‘He sang of King Orfeo, a legendary King of the Folk, known throughout the Nine Worlds for his skill with every musical instrument. King Orfeo had a wife, taken much too soon by Lord Death to his hall in World Below. So the King, in his despair, travelled to the Land of the Dead, and begged Death for his wife’s release.
‘Lord Death looked down from his bone-white throne, in his crown of dead man’s ivory. His living eye was blue as the sky; his dead eye dark as for ever.
‘“What will you give me in return?” he said with his twisted half-smile.
‘“Anything I own,” said the King. “Gold, and lands, and tapestries, and carpets from beyond the seas, and perfumes from the islands.”
Lord Death laughed, and his living eye shone with terrible merriment. “I have no need of treasures,” he said. “Gold and land have no currency here, nor gems, or wealth, or perfumes.”
‘King Orfeo looked around him at the dusty palace of Lord Death; its ivory floors; faded tapestries; vaulted, bone-white ceilings. Everything was silent here: the people were nothing but shadows. His wife was among those shadows, he knew, but she did not know him now, for when a mortal loses their shadow, they lose all of their memories.
‘“Then let me play for you, my Lord. Music is my currency. I can play a reel so gay that all the bones in this palace will dance; I can sing a song so true that even the dead will listen.”
‘Lord Death looked down from his bone-white throne, and his face was both handsome and cruel. “Then sing to me,” he said with a smile. “And I will return your wife to you – but only if you can make me weep.”
‘So King Orfeo sang a song of love so sweet and true that Death himself was moved to sigh, and a single tear ran down the living side of his ruined face. And when it was over, from the shadows, he led forth a pale and beautiful woman: it was the wife of Orfeo.
“I promised you your wife,” said Lord Death with his mocking half-smile. “And here she is. But her shadow remains in my Kingdom, for ever and without release.”
‘And so Orfeo took his wife back into the waking World. But she did not know him, or herself, but walked with him as if in a dream, and would not eat, and would not drink, and looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if he were a stranger, for she had lost her shadow, and with it, all memory of her former life.
‘“Do you not remember me, my love?” asked King Orfeo.
‘The young woman only shook her head. “I was dreaming such a beautiful dream,” she told the King, with tears in her eyes. “I was in a land far away, over the seas to Norroway, and there I slept in a grass-green glade, all scented with summer roses.”
‘In vain, King Orfeo tried to coax his Queen into remembering their love. But he was a stranger to her now, and she would not be comforted. And so, in despair, he took her to the Oracle of World Below, which slumbered deep in its cradle of fire, all bound with runes and glamours.
‘“How can I make her love me again?” Orfeo asked the Oracle.
‘And the Oracle opened one eye and spoke:
When you can make me a cambric shirt,
Every sage grows merry in time
Without any seam or needlework
Then will you be lovers again.
‘“How can that be?” asked Orfeo. “Is this a riddle? Is this a trick?”
‘The Oracle gave its twisted smile.
When you can find me an acre of land,
Every sage grows merry in time,
Between the ocean and the sand
Then will you be lovers again.
‘King Orfeo shook his head angrily. “Mock me you will not,” he said. “Ask of me anything you will, but let us have no more of these riddles.”
‘The Oracle’s dark eyes shone cruelly. “I speak as I must,” it told him. “I speak as I must, and cannot lie:”
When you can walk shadowless at noon
Every sage grows merry in time
Hand in hand, once more you may
Lovers be; together again.
‘And at these final words it sank back into its cradle of glamours and would not speak another word.
‘And so King Orfeo took his Queen back into the land of the living, but the reunion brought him no happiness. His Queen stayed cold and sad and remote from that day till the end of their lives, and the King never played or sang again.’
King Alberon paused to finish his wine. ‘Beware asking Death for a favour,’ he said, ‘lest Death be inclined to grant it. That is the moral of my tale, and the lesson is a harsh one.’
Four
As Alberon finished his goblet of wine, Fay looked once more at the banqueting hall. Everything had stopped as the King told the tale of Orfeo. Dancers, musicians, revellers all now stood in reverent silence: with feathered masks, furred faces and gowns of moth’s-wing velvet. Few of them now looked human at all. Faceted eyes, plumed feelers, long beaks all turned to the royal couple.
‘What a sad story,’ said Fay with a smile that hid her deep and growing unease. ‘And was the King of your story not discouraged from his quest?’
Alberon shook his head. ‘He was not. He was a constant lover, even in the face of his lady’s desertion.’
‘It seems to me that his lady was somewhat justified,’ she said. ‘But tell me: how did he manage to board the Night Train?’
Alberon smiled. ‘I do apologize: my love of old tales can sometimes lead my tongue astray. My Queen, I understand that you prefer not to drink, or eat, or dance, but I beg of you, grant me the pleasure of hearing you sing, for I have heard tales of your marvellous voice, and, like Lord Death, I would hear it.’
At his words, the revellers all murmured their agreement. A figure standing behind them said: ‘Much can be paid for with a song – as long as you choose the right song.’ She turned and saw Mabs, in a long grey gown of embroidered moth velvet, her hair shining like starlight beneath a circlet of twisted silver. Behind her, she saw Peronelle – barely recognizable now but for the tumble of purple hair – watching her from behind a fan of jewelled lacewing and multicoloured moth’s plume.
‘Go for it. Sing,’ said Peronelle, their smile revealing pointed teeth. ‘Give us a song. A chorus will do. It’s the least you can offer, my Queen, to thank us for our welcome.’
Fay hesitated. Where lay the harm? Surely a song could not be dangerous. And besides, she was eager to learn how the King had managed to board the Night Train.
‘If I sing for you,’ she said, ‘will you promise to get me aboard the Night Train?’
King Alberon gave her a smile that was as warm as it was dangerous. ‘If you still wish it, of course, my Queen. But sing me your song, for my heart is sore, and your voice may help to heal it.’
And so Fay took a breath and sang, for the first time since the loss of her daughter. She was out of practice, and her voice sounded lost and plaintive in the enormous banqueting hall. But she thought of the moment when Alberon had tried to take her backpack; the moment at which he had tried to trick her into taking a goblet of wine; and she sang the song the tiger had sung to her at the edge of the forest: