
The ground before them dipped between two hills, becoming a narrow vale that wound between them and was shaded with feathery-looking trees. Their feet turned down this path almost automatically, and they hadn't gone far when Sarah noticed signs of cultivation. The valley slowly widened to a broad basin where cropped wheat fields lay fallow on either hand, and the puling of sheep rose in the still air. As they progressed, small wooden buildings became visible beyond the bare fields with the dark shadows of people moved steadily between them.
Jareth ran a critical eye over both of them and said, "This won't do." He produced another of his shining spheres out of thin air and cracked it in his hands. Sarah felt a shiver of wind pass over her and Jareth bared his teeth in an unpleasant grin. "Very appropriate, I think."
Sarah looked down at her hands and gasped, "What have you done to me? I look like a gnome!" She held the gnarled, twisted appendages in front of her face and rage stirred in her gut. She balled the ugly, alien hands into fists and rounded on Jareth, then started as she saw a slim, unshaven soldier with two green eyes looking back in sardonic amusement. He was dressed in white armor instead of dark velvet and he wore an iron sword at his side.
"It's, uh, very pretty," Sarah said. "What exactly did you do?"
"Think, girl. Duath's men will be looking for a King and a maiden, not a soldier and a dwarf. As with all beauty, it is only an illusion. I see the sign of a tavern ahead." Jareth reached down and picked up a handful of gravel. "Convenient currency, don't you think?"
"If you enchant it, that's stealing," Sarah said uncomfortably. "Besides, why would we want to go to a tavern?"
The scruffy soldier gave her a dashing grin. "Where else can we hear all the news over a mug of ale? Come along, Hogwart."
"Hogwart!" she cried. "My name is Sarah!"
"Is it?" Jareth said dismissively. "You can't very well look like that and go about calling yourself Sarah. No, Higgle or Hogface is much more appropriate." He ambled unconcernedly toward the tavern, exciting no more than sidelong glances from the villagers.
"I hate this man," Sarah grated, and came glowering along behind him. Her lumpy appearance earned some open stares which she inquisitively returned. Most of the people looked human, but she also saw a tall, willowy woman with indigo skin and reptilian eyes and a gnarled, knobby creature with a great fanged snout and inch-long claws. The looks that met hers were shuttered and hostile, full of suspicion. She was only too glad to enter the low wooden door of the tavern.
Once inside, Jareth headed for a private table in the darkest corner. The few patrons who were indoors were a silent, seedy-looking crew. As soon as they sat down, Sarah brought up something that had been bothering her since they had left the Druid temple. "Jareth," she asked suspiciously, "do you know where we're headed?"
"Away from Duath," he answered promptly.
"Are you sure?" Sarah asked. "I have the feeling we're being steered towards somewhere."
Jareth gave her a look that she was beginning to feel very familiar with. It was the same sort of look she might have given someone yesterday if she had been stopped on the street and told that she would be abducted by a physical impossibility and dumped into a cage surrounded by an army of goblins. "You ought to patent that look and put it in a bottle," she said crossly. "It would really curl people's hair. So far we've just been reacting. I mean, Duath kidnapped us and the first priority was to escape. Fine, we've escaped. But what now? I don't know about you, but I want to go home. And there's this burning question of why we were kidnapped in the first place."
Jareth said slowly, "I believe that may be the first sensible thing you've said. Let us have a tankard of ale and hold a war council."
Ale turned out to be a thin, sour beer that curdled in Sarah's empty stomach at the first sip. Jareth did some talking and some jingling of the gravel in his purse, which sounded suspiciously like coinage now, and they got a bowl of thin stew and a plate of bread. They also learned that the name of the town was Heldenholm and that Duath's soldiers were a common sight these days. Sarah realized she was ravenous and attacked the food, darting questions at Jareth between bites.
"This is the first thing I've eaten in almost half a day," she began, "but we ran an incredible distance today. How is that possible?" Jareth raised an eyebrow at her enthusiastic table manners and began eating his own portion at a more dignified pace. His movements were as delicate as a cat's, exuding a refined grace that no illusion could disguise. The set of his head, the angle of his wrist - Sarah realized that the man in front of her must be the result of years of living in elegant society. "You said Duath would be looking for a King," she said softly.
