Cursed, p.16
Cursed, page 16
“My body is in here?” said Serilda, disbelieving. She glanced at Gild. “We never thought to check the carriage house?”
He shook his head, equally baffled. “Never.”
Serilda squared her shoulders. Lifting the hem of her gown, she swept inside. Before her stood a row of carriages in a long, dusty room, the air stifling and damp from the summer storm. She recognized the small carriage that had first come to Märchenfeld and summoned her to the Erlking’s castle, back on the Hunger Moon. Its body was made from the rib bones of an enormous beast, the interior hung with heavy black drapes, giving it the appearance of a lustrous cage.
Then there was a carriage with walls of stretched leather and silver night-raven statues perched at each rooftop corner.
And one with wooden walls carved so ornately into pillars and tall cloaked figures it looked like a mausoleum on wheels.
The largest carriage stood at the end of the row, and it was this one that Agathe led her toward. It was more a wagon, really, with a large storage compartment built out of alder wood. It reminded Serilda of a luxurious version of the wagons that had come through Märchenfeld to round up dead bodies when a plague had spread through the village years ago. She’d been only four or five at the time, and what she remembered most were the distrustful glares cast her way and the superstitious rumors that followed after her in the village square. For surely, what could have brought such misfortune upon their town, but the unholy, god-touched girl?
It was not until years later that Serilda learned the plague had also swept through much of Tulvask and parts of Ottelien, and therefore could not possibly have been her doing.
To this day, burial mounds from the plague victims could still be seen dotting some of the fields outside of town, now overgrown with grasses and wildflowers.
It was this she thought of—those forgotten graves, those wagons laden with decaying bodies—as the weapons master undid the latch on the back of the carriage and pulled open its double doors.
Inside was a box—not unlike a coffin, but with no lid. And inside, nestled atop a bed of crimson cloth, lay Serilda’s body.
She had been preparing for this for months, yet it was impossible not to feel that first jolt of wonder. Even though she had witnessed her body detaching from her spirit and crumple to the throne-room floor when the king first cursed her, it was so easy for her to forget that she no longer inhabited a physical form. After all, she still felt. She could still distinguish between hot and cold, soft and firm. Tears still pricked her eyes when she was sad. Heat still crept up her neck when she was embarrassed.
But now, looking into the face before her—her own face—the reality of it was jarring.
More jarring still was that the body before her was undeniably with child.
Her hands had been positioned so they rested just above her swelling stomach, rounded and pronounced in her reclined position. The same mud-spattered dress Serilda had worn the night she’d come rushing into the castle and become the king’s prisoner was still draped softly over her figure, pronouncing every curve.
Serilda placed a hand to her own stomach, but there was no child there. Her baby’s spirit was not inside her. It was growing here. In this body, in this carriage house. She would never be physically connected to this child. Not so long as she was cursed.
She was startled at the wave of despair that crashed upon her at the thought.
Her gaze drifted to the arrow struck through her wrist.
She took in an unsteady breath. “How can the child survive like this? How can it be growing when I am not … I am not able to care for it?”
“Our bodies are being sustained by magic,” said Gild. “It must be protecting the child as well.”
“But it’s growing,” she said. “It isn’t just … existing, like you and me. What will happen when it’s time to give birth?”
Gild didn’t answer her question.
Instead, he settled a hand on her back. “Serilda. I think we’re running out of time.”
Her breath quickened.
They knew where both of their bodies were. They could break the curses, both of them.
They could be gone tonight. It didn’t matter how the king intended for her to bring this child into the world. By sunrise, she could be back in her body again, and she would have her child, and Gild, too. She would have Gild and she could tell him everything.
They could be free.
She shut her eyes, and allowed herself to have this one moment, in which there was hope. In which this awful mess she’d made for herself was resolved.
When she opened her eyes again, her vision was blurred with tears.
She turned to Gild.
He gazed back at her, unsurprised. “We’re not going to break the curses tonight, are we?”
She swallowed. “I can’t leave.”
“The children.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I can’t abandon them. It’s my fault they’re here in the first place.” She glanced at Agathe, who was watching Serilda with heartfelt sympathy. “The Erlking promised me he would release their souls to Verloren if I … if I do what he wants me to do.”
“You mean, bear a child for him,” said Gild with a snarl.
“I wondered if you were not as enchanted with the marriage as he would have us believe,” said Agathe. “You seemed too sensible to be in love with that monster.”
“No,” said Serilda with a wry laugh. “I’m definitely not in love.” As soon as she said it, she caught Gild’s eye, and heat flushed through her cheeks. She looked away. “But I am trapped. I am so grateful you’ve brought me here, but … I can’t break my curse. Not until I know the children will be all right.”
“I understand,” said Gild. “Just as I can’t break my curse until I know you’ll be all right.”
He squeezed her hand, their expressions pained as they realized how much they had hung all their hopes on this moment. Finding their bodies. Snapping the arrows, untethering their souls, setting themselves free.
But it had only been a distraction.
It was never going to be that easy.
“In that case,” said Agathe, “the solution is quite simple, isn’t it?”
