The Queen felt weak. And small, and tired. The trees were closing in. The light seemed to fade. She looked at the faces around her, then rallied and summoned up what power she had left. She was still the Queen. Their queen. They must listen to her.
‘The times are a-changing,’ she said, pulling herself to her full height. ‘Iron or not, goblins or not, that world is no longer the same.’
‘So we hide away, at your bidding,’ said Peaseblossom, his voice full of contempt. ‘If the world is changing, it is we who must change it. We who must decide how it will be. That is how it has always been. And how it must be again.’
The elves around him sparkled their approval, their finery dazzling, their cold narrow faces surrounded by the glow of their glamour.
The Queen felt lost. ‘You don’t understand,’ she tried. ‘We have that world there, for our pleasure. But if we try to act as it has always been, well, we will be rolled over by time. Just . . . fairies. This is what the iron in that world tells us. There is no future for us there.’
Peaseblossom sneered and said, ‘This is rubbish. This talk of no future? We make our own futures. We don’t care about humans or goblins. But you – you seem to be rather soft on them. Could the great Queen be afraid? You are not certain of yourself, lady. That makes us uncertain of you.’
The allegiance of elves is spider-web thin and the currency of Fairyland is glamour. The Queen could feel her glamour draining away more and more as her adversary talked.
And then he struck.
‘You have become too soft, madam,’ he roared. ‘It began with that . . . girl. And it will end with . . . me!’ And now his glamour was growing in intensity and his eyes were glowing and the power was building around him, making the other elves wary and obedient. Peaseblossom pointed at the Queen, watching myriad faces and visages flicker across her features – golden hair, dark hair, long hair, short hair, wispy hair . . . balding, baby’s hair. Tall, strong . . . weak, child-like. Upright, curled over . . . whimpering. ‘The goblins no longer come at your beck and call these days,’ he hissed. ‘And Fairyland cannot survive without a strong leader. We elves need somebody to prevail – over goblins, over humans and everybody else. What we need now, what our king in the barrow needs, is a warrior.’
Peaseblossom was like a snake now, his gaze piercing his victim, even as she shrivelled further and wept from the loss of her glamour.
‘We can’t be governed by such as this,’ he concluded contemptuously. He turned to the other elves and said, ‘What do you say?’
And in the blankness of their eyes, the Queen saw her future drop away.
‘What should we do with her, Lord Peaseblossom?’ It was Mustardseed, striding forward to support his new leader.
‘She must quit the throne!’ another elf called out.
Peaseblossom looked down at his former queen with disdain. ‘Take her away, toy with her as you will – and then tear off her wings,’ he commanded. ‘That will be the penalty for those who fail. Now,’ he continued, ‘where are my musicians? Let us dance on the shame of her who was once our queen. Kick her memory, if you will, out of Fairyland with her, and may she never come back.’
‘Where should she go?’ Mustardseed called, grabbing the Queen by one of her tiny, stick-like arms.
But Peaseblossom had gone, weaving amongst the throng of courtiers who now danced in his footsteps.
As the helpless little elf who had once been a queen was dragged from his sight, Mustardseed heard her whisper a few words in her desperation: ‘Thunder . . . and Lightning . . . may you feel the force of Thunder and Lightning, Peaseblossom, and then the wrath of Tiffany Aching. It stings to the bone . . .’
And the rain started and became hail.
fn1 Pronounced ‘Chuffley’ under that strange rule that the more gentrified a family is, the more peculiar the pronunciation of their name becomes. Tiffany had once heard a highborn visitor named Ponsonby-Macklewright (Pwt) refer to Roland as Chf. She wondered how they managed at dinner when Pwt introduced Chf to Wm or Hmpfh. Surely it could lead to misunderstandings?
CHAPTER 9
Good with Goats
THE BOY STANDING in the rain looking at Tiffany at the back door of the cottage that was now hers – no longer Granny’s – was not like her usual visitor. He was grubby, yes, but it was the grubbiness of the road rather than that of poverty, and he had a goat with him, which wasn’t usual. But he didn’t look in need. She looked closer. His clothing had once been expensive, high-class stuff. Needy, though, she thought. A few years younger than her too.
‘Are you Mistress Aching, the witch?’ he asked nervously as she opened the door.