Jareth could move damned quickly when he chose to, and Sarah saw the proof. Within a week the new formal throne room had taken shape. The floor tiles were elegantly patterned, and the walls were hung with a mix of velvet drapes and exquisite tapestries. True to his word, Jareth had let her review those designs before having them made, and Sarah was relieved to note that he hadn't snuck in one of the more ridiculously flattering drafts. She didn't need to look like some kind of fantasy novel heroine, even if she sometimes felt like she'd fallen into one.
"Do you like it?" Jareth asked, as she looked about.
"You went for alabaster after all," she said, noting the columns. Like everything else touched by his magic, they glittered, but it was very subtle, just a shimmer that could have been sunlight. High windows did let in the natural light, but there were also chandeliers hung with crystals that sparkled and shone.
"And marble," he pointed out. "The throne will come later – I want it carved, and that's best done by artisans, not magic."
"I like it," Sarah said, and smiled at him. He kissed her, and they both heard a faint rustling in the room. When they broke apart, a rich carpet had appeared on the dais where the throne would be, deep burgundy like the gown she'd worn – briefly – on her second run. As they watched, a runner spooled out from it to the door, making a path for petitioners to approach the royal throne.
Sarah had just thought that all that stone would be cold, an advantage in summer but a problem in winter. The thought of putting in carpet hadn't quite occurred to her, but it had to Umardelin. "Thank you," she said aloud. "That's just what it needed."
Jareth chuckled. "It took me far too long to realize I should appreciate my kingdom, and tell her so. I'm pleased, though not surprised, that you know better."
Sarah shrugged, leaning back against him as the clear window glass took on a faintly opalescent sheen. "You grew up with magic. I didn't. It's still something wondrous to me, and since you told me this place responds to our thoughts and needs, it just makes sense to be grateful."
"As I am grateful for you, Sarah, who are wondrous to me." He punctuated the sentence with a kiss to her temple, and she let her head drop back to his shoulder.
"We're really doing this," she murmured for the dozenth time.
"Yes, we are," he told her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a goblin scuttle past, this one wearing a helmet made of a rat's skull. It reminded her of Neesk's recent visit, and she nudged Jareth. "By the way, you don't have to send goblins to spy on me."
He looked perplexed. "Why would I do that, when I have the seeing crystals?"
Sarah snuggled against him thoughtfully. "Then why is Neesk following me around? He was in my desk drawer the other day. And you sent him to wake me up, that time."
"I asked for volunteers to go Above and bring you here," Jareth told her. "If he's coming to you of his own volition, then he has assigned himself as your aide and guardian. I have several goblins who consider themselves 'mine'. It's not surprising that you have one of your own already."
"And why exactly is that not surprising?" Sarah asked, more curious than anything else.
"The land loves you. It follows that its residents should as well. If he troubles you, I can order him to stop following you about – though you should know that goblins are not the most obedient of folk."
Sarah shook her head. "Nah. As long as he doesn't get in trouble, he's welcome."
"And what of kings whom you so often describe as being trouble?" Jareth purred. "Are they, too, welcome?"
She kissed him in answer.
…
Sarah went for a run in Central Park during lunch, mentally going over preparations for the Champion's Ball as she moved at a comfortable pace. It was safe enough, by day, but she didn't use headphones – and pretended not to see the goblin escort that was now a welcome layer of protection, instead of a threat.
She went over the plans in her mind, sure that she'd missed something, but it all seemed to be well in hand. The date was chosen, invitations had been sent out, the menu was planned, and servants had been selected. Most of them were not goblins; Sarah was coming to realize that there were many other sorts of fae in the kingdom. Jareth told her that goblins lived in other kingdoms, too, but Umardelin was their homeland, and the place where the vast majority of them resided. Some goblins would serve as pages during the ball, the ones that cleaned up well and could be relied upon not to bite the guests. The rest of the servants were drawn from those other fae, whose races Jareth had named for her when she requested it, but she couldn't keep them all straight in her mind.