They both frowned at her. “What do you mean?” asked Serilda.
Agathe adjusted her bloodied scarf. “You must free the children. You are a gold-spinner, are you not?”
Serilda’s eyes widened in shock, before she realized that Agathe was asking her, not Gild. “Y-yes. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well,” Agathe started, “ghosts are magical creatures, just like the beasts we hunt. They are affected by god-spun gold. It is said that if you tie a strand of god-spun gold around a ghost beneath a full moon and call upon Velos … well. It will … you know.” She waved her good hand through the air.
Serilda, mouth agape, glanced at Gild. He looked equally perplexed.
“It will … what?” said Serilda.
Agathe sighed. “Free their souls. Allow them to pass on to Verloren.”
“What?” shouted Gild, startling them all. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but quickly dropped it to his side again and stepped closer to Agathe. “Are you telling me that all these ghosts … This whole time I could have … They could have been freed? All this time?”
“Well,” started Agathe, “you need god-spun gold for it to work.” She looked past him to Serilda, then she stilled. “Oh. I’m sorry. I forgot. You can’t spin anymore, can you? His Grim has been so upset that we don’t have more chains…”
“Uh … no,” said Serilda. “I can’t. It’s complicated.”
“I’m sorry,” said Agathe. “I thought I was being helpful.”
“You have been,” said Gild, dragging his hands through his hair. He started to pace, frenetic energy pulsing through him at this new information. This incredible, unexpected gift the weapons master had given them. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“But you had access to the golden chains,” said Serilda. “Couldn’t you have freed yourself during the hunt?”
Agathe laughed. “The king is very protective of those chains, so I’m not sure I could have managed to sneak even a single strand without his notice. But”—her expression grew serious—“I don’t think I would have, even if I’d had the chance. You mentioned before it’s your fault those children are here. Well. It’s my fault the rest of us are here. I am to blame for the massacre that happened within these walls. I failed in my duty to protect the people of this castle. I let the dark ones through. I let them kill us all.”
Serilda shook her head. “No, Agathe. They are immortal. They have magic. It is not your fault—”
“Thank you, my queen, but I am not asking for comfort or absolution. I have lived with my failings for long enough. My point, I suppose, is that—while I may not remember the dynasty I once served—I do remember an unbreakable loyalty. A pride in serving one family, one kingdom. The Erlking took that away from me, and has kept me and so many others prisoner all these years.” Despite her dark words, a small smile touched her lips. “You, poltergeist … and now, you, my queen, seem to be the only ones who are able to … How do I say it? Fight against him. It gives me hope to think that someday, perhaps, I will be able to fight back, too. Then I will finally be able to atone for my failures.”
Serilda felt emboldened by her words. She was tempted to tell Agathe the truth about Gild, the so-called poltergeist. What would Agathe think if she knew that this mischievous boy was none other than the prince she had once been so loyal to?
But Serilda knew she couldn’t say anything. It could too easily make its way back to the king, and then he would know that Serilda had figured out the prince’s identity. They were already risking so much letting her help them. Serilda didn’t know what the Erlking would do if he knew she’d been working with the poltergeist to find their bodies.
But maybe it wouldn’t matter. Agathe had given them an incredible gift, a way to free the children, to free all the ghosts … and ultimately, to free themselves.
Not knowing what else to say in response to the woman’s story, Serilda managed, “Thank you, Lady Agathe. You don’t know how much you’ve helped us tonight. Between protecting Anna from the bärgeist, and now this … you are a true gift. I promise, this will not be forgotten.”
THE STRAW MOON
Chapter Nineteen
One more meal with the Erlking.
That was it.
That was all.
She had only to survive one more evening bread with that insufferable, arrogant, wicked man. And when the meal was over, the wild hunt would depart beneath the Straw Moon, and she and Gild would be able to set free not only her five beloved attendants, but every single ghost in this castle.
Though Serilda knew better than to praise the day before the evening, she couldn’t help but feel they were so close.
Gild had been sequestered in his tower for weeks, ever since Agathe had told them how to overcome the Erlking’s hold on these spirits, spinning strands of gold from the fur of the dahut kept in the menagerie, and the hair of the goats kept for milk and cheese, and green summer grass from the castle lawns, and any other fibers they could get ahold of. Serilda didn’t know if the spirits, once released, would take the gold ropes with them into Verloren, so they didn’t want to rely on having to reuse the same ropes over and over again. They needed enough for everyone. And they needed to be most secretive about it all. Even the children couldn’t know what they were doing, for fear their false allegiance to the Erlking would force them to confess the plan.
No—they would wait until the hunt was gone, and then they would move forward. The Straw Moon was rising and they were ready.
She had only to get through one more meal. Now that the pregnancy had been announced, there was no longer any purpose in feigning intimacy behind closed doors, and so the Erlking had frequently requested her presence in the dining hall instead. Usually it was just the two of them and a handful of servants, but when they were seated at opposite ends of a massive table, Serilda could pretend she was alone.
