"Thank God," Sarissa said, picking up a pair of plates. "Food. I was afraid they'd have nothing but those flower trifles again."
"Wait," I said. "Are we sure this is food?"
"You can't smell it?" she asked. "I can always tell. Local cuisine is . . . not exactly subtle. Practically the first thing I learned here was how to tell the difference." She started loading up both plates, mostly with things I probably would have picked anyway. Well. She had basically been my dietitian for nearly three months. She'd know, by now, what I liked and didn't.
Weird. Would it be like that if I ever had, like . . . a wife or something?
Whoa, where the hell did that thought come from? All the recent, if entirely bent, domesticity? My heart did a weird little rabbitlike maneuver, beating way too fast for a few seconds. Hell's bells, had I just had a panic attack? At the very notion of calling some woman my wife? Though . . . now that I thought about it, I wasn't sure I had ever used that word in connection with myself and somebody else at the same time. Not explicitly, anyway.
I shook my head and filed the thought away to be examined later, when I didn't have a great big target drawn on my back.
I let Sarissa pick us some food while I kept an eye out for anyone or anything suspicious. After about twenty seconds of that, I decided that it was an impossibility, and dialed it back to watching for anyone who rushed us with a knife, screaming. I kept my defensive spells right on the tip of my mind, so to speak, and ready to erupt into reality at an instant's notice.
I spotted a good, quiet corner for us to stand in, over by the giant mantel above the giant fireplace. I took the plates from Sarissa, and we started that way.
A form that I recognized emerged from the crowd in our path, and I found myself smiling. The creature that came limping over to me wasn't much more than five feet tall, and leaned on a heavy, gnarled walking staff. He wore a hooded robe of undyed linen, belted with a length of soft-looking rope. Three folded strips of purple cloth were tucked into the belt-the formal stoles of senior members of the White Council of Wizards, taken after they fell to him in separate duels.
Oh, and he was a goat. Well, a very human-looking goat, anyway. He had the same long face as a goat, and curling ram's horns on his head. His eyes were golden, his beard long and white, and he looked pleased.
"Eldest Gruff," I said, smiling.
"Sir Knight," he replied, his basso a pleasant rumble. We exchanged small bows, which also seemed to please him. "Please do thou accept my best wishes on this day of your birth."
"Gladly," I said. "How did they rope you into showing up to this freak show?"
He sighed. "Obligation."
"Word." I nodded to Sarissa. "May I introduce Sarissa. She's been helping me recover from an injury. Sarissa, this is-"
"Lord Gruff," she said, giving him a courtesy that somehow seemed natural. "How lovely to meet you again, sir."
"It is pleasant to see thee, child," Eldest Gruff said. "Thou dost seem to thrive despite the climate."
"That may be a generous assessment," Sarissa replied.
"I prefer to think of it as a hopeful one," the Gruff said. "I see thou hast attached thyself to the new Knight."
"No," I said quickly. "No, she hasn't. There's been no . . . attaching. She's been doctoring me."
Sarissa arched an eyebrow at me, and then said to the Gruff, "It was Mab's price."
"Ah," the Gruff said. "A heavy burden obligation canst be, for Winter and Summer alike." He glanced aside at me. "Does he know of thine-"
"It hasn't come up," Sarissa said.
"Ah," Eldest Gruff said, raising his hands. He had weird nails. They were hoofy. "I will then follow the course of silence."
Sarissa inclined her head. "Thank you."
"Of course."
Two more figures approached us, both of them over seven feet tall. I'm not used to being the shortest person in any given conversation. Or even the shorter person. I can change lightbulbs without stretching. I can put the star on the Christmas tree without standing on tiptoe. I'm like the Bumble, but with way better teeth, and I didn't like feeling loomed over.
(Which probably should tell me about the kind of effect I might be having on other people, sort of generally speaking, and especially when I gave attitude to power figures who were shorter than me, but that kind of crystallized moment of enlightenment probably wouldn't be helpful in winning the evening.)
The first was depressingly familiar. He was dressed in hunter's leathers, all grey and green and brown. There was a sword with a hilt made from some sort of antler at his side. It was the first time I'd seen him wearing something other than a helmet. He had shaggy, grizzled light brown hair that fell to his shoulders. His features were asymmetrical but, though not handsome, contained a certain roguish charm, and his eyes were an unsettling shade of gold-green. I didn't know his name, but he was the Erlking, one of the beings of Faerie powerful enough to lead the Wild Hunt, and he was the reigning ruler of the goblins.
(Not like the big ugly dimwit in the Hobbit. Real goblins are like mutant Terminator serial killer psycho ninjas. Think Hannibal Lecter meets Jackie Chan.)
Oh, and I'd insulted him once by trapping him in a magic circle. Faeries large and small hate that action.
"Gruff," said the Erlking, tilting his head.
Eldest Gruff made a small bow in reply. "Lord Herne."
"Know you these children?"
"Aye," said Eldest Gruff. He began making polite introductions.
I studied the man standing beside the Erlking while he did. He was a sharp contrast. The Erlking was huge, but there was something about him that suggested agility and grace. It was like looking at a tiger. Sure, it might be standing there all calm and relaxed at the moment, but you knew that at any second it could surge with speed and terrible purpose and that it wouldn't give you any warning before it came at you.
This man wasn't a tiger. He was a bear. His shoulders were so broadly proportioned that he made Herne look positively slender by comparison. His forearms were nearly the size of his biceps, and he had the kind of thick neck that you see only in power lifters and professional thugs. There were scars all over his hands, and more on his face, all of them faded away to ancient white lines, like those you see on some lifelong bikers. He wore a coat of mail of some kind-a creature of Faerie couldn't abide the touch of iron, so it had to be made from something else.
Over the mail he wore a long, open coat of scarlet, trimmed in white fur. It was held in with a wide black leather belt. He had such a barrel of a chest that even a modest bit of stomach was a considerable mass on his huge frame. His gloves were made of black leather trimmed with more white fur, and they were tucked through the belt, right next to the very plain and functional hilt of an unadorned broadsword. His hair was short, white, and shining clean, and his white beard fell over his chest like the white breaker of a wave. His eyes were clean, winter sky blue.