The King of Elfland’s Daughter, Lord Dunsany [free books to read .txt] 📗

The King of Elfland’s Daughter

By Lord Dunsany.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint Dedication Preface The King of Elfland’s Daughter I: The Plan of the Parliament of Erl II: Alveric Comes in Sight of the Elfin Mountains III: The Magical Sword Meets Some of the Swords of Elfland IV: Alveric Comes Back to Earth After Many Years V: The Wisdom of the Parliament of Erl VI: The Rune of the Elf King VII: The Coming of the Troll VIII: The Arrival of the Rune IX: Lirazel Blows Away X: The Ebbing of Elfland XI: The Deep of the Woods XII: The Unenchanted Plain XIII: The Reticence of the Leather-Worker XIV: The Quest for the Elfin Mountains XV: The Retreat of the Elf King XVI: Orion Hunts the Stag XVII: The Unicorn Comes in the Starlight XVIII: The Grey Tent in the Evening XIX: Twelve Old Men Without Magic XX: A Historical Fact XXI: On the Verge of Earth XXII: Orion Appoints a Whip XXIII: Lurulu Watches the Restlessness of Earth XXIV: Lurulu Speaks of Earth and the Ways of Men XXV: Lirazel Remembers the Fields We Know XXVI: The Horn of Alveric XXVII: The Return of Lurulu XXVIII: A Chapter on Unicorn-Hunting XXIX: The Luring of the People of the Marshes XXX: The Coming of Too Much Magic XXXI: The Cursing of Elfin Things XXXII: Lirazel Yearns for Earth XXXIII: The Shining Line XXXIV: The Last Great Rune Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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To
Lady Dunsany

Preface

I hope that no suggestion of any strange land that may be conveyed by the title will scare readers away from this book; for, though some chapters do indeed tell of Elfland, in the greater part of them there is no more to be shown than the face of the fields we know, and ordinary English woods and a common village and valley, a good twenty or twenty-five miles from the border of Elfland.

Lord Dunsany

The King of Elfland’s Daughter I The Plan of the Parliament of Erl

In their ruddy jackets of leather that reached to their knees the men of Erl appeared before their lord, the stately white-haired man in his long red room. He leaned in his carven chair and heard their spokesman.

And thus their spokesman said.

“For seven hundred years the chiefs of your race have ruled us well; and their deeds are remembered by the minor minstrels, living on yet in their little tinkling songs. And yet the generations stream away, and there is no new thing.”

“What would you?” said the lord.

“We would be ruled by a magic lord,” they said.

“So be it,” said the lord. “It is five hundred years since my people have spoken thus in parliament, and it shall always be as your parliament saith. You have spoken. So be it.”

And he raised his hand and blessed them and they went.

They went back to their ancient crafts, to the fitting of iron to the hooves of horses, to working upon leather, to tending flowers, to ministering to the rugged needs of Earth; they followed the ancient ways, and looked for a new thing. But the old lord sent a word to his eldest son, bidding him come before him.

And very soon the young man stood before him, in that same carven chair from which he had not moved, where light, growing late, from high windows, showed the aged eyes looking far into the future beyond that old lord’s time. And seated there he gave his son his commandment.

“Go forth,” he said, “before these days of mine are over, and therefore go in haste, and go from here eastwards and pass the fields we know, till you see the lands that clearly pertain to Faery; and cross their boundary, which is made of twilight, and come to that palace that is only told of in song.”

“It is far from here,” said the young man Alveric.

“Yes,” answered he, “it is far.”

“And further still,” the young man said, “to return. For distances in those fields are not as here.”

“Even so,” said his father.

“What do you bid me do,” said the son, “when I come to that palace?”

And his father said: “To wed the King of Elfland’s daughter.”

The young man thought of her beauty and crown of ice, and the sweetness that fabulous runes had told was hers. Songs were sung of her on wild hills where tiny strawberries grew, at dusk and by early starlight, and if one sought the singer no man was there. Sometimes only her name was sung softly over and over. Her name was Lirazel.

She was a princess of the magic line. The gods had sent their shadows to her christening, and the fairies too would have gone, but that they were frightened to see on their dewy fields