Cursed, p.3
Cursed, page 3
“It is not impatience that I feel.”
“You have not dreamed of being a summer bride?”
She snorted. “I’m not a summer bride. I’m a summer sacrifice.”
The Erlking laughed. It was a rare sound, and one that always gave Serilda a twinge of satisfaction, even though she didn’t want it to.
The sad part was, she meant it.
This was not to be a wedding. This was to be a ritual sacrifice, and she was the lamb. When the time was right, he would slaughter her and take her child, who she somehow already loved with a ferocity unlike anything she’d ever known.
Serilda rubbed her fingers across the scar on her wrist. In truth, the sacrifice had already been made, from the moment the Erlking thrust a gold-tipped arrow through her wrist and put a curse upon her soul, splitting her spirit from her mortal body and tethering it to this haunted castle, trapping her here, on the dark side of the veil.
She had witnessed her body lying on the floor of the throne room, breathing, yet lifeless. Serilda didn’t fully understand the magic. She could no longer feel her pulse or the steady drum of her heartbeat. She could hold her breath for an eternity, and yet she continued to breathe from habit, or comfort.
And then there was her unborn child, who she could only hope was all right. She felt none of the symptoms of pregnancy, the bouts of stomach sickness or the aches in her back and ankles that she remembered women in Märchenfeld complaining about. She did not know if the baby was physically inside of her, even now, or if it was growing in the corpselike version of her, hidden away in this castle.
She had to trust that the Erlking would not have done anything to harm the child, given his plans for it, and she very much hated having to put her trust in him.
Finally abandoning the window, the Erlking reached for his wineglass. He hesitated, his eyes lifting to hers.
“What?” she asked. “I didn’t poison it.” Then she gasped. “Though perhaps I should try that next time.”
“I suggest wolfsbane, if you do. I’ve always found the aftertaste to be mildly sweet and quite satisfying.” He lifted the glass to his lips, studying her while he took a sip. When he lowered the glass, he said, “You see yourself as a storyteller, if I’m not mistaken.”
Serilda sat straighter, feeling a little vulnerable that the king might have noticed this quiet, hidden part of her. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Then tell me a story.”
She scowled. “I am not in the mood. And don’t try to order me around. I am not one of your ghosts.”
His lips curled, amused. “I only thought it would pass the time.” His attention turned meaningfully to the clock, as if he’d noticed her watching it.
She huffed. “Actually, there is a story I heard long ago and I’ve always wondered if it was true. They say that the Lovers’ Moon was named for you and Perchta.”
The Erlking cocked his head at her, but did not reply.
“As the tale goes, it was beneath that moon that the two of you shared with each other your truest names, therefore tying your fates together for eternity. That is why some people share their secrets beneath the Lovers’ Moon, because supposedly, the moonlight will protect them.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” he muttered. “Any idiot should know that if you wish to protect a secret, you should speak it to no one, no matter which moon you’re under. But you mortals give such power to fairy tales. You believe fate is determined by old gods and superstitions. That every misfortune can be blamed on the moonlight, the stars, whatever ludicrous thing suits you in the moment. But there is no fate, no fortune. There are only the secrets we share and those we conceal. Our own choices, or the fear of making a choice.”
Serilda stared at him. How many times had the villagers of Märchenfeld blamed their misfortunes on her?
Yet she couldn’t ignore that she was the goddaughter of Wyrdith. She had been cursed by the god of stories and fortune, and to say that those things were of no importance didn’t feel entirely true either.
Perhaps there was something in between.
A place for things that were out of control, things guided by destiny …
But also, for one’s own choices.
Dread welled inside her. The tragedy was that she wanted to believe in choices. She wanted to believe that she could have control of her fate. But how could she? She was a prisoner of the Erlking. She had made choices and she had made mistakes. But in the end, her fate had been decided for her.
The irony. How Wyrdith must be laughing, wherever they were.
“So,” she started uncertainly, “the story isn’t true, then?”
He scoffed. “That Perchta and I shared names beneath the Lovers’ Moon? Hardly.”
“Shame. I thought it was romantic.”
The Erlking shook his head as he refilled his wineglass. “We do not need fairy tales to distort our romance. Perchta and I … our love was destined from the beginning. I am incomplete without her by my side.”
Serilda stilled, embarrassed by his candor.
It didn’t help that she knew the Erlking intended to bring back Perchta. On the Endless Moon, that rare night when the winter solstice overlapped with the last full moon of the year, the Erlking and his wild hunt planned to capture one of the seven gods. And when the first rays of sunlight struck the realm, that god would be forced to grant a single wish.
The Erlking would use this wish to bring Perchta back from Verloren. The cruel huntress would once again walk the earth, and he would have Serilda’s baby ready to hand over to her. The Erlking had kidnapped many children in attempts to please her, but never before had he given her a newborn babe.
The thought of it sickened Serilda. To him, the life growing inside her was a thing to be wrapped up and given away. A doll, a toy, a thing easily discarded.
