No Quest For The Wicked

“I’d rather make sure before I report it. It would be embarrassing if I messed up the translation or the interpretation. We’ll report it if we find it. Then Merlin will have to figure out what to do about it.”



We took the subway uptown and then walked a couple of blocks to the jewelry store. As we entered, a polite salesman met us. He took in the two of us walking hand in hand and said, “Our engagement rings are on the second floor. The elevator is right this way.” Owen turned bright red, and my face felt like it matched his, but to his credit, he didn’t release my hand.



“Actually, today we’re looking for something different,” Owen said. “Something in rare gems.”



The salesman nodded and told us we’d also find that on the second floor, while I tried not to get too excited about the fact that Owen had said that “today” he wasn’t looking for an engagement ring. We hadn’t been dating that long, and most of that time, we’d been busy fighting magical evil, but I already knew I couldn’t imagine spending my life with anyone else, and I couldn’t help but hope he was thinking along the same lines.



There was already someone at the counter when we got upstairs, and that alone told me that Owen’s translation and my interpretation were correct because that someone was an elf. It was too much for coincidence that a member of a magical race was there. The elf was fair-haired—and highlighted, I guessed—with his hair blow-dried back from his face. Every item of clothing he wore bore a designer logo, and it was mostly in pastel shades. I’d thought preppies had died out with the eighties, but this one seemed to have survived.



We edged closer to overhear the conversation, but much to our surprise, the elf wasn’t talking about a gem like the Eye of the Moon. He was talking about a Celtic-style golden brooch. “We did have something like that come in just yesterday,” the salesman said. “Only, it has a gemstone set in it, a star sapphire.”



“A sapphire? Are you sure? The piece I know had no stone,” the elf said.



“Oh, it definitely has a stone in it, a rather beautiful one.” The salesman’s eyes glazed over. “So very, very beautiful.”



“May I see it?” the elf asked, sounding a little too eager.



Owen stepped forward then and said, “It wouldn’t have been a spherical dark sapphire, would it?”



“Why, yes!” the salesman said. “Do you know this piece?”



“I’ve heard of it,” Owen said, warily eying the elf, who gave him a funny look in response. “But it’s not set in a brooch.”



“Let me go check. A piece that rare would be kept in a safe,” the salesman said.



When he was gone, I asked Owen, “Is that it?”



“It sounds like it.”



“But what about this brooch?”



“I don’t know.” He turned to the elf. “What brooch is this you’re looking for? Is it of elven creation?”



“Ah, so you do see my true appearance,” the elf said, giving a slight bow. “I am Lyle Redvers. I seek the Knot of Arnhold, which has been lost to my people for centuries. I had a vision of it here today.”



“The Knot? Really?” Owen asked. To me he explained, “It’s legendary. Supposedly, anyone who wears it is practically invulnerable.”



The salesman returned, looking distressed. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked like he’d been crying. “Was this the piece you were looking for?” He showed us a printed digital photo of a golden brooch made of interlocked rings with a globe of sapphire set in the middle. The photo was crumpled, as though it had been clutched desperately in someone’s grasp.



Owen and Lyle the elf both gasped so hard that it seemed to suck all the air out of the room. “Yes, that is it,” the elf said to the salesman, his voice shaking. “I must have it.”



“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir,” the salesman said with a mournful sniffle. “That piece was purchased this morning, almost as soon as we opened for business. It’s gone.” His voice broke in a sob. “We lost it.” Then he pulled himself together with some effort and said stiffly, “Is there something else I can show you? We do have several other brooches of similar design. They aren’t the same, but then, what is?” His voice trembled again, and there was a loud, wailing sob from the vault area. A bedraggled saleswoman with a blotchy, tear-stained face staggered out, grabbed the photo from the salesman, clutched it against her chest, then stumbled back to the vault, still wailing loudly.