Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

Chapter Ten-3

Neither Isabel nor Sophy had any reply to make to this wholly unexpected speech. Isabel could only stare at the Goblin King, lips parted upon a response which refused to form in her brain.

‘I see I have been too precipitate,’ Grunewald said with a wave of his hand. ‘I will postpone the part where I invite you to join me in Mirramay and reign over the Goblin Kingdom as my Queen, and proceed post-haste to other matters.’ His mocking tone was back, and the twinkle in his eyes more pronounced than ever. Isabel did not think that he made such a shocking offer with any intention of being taken seriously, but with Grunewald, one never knew.

‘Such a wondrous adventure cannot be permitted to end in failure,’ Grunewald continued gaily, and jumped up from his throne. ‘I would see Miss Ellerby retained in Aylfenhame for as long as possible, and therefore, I take it upon myself to assist you.’ He gave a sweeping, flamboyant bow, evidently expecting applause.

‘Of course you will,’ Sophy said instead. ‘How could you be expected to resist the opportunity to further any kind of mischief?’

Grunewald laughed. ‘I do believe Miss Landon is beginning to understand my character, and that is a lowering reflection. To become consistent and even, stars help me, predictable!’ He gave a theatrical shudder. ‘Palchis!’ he called abruptly. ‘Ertof! Yangveld! Instantly, I beg you.’

Three of the surrounding fae separated themselves from the crowd and presented themselves at Grunewald’s feet. One was a trow, very like the ones that had accosted them upon the road: dark-skinned and small, with overlarge hat and shoes and an oddly-shaped horn carried in one hand. The second was a goblin, slightly taller than the trow and draped in silken garments. His skin was pale for a goblin, only faintly tinted with green.

The third — Yangveld? — was an ogre, and seemingly female. She was a foot shorter than Sir Guntifer, but still of an imposing size. She was fabulously coiffed and wore an entrancingly beautiful gown made from a rippling, watery green silk.

‘Why, Yangveld!’ Sophy cried delightedly. ‘It has been some months, I think, since last I saw you at Silverling! I do hope you are still happy with your gowns?’

Yangveld grinned toothily, and nodded her great head, making her midnight-black locks bounce. ‘Aye, ma’am, that I am,’ she said in a deepish voice. ‘Tis tricky keepin’ the hems out o’ the mud sometimes, but ‘tis worth it for all o’ that.’

‘You have taken very good care of this one,’ Sophy said, casting an approving eye over the pristine silk.

Yangveld smiled happily. ‘I had Jenny Greenshoes put a Keep-Away charm on it,’ she confided.

‘A Keep-Away charm?’ repeated Sophy.

‘Aye! Keeps dirt away, an’ other things.’

‘Interesting,’ said Sophy. ‘Jenny Greenshoes, who is she?’

‘She’s the witch o’ these parts. Handy with ‘er charms.’

Sophy cast a speculative look at Isabel. ‘A witch! Goodness. How wonderful it would be if I could have such a charm cast upon every gown I make! My customers would be very happy, I think.’

Tafferty, who had apparently slept through most of the past hour’s events, stirred and said sleepily from the back of Isabel’s pony: ‘Oh, yes. Happen I might ha’ forgot t’ mention that t’ thee. Charms an’ the like! Little, useful bits an’ pieces upon the whole; nothin’ much worthy o’ note. But mayhap thou wouldst find such trivial nonsense more t’ thy taste than Cursin’.’ She said this last with disgust, eyeing Isabel with strong disapproval. Upon completing her speech, she laid her tail over her eyes and spoke no more.

‘I would very much like to learn it!’ Isabel surprised herself by saying. ‘Indeed, it would be of far greater use to me, and to my friends, than Curses.’

Grunewald fell to laughing at this, which offended and mortified Isabel in equal measure. ‘You have yet to fully understand your new charge, I think,’ said he to the catterdandy, who sniffed and refused to open her eyes.