Green eyes glinted at her. "To answer your first question," Jareth said, "that is part of the magic of the Eternal Land. Those who live here are sustained by it and live to a very great age. We will need little food and less sleep during our stay here. My world and yours are like two sides of the same coin. Between them lies Tir-na-nOg, the middle of our metaphorical coin, in which charming domain we now find ourselves." Sarah happily recognized story time. The fact that magic was real, even if not in her own world, was intoxicating. Jareth continued, "To travel from my world to yours, one must pass through this place. Our legends say that communication between the Underground and the Upper Country was once common through a twin set of Gates, monumental feats of both architecture and magic. A thousand years ago a madman raised an army of criminals and mercenaries and seized control of the road through Tir-na-nOg, intending to invade the Upper Country and then subjugate the Underground. Obviously neither world was conquered. Legend has it that forces from both realms rallied to slaughter his monsters, and the earth ran black with their blood. Even today, the fields of the Underground that lie where the Black Gate is supposed to have stood bear no fruit. I rode there often as a child, so I can bear witness to that tale. Before he could be captured, the madman, a renegade who descended from one of the great noble houses of the Underground, realized his defeat and retreated to Tir-na-nOg, sealing the Black Gate behind him with words of enormous power. The Underground was cut off from the Uplands, but nearly a generation of peace followed. When the old High King lay dying, the Gate cracked opened one last time. A massive attack almost succeeded in breaking through. We still hunt the descendents of those creatures in the wilder lands."
"Saint George and his Dragon," Sarah murmured.
"The family name of that madman," Jareth said coolly, "was Duath."
Sarah blinked and swallowed hard. "This can't possibly be the same Duath, can it? You said people live for a long time here, but a thousand years?"
Jareth spun a sliver of bread thoughtfully between his fingers. "The rift into which we fell was different than a Gate," he mused. "The strongest magic in the Underground was used to seal the Black Gate after the last attack. There is, of course, the Gate of the Sun, the sister Gate which leads to your own lands, but you cannot open one without opening the other. Like a river, you see, the road through the Deathless Lands flows with power, which requires both an entrance and an egress. Duath mentioned sacrifice. Blood magic might just be strong enough to crack that seal." Jareth began crumbling the unfortunate crust to bits. His tone got steadily darker, and Sarah could hear the wild current in him rising to the surface. "It's disgustingly clever. Opening a small, harmless rift into both worlds would be sure to attract the attention of the strongest mages in each realm. By trapping us, Duath removed the principal strength that would oppose him and availed himself of two very powerful blood sacrifices in a single stroke." His fist convulsed on the table. "It was most cleverly done," he hissed.
"But could it be the same man as before?"
Jareth's long fingers roamed restlessly over the table, searching for something else to destroy, but no small objects were forthcoming. "A thousand years might pass like a single decade in Tir-na-nOg," he said.
"Could he be a descendent?"
Jareth shook his head and said, "Impossible. A man can be killed in the Eternal Land, but natural death does not exist. As there is no death, there is no life - no children are born. In the old days, some supposedly came to Tir-na-nOg seeking eternal life, but they quickly found that the price was more than they were willing to pay. To never see the sun set, to never hold your grandchildren? I pity Duath's followers, trapped here when he sealed the Gates. You must have noticed the look in the villagers' eyes. Like walking death." Jareth shuddered. "Maybe they launched a second attack in a desperate attempt to escape, rather than a desire to conquer."
"Duath said he was expecting you," Sarah said thoughtfully, "but how is that possible if both Gates are closed?"
An elegant flick of his fingers dismissed her words. "A powerful scrying spell could identify the King who ruled the land where he planned to open his rift. The strongest mages are always Kings. Otherwise, the family loses its power, and its throne, to those with greater abilities. I imagine Duath has been spying on our worlds - though where he got the power for it, or for that damned rift, is a mystery. That blackguard simply didn't have the aura for it."
"So you are a King?" Sarah pressed.
The soldier's mouth twisted and he said sardonically, "King of the Goblins, Lord of all the Eastern Marches - those parts that haven't fallen entirely to bits, at any rate - and heir to obscurity, at your service." The last words were bitten off and steeped in bitterness. Sarah felt a strong urge to take his hand in hers, and hastily sat on her hands as a preventative measure. This King didn't want pity, and he'd probably bite her hand off if she tried to offer it to him.
She cleared her throat. "We'd better get one thing straight right now. Duath may have been expecting you, but there's a reason I was a surprise. I don't have any magic, no one on Earth does. Well, except Pierce maybe, he's always thought he had something special. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Jareth's eyebrows rose. "No magic? Surely not. The Upland mages were once famous for their power. No, they may be hidden, but I am sure they exist. They probably play their secret games of manipulation behind every throne, building their wealth and influence unbeknownst to you. The Underground is full of such schemers."
"But Pierce even started an organization to try and find people with something like magic," Sarah argued. "The closest we got were crazy tarot ladies who seemed to be right half the time. He owns every book of spells and witchcraft you can find. He's been inducted into every secret society known to man, and they might pretend to be mystics but it's all mundane once you get down to the core. And Earth doesn't have any thrones any more. Well, not many at least," she amended.
Head cocked in disbelief, Jareth demanded, "Then how do you govern yourselves? Surely you have not descended into anarchy!"