Jareth had told her, when he saw her struggling, that there were more kinds of fae than even the fae themselves knew. And in any case, there was enough interbreeding that they couldn't be considered separate species, much as the 'higher' fae might want to believe that. The memory of that conversation made her smile as her muscles warmed to the work of carrying her along the park's wooded paths.
"Look at my own case," he'd said. "My grandfather is an owl."
"I didn't know there were owl-fae," Sarah had mused. "I guess there have to be, since you turn into an owl."
Jareth had chuckled, and corrected her. "I didn't say he was an owl-fae. I said he was an owl. An ordinary – well, ordinary for any beast born Underground – barn owl. And shape-shifting is not as common as the fae would like it to be."
Sarah had stared at him. "Wait. You're telling me your grandfather was an actual bird."
"Is," he'd corrected again. "Both my mother's parents are living, and you will meet them someday. And I suppose it's time I told you the tale of them." Jareth had taken her to one of the window seats, settled her snuggled in his arms and lying back against him, and told her the story. It was a true story, the way he phrased it sounding like something she would've heard from her mother when she was just a little girl, and Linda still told her tales that began with 'Once upon a time'.
…
Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl called Iswyniel. Born into a powerful fae family, while still a child she was promised in marriage to the eldest son of a neighboring king. On her sixteenth birthday she was wed to Falemar in a grand ceremony that promised peace and prosperity for both their kingdoms.
The marriage of Falemar and Iswyniel, however, was not destined for peace. Her lord and husband was an angry, impatient man, frustrated with his parents' tardiness in abdicating the throne. To them, he presented the same helpful, obedient face as always, playing the dutiful son. To his bride, he allowed his wrath full expression.
For a time she feared him, cowering in their rooms (but never in public, he would beat her more viciously if she shrank from him where others might see) and trying desperately to appease him. She wept for the lost dreams of her childhood, and her sobbing enraged him, so she retired to a forgotten, overgrown corner of the gardens to cry out her grief where none might be disturbed by it.
Her tears formed a silver pool, and one day as Iswyniel wept she saw a stranger's face looking back at her, instead of her own reflection. "Why do you cry, child?" the old crone in the mirrored water asked.
Iswyniel was afraid, but obedience had been beaten into her, and she told her whole sad story to the crone.
Who laughed. "Silly girl. He is but a man, and an especially foolish one at that. I can teach you how to tame him."
"I don't want to tame him," Iswyniel protested. "I want to be free of him."
"I can teach you that, too," the crone proclaimed.
Thus began Iswyniel's tutoring in magic. Her husband noticed that she was distant, but he did not mind, as she no longer embarrassed him with her flinching nor disturbed him with her crying. He was more concerned with feasting and drinking (and wenching, sad to say), and making plans for the day when the kingdom would be his.
So he was utterly surprised to find Iswyniel in their rooms, seated naked on the floor with candles burning all around her, and a stone bowl before her which smoked with sweet and foul odors. "What is the meaning of this?" Falemar roared.
"I am to be divorced of you," Iswyniel told him calmly.
He was blind with fury, and attacked her. The incense and feathers in the bowl were overturned, scattered burning coals across the floor. Falemar struck his bride repeatedly, not caring where the blows landed or if they would leave bruises for others to see. She had never openly defied him like this, and it enraged him beyond all caution.
Iswyniel, for her part, did not try to strike back, curling into a protective ball. Her eyes were tight shut as she tried to remember the words the crone in the water had taught her. It was hard to conjure them to mind with heavy fists crashing into her shoulders and sides.
Cursing her, Falemar caught her hair and yanked her head up, a heavy cuff to the jaw splitting her lip and loosening her teeth. Iswyniel felt rage instead of fear, and her eyes blazed at him so brightly that he stepped back. She spat her own blood into the burning mess on the floor, and it sparkled with anger-fueled magic.
The words of the spell rang in her mind and off her tongue then, and Falemar shrieked like butchered pig. Every blow he'd ever struck against her, every pinch, every cuff, every cruel word, rebounding on him … all at once. He was left dazed and bloodied on the floor, and Iswyniel stepped over his battered body to gather up the clothes and possessions she wished to take with her.
