Cursed, p.29
Cursed, page 29
Serilda peered down at the children, studying each of their beloved faces. “Whatever happens, you stay close to me.”
She started her descent again. The stairs seemed never-ending and she could no longer see the glow of the Erlking’s torch.
The whispers returned, growing louder, while her steps grew more hesitant, more hushed.
Beneath the knotted vines, the walls turned from stone to hard-packed dirt.
She was so cold. She could no longer feel her toes or fingertips and wished she did not have to feel grateful that the king had sent for the cloak.
Finally, she saw a glimmer ahead, illuminating the base of the steps.
She held her breath as she passed through an arch of brambles, thick as tree trunks, into a vast chamber. It was bigger even than the great hall above. Octagonal in shape, cavelike, with walls made of dirt and stone and clay and a ceiling that rose far overhead.
In the center of the room the Erlking stood near a flat stone altar, on top of which rested a wooden box.
A box she recognized.
As the dark ones poured in around her, sticking their torches into iron brackets on the walls, Serilda stared at the coffin where last she had seen her body. A wooden lid had been cut to fit the top, but she knew, she knew, her body was still inside.
So, this was where he had hidden it. In the very last place she would ever have dared to venture.
Serilda barely felt the slippery press of the children’s hands grabbing her arms and hands. Trying to wet her parched lips, she tore her gaze from the coffin and looked past the altar. On the far side of the chamber, enormous glossy black monoliths had been toppled over into the dust, all pointing to where the roots from the alder tree climbed down the dirt walls, forming the foundations of the castle above.
Between two of the massive roots was an opening.
There, the roots were blackened and twisted with dead twigs and brambles like those climbing up the steps.
An abyss lay beyond that opening. Pitch-black nothingness at first, but the more Serilda stared, the more her eyes detected faint lights shimmering deep, deep in the darkness, pale blue and lavender fireflies shifting in and out of a thick fog. An entire ocean of shining black reflecting the constellations of a midnight sky.
Verloren.
Serilda felt a tension building up inside her. The sight beckoned her and repelled her at the same time.
She heard them again. Climbing up from those hallowed depths.
Whispers.
More distinct now.
Serilda …
Tears gathered in her eyes. She tried to nudge the children away. Back toward the stairs—
The Erlking noticed and cocked his head at her. “Don’t be hasty, my queen. You’ve only just arrived.”
“W-we shouldn’t be here,” said Serilda, not ashamed at the crack in her voice. “It’s not … it isn’t n-natural for the living to be so … so close to this place.”
He barked a laugh and swept an arm around the room. “Who among us is living?”
Her gut tightened.
She was living, she wanted to say. She was not dead yet. Cursed—but not dead.
Before she could form a response, though, the voice called to her again.
Serilda … my sweet daughter …
Her lower lip trembled. She could not help taking half a step toward the gate before she felt Nickel’s hand on her wrist, and the slickness of this cool, ghostly flesh made her wince. She shook him off before she realized she’d done it, and glanced back in time to see his hurt expression.
Regret coursed through her.
Get away…, urged the voice. Run while you can …
“Papa?” she squeaked, as the first tear slipped past her lashes.
“No,” murmured Hans. “It isn’t your father. It’s … I hear my granddad.”
Serilda stilled. “What?”
“He passed when I was eight,” he said, so quietly. “But he’s calling to me now.” His eyes were on the gate, his expression part fear, but more longing.
“Telling you to run?” Serilda breathed.
Surprise shot through Hans’s expression and he shook his head. “Telling me to come with him.”
Serilda …
Serilda looked at the Erlking, who seemed to be watching her. Waiting for … something.
Swallowing, she walked past him, past the coffin, until she was close enough to see beyond the edges of the gates, into the mist that lay beyond.
In the distance, as if she were barely making out a moonlit reflection in a pool of ink, she could see a white bridge stretching out across—well, she wasn’t sure. A ravine. A river. Golden candlelight illuminated the bridge’s stark white stones. The mist gathered thick at its far end, obscuring what lay beyond.
Then—a single light. Moving closer. Swaying gently back and forth.
Hope leaped inside her, bright as a matchstick unexpectedly struck.
“Papa,” she whispered, before she could stop herself. She took another step forward, but then a hand was on her elbow, holding her back. She shuddered and ripped her arm away from the Erlking’s grip, her eyes locked on the swaying lantern, the figure emerging from the mist.
Crossing the bridge, step by unhurried step.
Tall. Slender. Wearing an emerald cloak trimmed in shaggy black fur.
Not her father.
And then she remembered what they were doing here.
“No!” she screamed, the sound ripping from her throat before she knew what she was thinking. “Run! Velos! He means to—”
Hands grabbed her, a palm pressing against her mouth, muffling her cries. She writhed, trying to pull away from the hand silencing her but, even more, from the smothering feeling of death and wrongness.
“I am sorry,” whispered a broken voice.
Serilda stopped struggling. Tears were dripping down both cheeks now, her limbs tensed from revulsion.
She craned her neck to see Manfred peering down at her, his expression tormented.