Except, when she swept into the dining hall that night, she knew immediately that things were different. And in this castle, Serilda had come to associate anything different with a quietly brewing threat. Her husband was a man of habit. When things changed, it usually meant he was plotting something. And when he was plotting something, it was usually against her.
She took in the dining hall, already on edge. The great table had been pushed to one side, and the Erlking’s high-backed mahogany chair was instead placed at a small round table set for two. Silver dishes and cutlery with pearl handles stood out against a dark velvet tablecloth puddled on the stone floor. A tall candle in a silver candlestick sat in the table’s center, surrounded by a wreath of lavender and lobelia. An assortment of platters overflowed with late-summer delicacies. Blackberries and tangy cheese drizzled with honey and pistachios. Roasted quail served with sweetened mustard. Tarts filled with apples and walnuts. Pears soaked in mead.
“My wife,” said the Erlking, setting down a goblet of crimson wine and standing to greet her.
Serilda’s eyebrows shot upward. This, too, was new. The Erlking never stood for anyone, least of all her.
“What is this?” she asked as he pulled out a chair for her.
“I’ve been distracted of late,” he said, “and have not been giving you enough attention. It would not do to neglect my duties to you and bring into question my great affection, given our very young romance. And, of course, your special condition.”
Serilda’s frown deepened. “What is this really?”
He laughed. “Were you always this suspicious?”
“Indeed not. But being cursed and locked up in a haunted castle has a way of changing one’s perspectives on the world.”
His fingers drummed against the back of the chair. “Take a seat, love. I mean only to enjoy a fine meal with the mother of my child.”
The words made her shudder, but Serilda forced herself to cross the dining hall and accept the proffered seat. The Erlking filled a goblet of water from a crystal carafe and added a few juniper berries with a flourish. Serilda watched them sink to the bottom of the glass with mounting trepidation. Then the king prepared her plate, scooping berries and pears alongside slices of quail breast.
To her annoyance, her stomach growled. Which was a strange sensation, as she was convinced that, without her physical body, she actually had no use for food. But she craved it all the same.
“These are some of my favorite foods,” she said in surprise.
“Yes. I requested them from the cooks.”
She shot him a simpering smile. “Tell me. What delicacies would you prefer? Puddings crafted from the blood of your victims? Cakes sprinkled with the milk teeth and finger bones of lost children?”
His eyes glinted. “Don’t be grotesque, my sweet. I only eat the teeth of the elderly, once they’ve gone a little rotten. They’re softer, not so difficult to chew.” He pinched his fingers together in imitation of chewing, and Serilda gaped. That was a joke. Right?
While he prepared their plates, Serilda let her gaze drift around the room, where it landed on the massive taxidermy bird on the wall above a long buffet. It was the hercinia, a magic creature with wings like a fiery sunset, that even in death continued to glow faintly in the dim room. The first time she had been brought to this castle, the Erlking made a point of showing her this prize that the hunt had captured in the Aschen Wood. He had also made a point of telling her how both her head and her father’s would soon decorate the wall to either side of the fabulous creature if she failed in her task of spinning straw into gold.
Remembering it, Serilda started to laugh.
The Erlking paused from placing a strip of veal on her plate. “What has amused you?”
“You,” she said, “and how you once threatened to cut off my head, standing in this very room. And now you are cutting my meat for me. If one cannot find amusement in that, then they are hopeless.”
The Erlking peered at the hercinia. “It was really the moss maidens’ heads that I wanted then.”
Serilda grimaced. “I remember.”
He placed the plate in front of Serilda and took his seat. “Perhaps I shall have them still.”
She didn’t respond. She suspected he said it mostly to make her uncomfortable.
“Shouldn’t you be preparing for tonight’s hunt?” she asked, breaking apart a dark-crusted roll, releasing a burst of sweet-smelling steam.
“The hunt can wait. I am enjoying the company of my beloved.” He grinned, and in that look she searched for his usual smirk, his taunting laughter.
She looked for it, but it wasn’t there, only a memory of it where it ought to be.
“Charming,” she mused. “I had not known you for a romantic.”
“No? Then I have not been treating you as I ought to.” Setting down the knife, he peered at Serilda a long moment, then reached across the table and, with the affection of a man enchanted, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
The shiver that overtook Serilda’s body swept all the way to her feet.
As he pulled back, she felt herself frozen to the chair.
What was happening?
“All right,” she said, her voice hardening to ice. “Out with it. What is this truly about?”
He chuckled again. “Ever quick to question my motives.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Not at all. In fact, there is a small mystery I hoped you might help me solve.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a black-tipped arrow.
Serilda stilled, recognizing the weapon she had pulled out of the venomous chickenlike creature. The one that had then nearly killed her and Gild, even from inside its cage.
The king set the arrow between them on the table. “This was found in a room on the second floor, amid a great deal of destruction. Curtains, furniture … everything but a particularly resistant golden cage was completely annihilated. Even some of the inner walls suffered damage. I’ve had carpenters working all month to try to reinforce them.” He cocked his head to one side. “You wouldn’t happen to know what caused that destruction, would you?”