‘I do not see what is wrong with preferring to do good than to cause harm,’ said Isabel, in the firmest tone she could muster in the face of Grunewald’s mirth.

He smiled upon her in a generally kind fashion. ‘Nothing at all, to be sure,’ he replied. ‘It is your companion who amuses me, not your own attitude. The catterdandy has never met your like before; of that I am certain.’

Isabel did not know what to say. Upon a moment’s reflection, she said with at least the appearance of perfect composure: ‘The Chronicler’s Tower?’

Grunewald grinned at her. Isabel was mildly disconcerted to note that his teeth seemed a little sharper than she remembered. ‘To the Palace!’ he said.

There followed a flurry of activity as mounts were reclaimed and the party organised behind Grunewald. Isabel, feeling safe once more atop her pretty mare, took the opportunity to admire more of the remarkable city as she followed in the Goblin King’s train. The Palace of Mirramay was easy to identify: Isabel rounded the corner of a narrow, twisting street paved with cobbles and there it was, a honey-coloured magnificence rising high above the elegant pale buildings of the rest of the city. It bore twin spires and corner towers; impossibly large, arched windows in which perfectly clear panes of glass twinkled in the morning sun; and graceful statues set into niches in the walls, depicting beauteous Ayliri and fae in striking poses. As she grew closer, Isabel saw that the Palace was more a complex of buildings than a single structure, all enclosed within high walls. The towering golden gates were open, and the party rode unimpeded into a deserted courtyard.

Isabel would have been content to linger here for a little while. On either side stretched twin pools of clear, calm waters, blue-green and roseate-lavender respectively; their surfaces were abloom with perfect white water flowers. The distance from the gates to the doors of the palace itself was marked by two rows of Elder trees, gold of bark and snow-white of leaf, and decked in flowers of heavenly aroma. Isabel marvelled at it all, but she had little opportunity to enjoy it, for Grunewald set a smart pace up to the great doors, where he reined in the curious green-skinned horse he was riding.

‘There is the Chronicler’s Tower,’ he said, pointing to the southeasterly spire rising far above their heads. Isabel frowned, shading her eyes against the sun. It was difficult to be certain, for the tower was a long way above, but she thought that the windows were wide open. Did that suggest continued habitation, or the opposite?

Grunewald spun abruptly and strode away in the direction of the palace doors. Isabel and Sophy hurried to keep pace with him, though they could not quite keep up. As such, they were some steps back when Grunewald stopped abruptly in the doorway.

‘What is it?’ Sophy cried as they drew level with him.

He made no answer. Instead he drew himself up, seeming to gain three inches in moments as he drew in a great breath. Then he let forth a vast, bellowing cry which echoed off the walls of the palace. There were words contained therein, but in no language Isabel could understand. The words twisted and coiled oddly, simultaneously hissing and booming in the mouth of the Goblin King.

Isabel clapped her hands over her ears, hating the dark sounds. When Grunewald stepped forward and disappeared into the palace, she followed, but reluctantly. What manner of occurrence had prompted such a cry? She stepped over the threshold, and saw at once.

Darkling fae swarmed the grand hall of the palace. They had probably covered the floor, moments before, but it was as though the King’s cry had physically blown them backwards, for they now clustered in a great, cringing horde at the rear of the hall. Trows and goblins they were, for the most part, with imps and hobs mingled in, and numerous others to which Isabel could put no name.

Grunewald did not hesitate, but strode away at once and passed rapidly beneath an enormous door in the wall. Isabel and Sophy followed. The corridors beyond were likewise swarming with fae, and Grunewald was obliged to repeat his terrible cry twice more as they wound their way through curving corridors and up spiralling stairs.

Isabel was out of breath by the time they finally stopped in a round-walled chamber far above the ground. Its great, heavy door had shut out the fae, but Grunewald had forced it open. The windows were indeed agape, but there was no sign of any living presence; dust lay thickly over the curving window-seats and the round table and chairs which occupied the centre of the room. Bookcases bore an air of neglect, as though their contents had lain untouched for many years.

The chamber was small; she and Sophy, Grunewald and his three fae followers barely all fit inside it together. She spared a moment’s gratitude for Sir Guntifer’s foresight in electing to remain below. He was just visible from the window, a great Elder oak stationed near to the main doors of the Palace. He bore the appearance of being on guard, which reassured Isabel to some degree. She did not know what the fae were doing in the palace in such numbers, nor whether they were a threat. But Grunewald appeared to be able to control them, and Sir Guntifer would keep others away.

‘But this cannot be everything,’ she said in confusion, for there were but few books and scrolls in evidence. Could this be the collected histories of all of Aylfenhame, these scant records?

‘Why, no, my dearest child,’ said Grunewald. ‘Of course, it is not everything. One may not simply walk into the Chronicler’s Tower and take from it as one pleases. Behold.’ A curious glyph was inlaid into the centre of the table in silver; Grunewald leaned forward and laid his hand over it. At once an image flickered into being over the table: a beast, translucent and ethereal, clearly an imagining of some kind and not a real creature. It bore the shape of a wispy dragon, its hide glittering with white scales and its eyes gleaming bright blue.

‘I seek entrance,’ said Grunewald.

The dragon sniffed, sending wisps of ethereal smoke drifting forth from its nostrils. ‘The Goblin King,’ it said in a dusty voice. ‘You are not permitted to access the Chronicles.’ Having completed this laconic announcement, the dragon disappeared in a puff of mist.

Grunewald sighed and turned away. ‘One would almost be tempted to think that Anthelaena didn’t trust me.’

‘I cannot think why,’ said Sophy dryly. ‘What possible reason could you have for accessing the Chronicles?’

‘Oh,’ said Grunewald softly, with a catlike smile. ‘Perfectly unexceptionable, selfish, highly questionable reasons, of course.’

Sophy smiled. ‘Quite so.’

Isabel stepped forward. ‘I had better try,’ she said, a trifle doubtfully. ‘As it is my task.’ She laid her hand over the glyph, and the dragon puffed back into being.

‘I seek entrance,’ said Isabel, smiling hesitantly at the dragon. Its expression had turned a little forbidding.

‘Mister Grunewald,’ said the dragon. ‘I will not be granting you entrance to—’ The dragon broke off abruptly as its eyes focused upon Isabel, and its forbidding air evaporated. ‘Well, now!’ it said, visibly brightening. ‘This is most unusual. What are you? Aylir? Goblin? Something else? It is a very good Glamour.’

‘Neither of those, sir,’ said Isabel. ‘I am human. It is no Glamour.’

The dragon blinked at her, then drifted down to examine her more closely. ‘Why, so you are! And you have brought another. Two humans at once, in the Chronicler’s Tower? My very goodness.’ The dragon’s gaze fell once more upon Grunewald and his darkling entourage, and a scowl crossed its ethereal features. ‘And in company with His Most DisRespectable Majesty! Something very odd is afoot.’

‘Are you the Chronicler?’ Isabel asked.

The dragon appeared shocked by such a question. ‘Certainly not! I am the Keeper.’

‘I see. And… what is that?’

The dragon-Seeming swelled in size. ‘Why, a fashioning of the Chronicler’s! I am appointed to guard the entrance to his great creation.’

The Keeper spoke of the Chronicler in terms of such reverence, Isabel began to feel unnerved. Would she ever be permitted to access the records?

‘Is… is he here?’ she said.

The dragon appeared suddenly to wither, coils of mist shrinking in upon themselves. ‘The Chronicler is not in residence,’ it intoned, its voice odd and inflectionless — as though it had been given the line to speak.

‘Will he return?’

The Keeper shrank a little further. ‘Perhaps,’ it said in a whisper.

Isabel thought for a moment. She had hoped to consult the Chronicler himself, for he must certainly know whether his collection contained the information she needed, and where it was to be found.