"The country I live in is a democracy," Sarah explained. "We vote for representatives and they make the laws."
The look of horror on Jareth's face was almost comical. "The commoners decide who rules them? The ruling class depends on a popular vote? Barbaric! Such a thing undermines every principle of modern society."
"And your system is better?" Sarah asked, riled. "Absolute monarchy? Serfdom? People starving in the streets while you dine on caviar and champagne in your shining castle?"
"I never heard such rubbish," Jareth scoffed. "A King is supremely responsible for the welfare of his subjects. The good of the kingdom depends on a benevolent monarch. Any tyrant would be ostracized, completely cast off from society."
"I can't believe that everybody shares your altruism," Sarah said.
"They can't afford not to. It's a matter of politics. All the monarchs are very much involved in each other's affairs, you see, and unsupported dynasties are quickly undermined. You must be a very inconsequential kingdom indeed to escape their meddling," Jareth said, his tone suddenly smooth and distant.
Aha. So that was why he was so angry at the world.. Fitting that tidbit into the puzzle that was gradually forming a picture of her reluctant companion, Sarah said, "So where does this leave us? Can we go home and warn everyone? No one on Earth will believe me, except Pierce."
She caught the flash of his eyes as he darted a glance in her direction. "Who is this Pierce you keep mentioning?" he asked in a lazy voice. "Is he a man of great influence and power?"
"No way," she said, laughing. "He's a loony. The sweetest guy you ever met. He has gobs of money and he's very generous with it, but nobody pays any attention to him. Even the tabloids leave him alone now."
"Tabloids?"
"Yeah. On account of, well, you know. Terry." Sarah could tell he had no idea what she was talking about. "Forget it," she sighed. "He's like a grandfather to me, but I don't think he'd be able to do much about this."
"We don't even know what sort of threat we might be facing," Jareth said. He suddenly sounded almost cheerful, Sarah thought. Well, there was no accounting for what adversity brought out in some people. "A theory of possible invasion by a thousand-year-old madman will raise eyebrows even in my country. What's that sticking out of your jacket?"
"What? Oh." Sarah looked down her nose at her ripped shirt, which had gradually worked its way out of the jacket as she ate until it squatted like a grotesque jabot under her neck. She was interested to see that the illusion Jareth had set on her apparently left her clothes untouched. "Um, I had to find some sort of disguise before I came to rescue you, but I didn't want to leave my clothes with Duath." She shuddered. "There's no telling what sick thing he'd think up to do with them. I had a really strong feeling that I shouldn't tell him my name or give him anything of mine. Is that crazy?" She pulled the shirt all the way out, and a rain of paper fell out of it.
Idly gathering the papers, Jareth said, "It's not crazy at all. Duath obviously has developed certain unsavory talents, and you never know what a dark mage will try to use. Best not to give them anything." He cast a glance at the papers in his hand, then went very still. "Where did you get these?"
Sarah looked over at the bundle. "I grabbed them off Duath's desk before I left. I forgot all about them. What do they say?"
The script was strange to her eyes, very flowery in some ways and in other ways full of harsh angles and sharp lines, but it obviously meant something to Jareth. His eyes practically devoured the first page, and he murmured, "A letter to Malocoli Duath from someone signing himself Draeda Duath, detailing troop movements and plans to rise against a group of insurrectionists who had seized a certain piece of land in an attempt to interfere with what he ostentatiously refers to as 'The Plan.' It seems that the madman must indeed have had a son, and that son must have fled with him into Tir-na-nOg. 'Draeda' is an ancient term used by the head of a family." He flipped to the next page, lips moving as he scanned it. "Reports of supplies dwindling dangerously low due to another failed harvest. Not surprising when all import is cut off from a land that stagnates when left to itself. The miracle is that they lasted this long, and they must have spent magic like water to come this far. Otherwise, nothing of significance." Jareth continued through the pages, throwing out isolated words and phrases, and Sarah impatiently moved around the table to peer over his shoulder even though she couldn't read a single word of it.
"Ah, here we are," Jareth said, holding up the second-to-last page. "An unfinished letter from Malocoli to his father, informing him that the signs are right and that an attempt will be made to advance to the next step as soon as possible. Two strong mages are anticipated. the main strength of the army is in position around the Black Gate. and here, at the bottom, he writes 'I have every hope that the Gate will be opened within the month.'" Jareth dropped the paper thoughtfully to the table. "I'd say that this confirms our theory of a planned invasion. Now all that's left is to decide to do about it."
He paid for their meal with gravel and asked the barkeeper if there was an inn close by. Receiving a surly reply that there were rooms overhead aplenty, Jareth dug out more gravel and they were guided up a narrow set of stairs to a pair of low doorways. "We can both use a rest," he said curtly in response to Sarah's look, and ducked through one of the doors.
