She grasped for the only weapon she had.
So you want to dance, do you?
She shoved the fiddle under her chin, set bow to strings, and played. A wild reel, a dance-tune that never failed to bring humans to their feet, and called the 'Faerie Reel.' She hoped there was more in the name than just the clever title-
There was. Or else the elves were as vulnerable to music as Gypsy legend suggested. They seized partners by the hands and began flinging themselves through the figures of the dance, just as wildly as she played, as if they couldn't help themselves.
She didn't give them a respite, either, when that tune had been played through three full sets; she moved smoothly from that piece into another, then another. Each piece was repeated for three sets; she had a guess from some of what the Gypsy songs said that 'three' was a magic number for binding and unloosing, and she wanted to bind them to their dancing, keeping them occupied and unable to attack.
She played for them as fiercely as she had for the Ghost, willing them to dance, faster and faster, until their eyes grew blank, and their limbs faltered. Finally some of them actually began dropping from exhaustion, fainting in the figures of the dance, unable to get up again-
One dropped; then two, then a half dozen. The rest staggered in the steps, stumbling over the fallen ones as if they could not stop unless they were as unconscious as the ones on the ground seemed to be. Another pair fainted into each other's arms, and the elven-king whirled, his face set in a mask of un-thought.
Then she changed her tune. Literally.
She brought the tune home and paused, for just a heartbeat. The elves' eyes all turned toward her again, most of them blank with weariness or pleading for her to stop. The elven-king, stronger than the rest, staggered towards her a step or two. She set bow to the strings again, and saw the flicker of fear in their eyes-
And she launched into the Gypsy laments.
Before she had finished the first, the weariest of the elves were weeping. As she had suspected, the Gypsy songs in particular held some kind of strange power over the elves, a power they themselves had no defense against. By the time she had completed the last sorrowing lament that Nightingale had taught her, even the elf with the coronet was in tears, helpless, caught in the throes of grief that Rune didn't understand even though she had evoked it.
She took her bow from her strings. Now there was no sound but soft sobbing.
They're mine. No matter what they try, they're too tired and too wrought up to move fast. I can play them into the ground, if I have to.
I think. Provided my arms hold out. . . .
Elves, she couldn't help but notice resentfully, looked beautiful even when weeping. Their eyes and cheeks didn't redden; their noses didn't swell up. They simply sobbed, musically, perfect crystal tears dropping from their clear amber eyes to trickle like raindrops down their cheeks.
She looked for the one with the coronet; he was climbing slowly to his feet, tears in his eyes, but his chin and mouth set with anger. She strode quickly across the greensward to get past Talaysen as the elven-king brought himself under control, and by the time he was able to look squarely at her, she was between him and her Master, with her bow poised over the strings again, and her face set in an expression of determination she hoped he could read.
'No!' he shouted, throwing out a hand, fear blazing from his eyes.
She removed her bow a scant inch from the strings, challenge in hers.
'No-' he said, in a calmer voice. 'Please. Play no more. Your magic is too strong for us, mortal. We have no defense against it.'
About him, his people were recovering; some of them, anyway. The ones who could control themselves, or who had not fainted with exhaustion earlier, were helping those who were still lying on the velvety green grass; trying to wake them from their faint, helping them to their feet.
Rune said nothing; she only watched the elven king steadily. He glanced at his courtiers and warriors, and his pale face grew paler still.
'You are powerful, for all that you are a green girl,' he said bitterly, turning a face full of carefully suppressed anger back to her. 'I knew that the man was powerful, and I confined him carefully, wrapping his music in bonds he could not break so that he could not work against us. But you! You, I had not expected. You have destroyed my defenses; you have brought my people to their knees. No!' he said again, as she inadvertently lowered her bow a trifle. 'No, I-beg you. Do not play again! Elves do not weep readily; many more tears, and my people may go mad with grief!'
'All right,' she replied steadily, speaking aloud for the first time in this encounter, controlling her voice as Talaysen had taught her, though her knees trembled with fear and her stomach was one ice-cold knot of panic. 'Maybe I won't. If you give me what I want.'
'What?' the elven-king replied swiftly. 'Ask and you shall have it. Gold, jewels, the treasures of the Earth, objects of enchantment-'
'Him,' she interrupted, before he could continue the litany, and perhaps distract her long enough to work against both of them. 'I want my lover back again.'
Then she bit her lip in vexation. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. She had meant to say 'Master,' but her heart and her nerves conspired to betray her.
'Lover?' the elven-king said, one eyebrow rising in disbelief as he looked from Talaysen to her and back to Talaysen. 'Lover? You-and he? What falsehood is this?' But then he furrowed his brows, and peered at her, as if he was trying to look into her heart. 'Lover, no-' he said slowly, 'but beloved, yes. I had not thought of this, either. Small wonder your music had such power against me, with all the strength of your heart behind it.'
'You can't keep him,' she said swiftly, trying to regain the ground she had lost with her inadvertent slip of the tongue. 'If you can see our thoughts, then you know I am not lying to you. If you cage a songbird, it won't sing; if you keep a falcon mewed up forever, it will die. Do the same to my Master, and he'll die just as surely as that falcon will. He gave up everything for freedom-take it from him, and you take away everything that makes him a Bard. He'll waste away, and leave you with nothing. And I will never forgive you. You'll have to kill me to rid yourself of me, and the cost will be higher than you may want to pay, believe me.'
The elven-king's eyes narrowed. 'There's truth in that,' he said slowly. 'Truth in everything you have said thus far. But you, mortal girl-you're made of sterner, more flexible stuff. You would not pine away like a linnet in a cage. Tell me, would you trade your freedom for his?'
'Yes,' she said, just as Talaysen cried out behind her, 'No!'
The elf considered them both for a moment longer, then shook his head. 'No,' he said, anger filling his voice. 'No, it must be both of you or neither. Cage the one, and the other will come to free it. Keep you both, and you will have my kingdom in ruins within the span of a single moon. You are too powerful to hold, too dangerous to keep, both of you. Go!'
He flung his arm up, pointing at the tunnel behind her. But Rune wasn't finished yet; the treachery of elves was as legendary as their power and secretiveness. She dropped the bow to the strings and played a single, grief- filled phrase.
'Stop!' The elven-king cried over it, tears springing into his eyes, hands clapped futilely over his ears. 'What more do you want of us?'
She lifted the bow from the strings. 'Your pledge,' she replied steadily. 'Your pledge of our safety.'
She saw the flash of rage that overcame him for a moment, and knew that she had been right. The elven-king had planned to ambush them as soon as their backs were turned, and probably kill them. He had lost a great deal of pride to her and her music; only destroying them would gain it back.
'Swear,' she insisted.
'By the Moon our Mother, the blood of the stars, and the honor of the Clan,' Talaysen whispered.
'Swear by the Moon our Mother, the blood of the stars, and the honor of the Clan that you will set us free, you will not hinder our leaving; you will not curse us, nor set magic nor weapons against us. Swear it!' she warned, as the rage the elven-king held in check built in his eyes and threatened to overwhelm his self-control. 'Swear it, or I'll play till my arms fall off! I played all one night before, I can do it again!'
He repeated it between gritted teeth, word for word. She slowly lowered her arms, and tucked fiddle and bow under one of them, never betraying by a single wince how both arms hurt.
