Still no proof. Morgan might have come here to help Alfric on Holger’s problem, or she might have stopped in on some altogether unrelated errand. But it did look queer.
A goblin entered the bedchamber. “The good Duke gives a feast for castle servants,” he said. “You, dwarf, are bidden.”
“Ummm—” Hugi tugged his beard. “I thank ye, nay. I dinna feel so well.”
The goblin raised his hairless brows. “ ’Twill be taken ill if you spurn the feast,” he said.
Hugi traded a look with Holger. The man nodded. Maybe this was a device to get the dwarf out of the way, but if so, there didn’t seem to be any means of evading it. “Go on,” he said. “Have a good time.”
“Aye, so. Take care o’ yersel’ .” Hugi trotted after the goblin. Holger lit his pipe and lay down in the bath which had drawn itself for him, to think. He felt as if he were caught in spider webs. Very delicate, very lovely, but you couldn’t get out. For a panicky moment, he wanted to shout and run.
He suppressed the feeling. He could do nothing at present but string along. And his suspicions were based on so little. Still—
A new suit of party clothes was laid out for him. He donned it, the laces and buckles fastening themselves. Hardly had he finished when the doorknob formed into metallic lips and said politely, “His grace the Duke asks leave to enter your presence.”
“Yipe!” said Holger. Recovering himself: “P-p-please come in.” Evidently slaves, being beneath notice, came and went without asking, while the upper classes respected each other’s privacy.
The Pharisee entered, his chiseled white visage smiling. “I bring good news,” he said. “I have conferred with numerous of the Powers, and there seems to be an excellent chance of sending you back home.”
“Why… why… I cannot thank you, your grace.” Holger stammered.
“’Twill take some time to gather the necessaries for the spells,” Alfric said. “Meanwhile, methinks a special merrymaking is called for. There’s to be an entertainment in Elf Hill.”
“Hm? Oh, yes. I’ve seen the place.”
Alfric took his arm. “Shall we away, then? I warrant you’ll have some lusty hours. The elves know how to make a man glad.”
Holger didn’t feel like an orgy, but had no way to refuse. They went down the stairs. The castle dwellers were gathering, a murmurous swirl of color through the halls and out into the courtyard. Meriven trod forth from among them, and Alfric relinquished Holger to her.
“I’ll accompany you into the hill,” she said. “I’ve no mind to let some elvish hussy steal you.”
“Why, isn’t everyone coming?” he asked.
“Presently. You and I are to go in first. The others will follow later. You shall see how ’tis planned.”
Holger thought of death traps and dismissed the notion, since one of their own would be with him.
The procession wound out of the gates, over the bridge, across the lawns toward Elf Hill of the roses. Behind him curveted warriors on horseback, banners flying from their lances, musicians playing horns and harps and lutes, a hundred lords and ladies of Faerie, who danced as they neared the mound. And now Holger heard music which rose to answer theirs, a skirling sweetness that entered his blood and roiled in his head. He smiled down at Meriven, all at once eager, and she laughed back and hung close on his arm. Her loose pale hair blew up across his face, half blinding him, the perfumes like a taste of strong wine. The hill opened. Through Meriven’s tresses he glimpsed wavering lights, against which tall figures stood black. The music hurried his feet for him, he couldn’t wait.
Hoofbeats hammered in the earth. A horse neighed, loud and angry. Holger whirled to see Alianora on Papillon, galloping out of the woods. Her face was distorted with terror.
“Holger! Nay, Holger, not in there!”
9
BEHIND HIM ALFRIC SHOUTED a curse. A spear flashed through the air, hardly missing the girl. Holger stood locked in amazement. “Get him in the hill!” yelled Alfric.
Meriven pulled at his arm. Three Pharisee men plunged forward like football tackles. A sudden rage snapped up into Holger. He launched himself to meet them. The nearest he stiff-armed, letting him drop with a grunt and lie quietly. His right fist swung around, trailing Meriven, and smashed another handsome face. The third warrior he dodged. A horseman loomed before him, lance almost in his ribs. He tore the grimly clinging Meriven loose, lifted her above his head, and pitched her at the rider’s midriff. Both went over the horse’s crupper.