Sarah took one look inside her room and headed back downstairs. The barkeeper gave her a look of complete incredulity when she asked for a place to bathe, but seemed to decide that she was probably mad, and a mad dwarf was best humored. "If people don't stop giving me those looks, I'm going to convince myself I really have lost my mind," Sarah sighed as the grumbling fellow led her down another narrow passage to a back room.
It turned out to be a cramped stable, and the bath was a horse trough at one end. "Oh god," Sarah whispered when she saw it. "I can't - I just can't." Running back upstairs, she banged on Jareth's door and nearly fell inside when he yanked it open under her fist.
"What is it?" he asked irritably.
"I feel absolutely filthy," she told him, "and there doesn't seem to be - that is, I was wondering - oh, for goodness sake. Can you use your magic and put a tub of hot water in my room?"
His eyes traveled over her, and she felt herself blushing furiously. Funny the way his gaze had taken almost the same path that Duath's had, yet when Jareth was the man doing the looking, she didn't feel threatened, only embarrassed. "You do look a little on the shabby side," he remarked.
"Thank you very much for pointing that out," Sarah snapped. "If you'd be so kind, I'll see what I can do about that."
He laughed and produced one of his crystal baubles, balancing it on the tips of his fingers. "My lady," he said mockingly, bowing as he offered it to her. She took it, nose in the air, and retreated to her room with as much dignity as she could muster.
As soon as she closed her door, the crystal hopped out of her hand and dropped to the floor, turning into a very elegant marble tub full of steaming water. A row of soaps and jars appeared at one side, and half a dozen soft towels folded themselves on the bed in readiness. "Heaven!" she cried happily. As she lowered herself contentedly into the near-scalding water, she realized that her hands looked like her own hands again and her body certainly looked like hers and not some scabby dwarf's. Presumably Jareth had lifted the illusion when he handed her the bauble.
Sarah scrubbed herself all over and washed her hair twice, noticing with pleasure that the water never seemed to get dirty. When she finally arose, a towel was spread open and waiting for her. "You know," she remarked to it as it wrapped her in warm folds, "I could really get used to this." When she turned to look for her clothes, she found that they had disappeared and a pageboy sort of uniform in colors of brown and gold lay on the bed instead. "If it's clean, that's all I ask," she said, but she couldn't help feeling just a bit uneasy about how all this was coming about. Surely Jareth wasn't watching? Just in case, she dressed herself under the towel and tried to convince herself that she was being ridiculous.
Once she had pulled the brown shirt over her head (which, she had to admit, was a real improvement over the grubby and oversized uniform she'd stolen from Duath's tent), the marble bath folded in on itself and turned elegantly into a small chair and sitting table such as might be found in a lady's boudoir. Sarah sat down, picked up a large soft-haired brush, and proceeded to discover just how much she had taken blow dryers for granted. It took a ridiculously long time to towel and brush her hair into a state of slight damp. She had half-risen from the chair with the intent to make the best of it and go to bed, when suddenly she stopped and reached for the mirror. Setting it on the edge of the table, she took a long, hard look at herself.
She saw a girl with an oval face, pale cheeks, and bones that could be called fine if the beholder was generous. Her dark hair was beginning to get its gentle curl even in its state of semi-dampness, and tumbled unbound to her waist. Sarah brushed it absently and saw the curls spring back against the brush. Unruly, she thought. That's what she was. Not elegant or graceful or cultured, or any of the other fifty adjectives that came to mind when she thought of noble houses and great lineages of Kings and Queens. She was as un-princesslike as you could get. What else was she? "Honest. Earnest. Willing. Brash. Headstrong," she labeled herself in the mirror. Her eyes, she admitted, were a nice, comfortable chocolate color, but they didn't sparkle with mysterious allure or dazzle with otherworldly beauty. "'She walks in beauty/like the night' and the Goblin King thinks her a fright," Sarah whispered. She laid a finger against the glass, then rose abruptly and went to bed.
As she lay facing the pitted wall, Sarah found that her mind insisted on replaying the terrible scene in Duath's tent over and over again. Terror welled up as fresh as when it had happened and she felt completely bereft, alone in a strange country and surrounded by people who would cheerfully kill her, or worse. Before she could prepare for it, the silent tears had turned into heaving sobs. She pressed her hands to her mouth but it was too late to hold in that first betraying sound. Hopefully the walls would be too thick for Jareth to hear. Curling herself into a fetal ball, Sarah smothered the sounds of her weeping and gave herself up to misery. So intent was she on purging her sorrow that she barely noticed as a pair of strong arms picked her up and settled her against a warm body. Clinging to him, she sobbed herself to sleep on brocaded velvet, and dreamed of wildflowers with sharp, hidden thorns.