With that look, Serilda felt the fight draining out of her. She couldn’t fight Manfred. She didn’t want to. He was not her enemy.
With a quiet sob, she turned her attention back to the gates.
Manfred hesitantly let his hand fall from her mouth, but he did not release her.
Velos had reached their side of the bridge. Serilda could not make out their face yet as they drifted up the steps. There was a subtle grace to their movements. A mesmerizing rhythm.
She had seen Velos once before, when she had drunk the death potion prepared by Madam Sauer. It had put her into a deathlike state during the night of the Awakening Moon. For a time, she had forgotten to take hold of the ash branch that would keep her spirit tethered to the earth until Madam Sauer could revive her. She had begun to drift away. She had seen Velos and their lamp, waiting for her. Beckoning to her. Prepared to walk with her soul into Verloren.
She had not been afraid then, and she wasn’t afraid now. Not of this god.
She was afraid only of what the Erlking planned to do.
Velos stepped through the gate and peered serenely into the face of the Erlking.
With the lantern hanging from their elbow, the god reached up with their other hand and pulled back the hood of their cloak, letting it settle over their shoulders. Serilda stared, breathless, taking in the features that were somehow both youthful and ancient. The god had white skin that shimmered like pearls, a delicate nose and mouth, and short black hair that curled softly around their ears. Their expression held no cruelty, but neither did it hold much kindness.
Run, she pleaded silently, hoping the god might look at her and understand. But the god of death had eyes only for the Erlking. Not frightened. Not even wary. More … curious.
Slowly, the Erlking spread out his hands, revealing open palms. “The Mourning Moon greets you, Velos. I hoped we might conduct a peaceful discussion.”
Velos tilted up their chin and Serilda noted the first touch of emotion on their sharp features. Not arrogance. Not amusement.
Resignation?
“I know what it is you have come to seek,” said Velos, revealing sharp canine teeth. Their words were measured and thoughtful. “As you know, the price is too high, and you will not be willing to pay it.”
“To the contrary,” said the Erlking, whose own calm voice carried a roughened edge, “I am prepared to pay any price you ask.”
Velos listed their head to one side. They did not smile. They did not laugh. They said, simply, as if it were obvious, “Then I would ask for you, in trade.”
The arms around Serilda tensed. Her own gut spasmed.
The Erlking in trade for what? For—
No. Not what. For whom.
He was asking for the return of Perchta.
Chapter Thirty-Six
This wasn’t supposed to happen now, tonight. Serilda had until the Endless Moon, which was still two months away. The Erlking could not demand a wish.
Though Serilda supposed he wasn’t making a wish. He was making a request. Asking for a trade.
And what trade would the god of death accept?
Only the Alder King himself.
The Erlking smiled, just slightly. “I think not.”
“Then there will be no bargain struck tonight.” Velos bent their head, almost in deference or perhaps a mutual respect. Serilda knew that the dark ones held great animosity toward this god, who had once been their lord and master. But if Velos harbored any of that same hatred, she could not see it on their face. “I have much work to do beneath this moon,” they went on. “You have my gratitude for reopening the gate, which makes my path into the mortal realm less treacherous. Please excuse me, for there are souls who wish to see their loved ones again.” Their eyes slipped toward Serilda, locking onto hers for the first time.
She froze, feeling both lost and found inside that peaceful gaze. A gaze that held worlds and eternities.
“Including,” Velos went on, “some who are here tonight.”
The Erlking let out an annoyed huff. “I did not reopen the gate so my castle might serve as your toll road into the mortal realm. I am here to conduct business with you.”
Ignoring the Erlking, Velos reached their hand toward the staircase and beckoned toward the shadows.
With a snarl turning up one lip, the Erlking stepped closer. “Do not think to bring those pathetic souls into my court. I have plenty of my own.”
A figure shifted at the base of the steps, appearing on the near side of the bridge and drifting upward. Their body little more than a wisp of fog, but becoming corporeal as they moved closer to the gate.
Serilda’s eyes narrowed. There was something familiar in the way the figure walked. Something in the way they carried their shoulders.
“Unless you want me to keep them all,” the king growled, “I suggest you send them back.”
The figure on the steps glanced up.
“Papa!” Serilda cried.
Manfred’s arms tensed around her. Then, to her surprise, he let go. Serilda did not question if her freedom came from the ghost or the king. As soon as the arms fell away, she ran forward. Her father stepped through the gate. His soul solidified. He was whole. Not a nachzehrer. Not a corpse, his head cut off to stop his depraved hunger.
His eyes met hers.
A part of her worried she would rush right through him and find herself tumbling headfirst down the steps. But no—she reached for her father and threw her arms around him, and he was solid, he was real, he was—
Not alive. Of course not alive.
But not exactly a ghost either. He was more like her. A spirit. A soul, untethered by a mortal body.
He embraced her tight, squeezing her in arms made strong by years of working the heavy wheels at the mill.
“Papa,” she said, sobbing into his shoulder. “I thought I’d never see you again.” They were the only words she could get out before sobs took her over. She was crying too hard to hear his response, but he brushed her hair and held her close, and that was enough.