And while she might not have met the huntress, from all accounts, Perchta was not the motherly sort, despite her yearning for a child of her own. They said she was ruthless and haughty and cruel. Whenever she tired of one of the children gifted to her, the Erlking would take him or her out into the woods, and he would return alone.
That was the way of the dark ones.
That was the mother her child was destined for.
That is, except for one little problem. A small caveat that the Erlking himself didn’t yet know.
She had already promised this child to Gild. Her firstborn, in exchange for him spinning a roomful of straw into gold. The bargain was struck with magic. She did not think it could be broken.
But she wasn’t about to tell that to the Erlking.
She would figure it out, she told herself. She still had six months to come up with a plan. To save her child. Herself. Gild. The children asleep in her room.
“How thoughtless of me,” said the Erlking, startling her from her thoughts. He paced around the table until he was standing beside her chair, then dropped to one knee beside her. “To be pining for another when my bride sits before me. I hope you can forgive me, my love.”
“Of all the things you might apologize for,” she drawled, “telling me that you are in love with a sadistic demon who died three hundred years ago would not even make the list.”
His jaw twitched. “Keep that fire, little mortal,” he said, taking her hand into his cool fingers and bending over it. “It makes it easier to dote on you.”
He stood and grabbed an untouched nectarine from the table. He took a bite as he towered over her. Juice dripped down his chin as it had hers. He grinned smugly and used his sleeve to wipe it away. “Another ten minutes, I think, before you can see yourself out.”
Picking up his wineglass, he turned his back on her, which was exactly the moment Serilda had been waiting for.
In one motion, she grabbed the silver-handled knife on the table and drove it into the Erlking’s back, right between his shoulder blades. She felt the give of flesh. The crunch of vertebrae.
The king stilled.
For a long moment, Serilda wondered if maybe, just maybe … this time …
Then he took in a long breath and released it—a slow, drawn-out sigh.
“Please,” he said, “remove the knife from my back. I would hate to ask Manfred to do it. Again.”
Serilda cursed beneath her breath and yanked the knife out. Rather than blood dripping from the wound, there was a wisp of black smoke that dissipated into the air.
She scowled. The first time she had stabbed him, she’d been sure he would fight back.
But he hadn’t even tried.
That first knife had gone into his side, just beneath his ribs.
The next time she’d tried, it had been a knife to his stomach, or approximately where she thought his stomach should be.
The third time—she hit his heart, and she’d been so proud of herself for her exceptional aim, she’d squealed with delight.
The Erlking had merely rolled his eyes as he pulled the knife out and held it up to the light. Spotless, as if it hadn’t just been buried in his chest up to its hilt.
Serilda dropped the knife onto the table. “The next will be to your head,” she said, petulantly crossing her arms. “Maybe I’ll take out one of your eyes, like one of your hunters took out Manfred’s.”
“If it makes your time here more tolerable,” he said, taking a sip of his wine, “then do your best.”
Chapter Four
Anna was supposed to be Serilda’s lady-in-waiting, but as she was only eight years old and had the attention span of a housefly, she was not particularly adept at her role. Instead, on the day of the summer solstice, two ghost attendants wearing blood-drenched aprons arrived in Serilda’s chambers to mold her into something resembling a queen. Or a bride.
Or rather … a demon huntress, as it turned out.
Serilda had been expecting a gown. Many of the dark ones enjoyed dressing themselves in luxurious fabrics, and she had imagined the king would procure some lavish spectacle of a dress for her to wear during the ceremony.
But no—when the maids swept in, they were not carrying silk and brocade and voluminous skirts. Rather, they brought her a leather tunic that laced up over a flaxen blouse. Riding breeches and arm braces, goatskin gloves and the softest boots she had ever worn. Most notably, they brought her a finely crafted crossbow—smaller than the Erlking’s, but with bolts just as sharp. Serilda was afraid to touch the weapon for fear she would accidentally bump the trigger and send an arrow straight into someone’s head. No one in this room needed any more open wounds than they already had.
“Lovely,” said Serilda, who had tried repeatedly to persuade her groom to give her any details about the wedding ceremony, with no success. “Please tell me I’ll have the pleasure of putting an arrow into my husband’s heart by the end of the night.”
The children laughed.
The servants exchanged uncertain looks, and one answered, “I do believe there is to be a ceremonial hunt, of sorts.”
Serilda groaned. “I might have guessed.”
Soon, she was seated at the vanity, her twin braids hastily undone and oil rubbed into her hands and cheeks, which made her smell a bit like the larder. All the while, Anna and Gerdrut practiced flips on the mattress, and Nickel and Hans played a game of dice they’d been taught by the stable boy, who was a few years Hans’s senior and had taken an instant liking to them all.
Serilda peered into the looking glass that hung above her vanity. In the dim candlelight she could see the golden wheels on her black irises. When she had first met the Erlking, he had mistaken them for spinning wheels, which was why it was so easy for her to convince him that she was blessed by Hulda and could spin straw into gold. But no—she was marked with the wheel of fortune. She was the godchild of Wyrdith, god of stories and fortune and lies.
It should have been a blessing, given that her father had helped the god years ago on an Endless Moon. But in reality, her cursed tongue had brought mostly misfortunes upon her and the people she loved.