The marriage had been of political importance, and she was certain her parents and his would try to force a reconciliation. Iswyniel had no intention of letting that happen, so she fled to the high wild realms where few fae dared to go. Those unclaimed lands were free for the taking, and many a fae kingdom had been raised from them. But the magic there was wild, and it took skill and daring to master even a small territory. Iswyniel learned more magic from the sorcerers who dared those realms, and eventually raised herself a tower, in which she could be safe from all further interference. The lands around her tower became known as hers, and those who dwelt there offered her tribute in return for her forbearance.
That was all well and good to Iswyniel, who minded not the attentions of the simple folk in that realm—dwarfs and sprites and other low fae. Her only concern was that she could not supervise her lands from the safety of her tower. There was a seeing-crystal spell she could use, but it was tiresome and a waste of magic to send it spinning all across her territory. She had need of a spy, or perhaps an overseer.
One day, the tribute included a live barn owl with an injured wing. Iswyniel did not quite know if her people expected her to use it in some dread spell, or eat it, or keep it for a pet, or if they hoped she might be able to heal it. Healing was within her powers, particularly since what the bird needed most was rest and feeding. She decided to make the swift, silent owl her eyes in the realm.
But a bird is only a bird, and an owl not raised by men or fae is a wild thing that can never quite be tamed. It hissed and clacked its beak at her even when she brought it food. She could have commanded it with magic, but that would be as bothersome as the seeing crystals. What Iswyniel needed was something with the flight and vision of an owl, but the biddable nature of a dog. And, to seek out notable events and report back to her, the intelligence of something like herself. Reluctantly, she turned the bird into a person.
She hadn't known until he stared at his new hands in wonder and terror that the bird had been male. Iswyniel had, thanks to her husband, conceived a vast dislike of the entire male sex, and she'd been quite furious that her intended companion was male. Any attempt to make him a woman failed; he might not have had a concept of self while an owl, but he knew he was male. So she was forced to deal with the bird she called Jarrek.
Jarrek, once his situation and duties had been explained to him, was a faithful servant. He soared over her realm, bringing her news of her people. When Iswyniel was inclined to deal curtly with them, he counseled patience; he had listened to their little lives, their loves and strifes, and he cared for them as he might have cared for his own nestlings, had he remained only an owl. It was Jarrek who brought compassion and kindness back to the implacable sorceress Iswyniel had become.
In time, she became as protective of her subjects as Jarrek was. Her realm was recognized as her kingdom, its lands separated from the wild waste by firm borders, and the rest of fae nobility acknowledged her right to rule. (No one dared mention her erstwhile marriage.) Jarrek had become her seneschal, seated at her right hand whenever she held court, and Iswyniel considered him her friend and confidant as well. They talked of many things beyond the vagaries of rulership, and after long acquaintance and much trust, she found herself telling him of her husband. Jarrek had stiffened as she spoke, and said only, "He deserved far worse than you gave him, my lady."
To change the topic, she asked something unwise. "What of you? Why did you never take a wife? I never forbade you, and I have seen many of the comelier specimens in my court casting glances at you."
Jarrek had smiled ruefully. "My lady, I am still an owl. We mate for life, and my heart is already taken."
Iswyniel had cause for regret then, and looked at him compassionately. She had never asked herself what she was doing to him when she'd first worked that spell. Regret loosened her tongue, and she asked more than she should have. "Jarrek, my apologies. Did I take you from your owl-wife, all unthinking?"
He looked back at her steadily. His eyes were the same color as an owl's, so dark gray they looked uniformly black. "No, my lady. I was scarce more than a fledgling when I injured my wing, which led to our meeting."
If he was not wed to an owl, then…? Iswyniel realized what he meant, who the only other person in his life could be, and blushed scarlet. Jarrek merely bowed to her, murmured, "My lady," once more, and took himself out of the room.
Strangely, she was the one made awkward by the revelation of his feelings. Jarrek changed his behavior not a whit, while Iswyniel found herself uncomfortable in his presence. The light of his regard nagged at her, as a thousand brief instants suddenly added up to love.