Then, all around her, a series of gasps and cries. Fear darted through Serilda and she released her father, spinning back toward the children.
But their cries had not been fear at all. Their eyes were shining with astonishment, with unparalleled joy. Little Gerdrut let out a squeal and lurched forward, passing Serilda in a delighted blur.
Serilda’s father had not come alone. Gerdrut’s grandmother was there, the same she had seen in her dream. And Hans’s grandparents. And the twins’ great-aunt and Anna’s favorite cousin. And more, so many more. Spirits and souls gathered among the ghosts. The chamber became a cacophony of tears, laughter, disbelief. Everywhere Serilda looked she saw weeping and kissing and incredulous smiles.
Then, out from the gates, emerged two figures dressed in regal finery. A man and a woman, each with a slender crown atop their head. The man had a short beard and blond hair that fell to his shoulders. The woman—thick reddish waves and a spattering of freckles on her pale skin.
Serilda’s breath left her. She knew those crowns. She recognized the man’s doublet. She knew the woman’s smile, warm and disarming and a tiny bit mischievous. It was Gild’s smile.
The king of Adalheid swept straight up to Manfred, embracing him like an old friend. The queen made her way among the crowd, tears shimmering on her cheeks as she greeted the members of her court. She took every offered hand, kissed every cheek, opened her arms to every noble and servant as if they were equals. In death, perhaps they were.
The ghosts at first seemed baffled by the appearance of these two monarchs. They did not recognize the king and queen. They still did not remember them.
But their hesitation was short-lived, because the king and queen clearly knew them. Loved and respected them, even. It was not difficult to accept these grinning nobles as their true sovereigns, especially after centuries of serving the dark ones.
Pain spiked in Serilda’s chest. Oh, how she wished Gild were here.
Meanwhile, the dark ones looked on, tapping their long fingers against their weapons and glowering impatiently.
Serilda scanned the thickening crowd of souls and realized that something strange was happening to those still crossing the bridge. Many of the spirits vanished the moment they passed through the arch of the gate, rather than entering the chamber beneath Gravenstone Castle. Were they being sent elsewhere, she wondered—to wherever their loved ones waited for them, weeping at graveyards or bent over candlelit offerings?
She turned back to Papa. “What about Mother? Is she with you?”
Her father’s expression fell. “She is—” He hesitated, his voice catching. “I do not know. I have never seen her in Verloren. I do not believe she is … I don’t think she’s there.”
Serilda blinked slowly.
Not in Verloren?
What did that mean? Was she still alive?
It was, somehow, both Serilda’s greatest hope and deepest fear. That her mother was still out there somewhere. That she had not perished the night she’d been taken by the hunt. That Serilda might still have a chance of finding her.
And yet, that would mean the most hurtful truth of all. Her mother had left her and never come back. Not because she was forced to, but because she had wanted to.
Serilda shoved the feeling down deep inside. She made herself smile as she cupped her father’s face. “It’s all right. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
“For now,” he said, embracing her again. “Even to have just one moment. To say goodbye. After all that happened…”
Serilda squeezed his shoulders, but even as she tried to make space in her heart for this unexpected gift—this precious moment with the man who had been everything to her for so long—her gaze snagged on Velos not far away. The god was turning back toward the gate, their cloak sweeping across the dusty floor.
“We are not finished!” said the Erlking, his voice sharp as a sword.
Velos paused, but appeared unbothered by the king’s anger. “Are we not?”
The Erlking swept his arm around the chamber. “As you so value your beloved human souls, I shall give you the ghosts within this chamber.”
Serilda stilled.
Every being in the room—dark ones and ghosts alike—went still.
Serilda extracted herself from her father’s hold, unable to believe she’d heard correctly. The Erlking would give up his claim on all these souls? He would grant their freedom? An escape from the control of the dark ones?
On the Mourning Moon, just as he had promised Agathe.
“All,” added the Erlking, his sharp gaze landing on Serilda, then dropping to the five children around her, all huddled together with their loved ones, “except for those five.”
He might as well have driven a sword straight through her.
“No,” said Serilda. “Please.”
The king looked back to Velos.
Trembling, Serilda reached over and took hold of Gerdrut’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. The unfairness of it all was crushing. To know that he would trade every ghost he’d collected, every spirit imprisoned in Adalheid … all but the five she cared for most. All but the children. Only so he may still hold this power over her.
The god had not spoken, but Serilda could tell they were considering the offer. Surely, the god of death would see this as a great victory. To finally claim hundreds of souls who had been kept from their final rest.
But, in exchange, they would need to release Perchta.
The god’s eyes sharpened. “I would have the children, too.”
“No,” said the Erlking. “I have other plans for them.”
Velos shook their head. “Then I refuse your offer. It is not enough to release that plague back on the world.”
The Erlking scowled. “Then name your price.”
“I already have,” said Velos. “There is nothing else you have to offer that I would trade for the huntress. Farewell, Erlkönig.”
They began to turn away again, when the king’s voice rang out, “I shall give you my court.”
Sharp breaths echoed throughout the chamber.
The god hesitated. “Your court?”