Iswyniel had not wanted love, had never even considered it. Love was fine for others, and she sent wedding gifts to her subjects—but she also watched the brides' eyes, looking for a hint of panic under the joy. She could not bear the thought of leaving another trapped in the same position she'd once been in. And once she'd won her freedom from her cruel husband, she had shut the door on love for herself, forever after.
But then there was Jarrek.
After an unbearable week of not knowing what to say to him, of being well-nigh speechless in his presence, Iswyniel called him to the little room at the top of the tower, alone. She knew that what must be said between them would be between a man and a woman, not a seneschal and his queen, so she wanted no other witness. "My lady?" he said, as he entered.
"Jarrek, you must listen to me," she said, having prepared the speech well ahead of time. She had no wish to break his loyal heart, but she had not asked him to love her! And she could not bear knowing that he did. "I cherish you beyond all others in the world. You are more than my faithful servant, you are my dearest friend. I would give you anything you need; you have only to ask. But this, Jarrek, I cannot do."
"I do not recall asking you to do anything," he said simply.
Her careful words fled, leaving her tongue-tied again. "You know the tale of my husband, how and why I left him," she said, faltering.
"I know," he responded. "I would be tempted to put his eyes out, if ever we met, for he was and is unworthy to look upon you. I would very much like to strike off his hands, for having raised them against you. But to do so would diminish your triumph, my lady, so I leave him in the past, where he belongs."
He refused to see, and she could not remember how to tell him. Frustration moved her, but there was fear beneath it, unacknowledged even to Iswyniel herself. "Jarrek, I cannot love a man!" Iswyniel cried out, and her own heart twisted in her breast.
He stepped closer, and regarded her with those cool, dark gray eyes. "I am not a man, my lady."
That gave her pause and stole her voice again. Jarrek continued in his soft, implacable voice. "For all that I look and speak and reason like a man, my lady Queen, I am an owl at heart, and always will be. And my heart belongs to you. I demand nothing of you beyond what you are willing to give. If that is only your company and your service for as long as I shall live, then so be it. My life is yours as well. Given in repayment, when you healed my wing and saved my life. Given again in love, when I came to know you. All I ask is that you do not send me away." A pause, and still more softly, "An owl who loses his mate will often find a lonely tree in which to perch, turn his head toward the bark, and sit there until he dies. We do not survive grief so well as others."
"I would not send you away," Iswyniel said, her throat choked with tears. For his hopeless devotion, or for her frozen denial, she could not say. "I cannot send you away. You … if not for you I would have been no better a queen than my once-husband would be a king. You are my heart, Jarrek."
"So. I see no cause for discord between us, then." And saying that, he stepped closer still. Iswyniel had stiffened, expecting him to try and kiss her, ready to lash out with magic if he did. For all his pretty words, he had best not take liberties.
Instead, he only held out his hand, and when she gave him hers in bemusement, he bowed over her fingers. But he did not kiss them, did not even clasp her hand in his, only gave her his honor and regard. As he always had. Jarrek turned then and took himself away, leaving the sorcerer-queen to stand alone and confused in her tower. Her heart thundered in her chest, though not with dread.
Things between them went somewhat back to normal. Iswyniel was still worried by his love, the weight of which she could feel even though he wisely never pressed her. And she was still confused by the pain in her own heart, which she had thought closed to such silly feelings. She caught herself feeling miserable for not being able to love him wholeheartedly, but Jarrek would not allow her to make any apology. "I love you," he told her. "That is all. Love does not demand recompense, it simply is."
Perhaps things might have gone on like that for longer, but one day a messenger arrived with a proposal. One of the other wilds-land lords had been steadily adding to his lands. It interested Iswyniel to note that he did so by negotiation and alliance, rather than by force. He had already taken two smaller holdings between his lands and hers, making their erstwhile rulers dukes of those lands. From all she knew, he was a fair and just king.
His envoy made her an offer that few would have refused. It told her in flowery language that her lands were too well-managed to need the sort of overtaking he'd used with others, and praised her wisdom, her mercy, and her magic. "To you King Gyril offers another form of alliance," the messenger said. "Wed him, join your lands and the territories between in marriage. You will be co-ruler, not consort; he wishes your experience in certain matters. This marriage can only increase your strength and his, and offers many advantages for those living in both kingdoms."
Iswyniel could only stare. Jarrek, at her side, was uncharacteristically silent. "I have no wish to marry," she said at last. "I would make no fit bride for your king, in any case."
The messenger, who stood alone in their audience chamber, still glanced about him. "If I may approach, Your Highness?" he said. "There are … terms which are best spoken softly."
She expected a threat, and readied a spell under her breath. Jarrek sat forward attentively; he'd had few occasions to defend her over the years, but in each one, he had acted with silent speed and fury. Those who admired owls for their beauty often forgot that they were indeed birds of prey, and he had the raptorial ferocity to prove it so. "Come forward," she told the messenger.
The envoy approached the dais and spoke quietly. "King Gyril wishes you to understand that he is not suggesting a romance. This would be a political alliance only. You need not share his bed unless and until you wish an heir of royal blood."
"King Gyril has a mistress, then?" Iswyniel asked, guessing that it was some low fae who would not bring him such political advantages as she could. "Let him marry her, and for love. I would happily advise him if he asked. But my lands are my own, and my hand in marriage he shall not have."
"The king does not have a mistress," the envoy said. "He has his lovers, but no woman will be set above you. Were you a man, he would court your favor and seek to wed you for love as well as politics. But word comes to us that the Sorceress of Astolwyr will take no man, so he supposes you might be as he is. And if that is so, you two can make a fruitful political alliance that may someday bear children, while both of you enjoy the life – and love – to which you are accustomed."
The fae as a whole made little note of differences in sexuality. Marriages between men and women were preferred for the legal provenance of the offspring was clearly established – even if, in some cases, the children might not resemble their official fathers as well as one would expect. Most fae sexuality was fluid, and there were few who were exclusively hetero or homosexual. Apparently this Gyril was the latter, and still playing the field enough not to wish to marry one of his men.
Iswyniel herself had never really considered women. Among the high born ladies, another woman was often a rival, and besides, she'd closed her heart to all love, not just men. She blinked now to realize that this king thought she was as dedicated an invert as himself. What foolish rumors must fly in her realm?
"It is a noble offer," she said at last. "But one which I must refuse. I married for political advantage once, and it ended badly. You may tell King Gyril that I respect the courage and wit that made the proposal, and I would create an alliance between us built on trade and friendship. If I am to marry again, I will only marry for love. Tell him I advise him to do the same, for love is sweeter and stronger than mere politics."
The envoy bowed, and took her answer away, and in the years to come she did indeed count Gyril as an ally. He visited her court as she visited his, and never once pressed the subject or showed any resentment of her rejection.
That night, however, Iswyniel paced the roof of her tower. The words she'd spoken of love rang true to her, words she would have dismissed as foolish drivel not so long ago. The most reasonable and rational offer could not tempt her, and her reason was no longer that she recoiled from marriage in horror. No, Iswyniel found in her own heart that she could not betray Jarrek by marrying another – which surprised her. He had never offered marriage, only love, and love that did not seek to bind her. Love that was freeing her, bit by bit, from her hatred of men and marriage, thawing her heart as the gentle spring sun loosened the ice of winter.
If she married – if, Iswyniel told herself – she could only marry Jarrek, for he loved her selflessly. He had spoken no word against Gyril's proposal, and when she sent the envoy away he merely nodded. There was no possession in his love, only regard.
And she loved him, despite herself. It took many long years, and like the best of loves, it was not easy. In the end, it was she who proposed marriage to him, and he gladly accepted. At long last, Iswyniel, Sorceress-Queen of Astolwyr, wed for love – and was to her own surprise a very happy bride.
She was even more surprised to find herself a happy mother, but that is a tale for another time.
…
Author's Note: This chapter is a little longer than usual, in order to fit in the backstory. I hope you all enjoyed it – Jareth's family history is rather the stuff of bedtime stories, so we'll be seeing a few more bits like this sprinkled in alongside the current plot arc.
Thank you again for reading!