If she ever had cause to meet Wyrdith, she would smash that wheel of fortune over their ungrateful head.
A knock was followed by Fricz—her “messenger”—bursting into the room. “Is she ready?” he asked, directing his question to Anna at first, even though Anna was upside down in a handstand, her feet on one of the posters of the bed for balance. “Never mind,” he said, turning toward Serilda and the attendants. He took in her hair, now done in an intricate single plait down her back, and the riding gear laid out on a tufted chair. “Best hurry, or the king might start murdering people out there.”
“Who is he going to murder?” asked Anna, her pigtails trailing on the carpet. “Everyone here is already dead.”
“Why is he upset?” asked Serilda. “I’m not late. Not yet.”
“And it isn’t like they can start without her,” added Anna. She dropped her feet back to the floor and stood up.
“We are working as quickly as we can,” said one of the attendants, dabbing something from a small pot onto Serilda’s lips. “It would be easier without so many distractions.” She sent an unsubtle glare at Anna and Gerdrut.
Fricz shrugged. “It’s the poltergeist, I think.”
Serilda stiffened. “What about the poltergeist?”
“He’s gone missing. Some guards were sent to catch him this morning, meant to keep him chained up during the ceremony. You know, so he can’t cause trouble like he does. But no one can find him. Some of the servants are saying he might try to interrupt the ceremony.”
“I hope he does!” said Gerdrut, hopping up onto the bed, which was high enough that her legs dangled more than a foot off the floor.
“Remember when he replaced the taxidermy in the north wing with rag dolls and turnip heads?” asked Nickel, eyes shining. “It must have taken him ages to carve them all, but the look of surprise from the hunters was priceless.”
The children started bantering stories between them, and Serilda couldn’t force back her smile. In the time since the Erlking had killed them and abducted their souls, trapping them here in this castle, Gild and his antics had made quite the impression.
A small part of Serilda sparked with hope at the idea that Gild might stop the ceremony. Being rescued on this dreadful day sounded very appealing, even a little romantic.
That, and she hated to think of Gild being chained up again like one of the king’s prized beasts. Serilda suspected the Erlking would have happily left him strung up on the keep for a century or two if he hadn’t wanted the golden chains back to use on his hunts. That, and Gild had made such an obnoxious ruckus, hollering drinking ballads for hours, that even most of the dark ones agreed it was better to let him go free.
Serilda never wanted to see him tied up like that again.
And yet—she had a deal with the Erlking. Her compliance, and her child, in exchange for freeing the souls of these children she loved. Hans, Nickel, Fricz, Anna, Gerdrut. Serilda had to marry the Erlking. Give him the child. It would destroy her when the time came, but it was her fault these darling children were here, and not home with their families, planning for their long, uncomplicated futures.
Biting her lip, she squeezed shut her eyes and sent a silent wish to Gild, wherever he was.
Don’t ruin this. Not today.
“All finished,” said the attendant, stepping back from Serilda’s hair. “Let’s get you dressed.”
She was in a daze as she let the attendants guide her behind a screen and show her how all the pieces of armor fit together. Serilda was not comfortable in hunting gear, but as soon as she was bustled back out into the room, the children gathered around her, wide-eyed and impressed. Except Hans, who was the serious sort, and lately had sunk into a dour disposition that Serilda didn’t know how to remedy. Not that she could blame him. He was old enough to know that no amount of enchantment in this haunted castle could make up for the lives that had been stolen from them.
“You look like a warrior!” said Gerdrut, ogling her, one of her front lower teeth missing. The first, and last, milk tooth she would ever lose.
Serilda couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction to be called a warrior, of all things. To be someone capable of more than spinning unhelpful tales.
“No,” said Hans quietly. “She looks like a hunter.”
They were just the right words to dampen the mood. The lights dimmed in the children’s eyes, and Serilda felt her heart sink again into the dread that had plagued her ever since the Awakening Moon, the night that had sealed her fate.
She swallowed hard. “Nothing is going to change. It’s only a silly ceremony.”
“A silly ceremony,” said Hans, “that will end with you being the Alder Queen.”
“I will always just be Serilda to you,” she said, tousling his hair—as much to make him squirm away in annoyance as anything.
“No, you won’t be the Alder Queen,” said Nickel. “Not to us. That makes it sound like you belong to him, and I won’t accept that. We’ll come up with something else.”
“The Golden Queen!” said Gerdrut. Beaming, she reached for Serilda’s hand. “You can make something from nothing. You can spin straw into gold.”
Serilda’s breath caught. As she couldn’t have the children accidentally tell the Erlking the truth, she’d had to maintain the lie that she was a gold-spinner, even with them. But Gerdrut’s comment reminded her of that day, many months ago, when they had gathered in the shelter of a pine tree, surrounded by banks of snow, and listened to Serilda tell them a tale of the wicked Erlking and the huntress Perchta. That day, Gerdrut had been the one to liken Serilda’s storytelling to the magical gift of gold-spinning.
Looking back, Serilda could see that was the day everything in her life had changed. She pressed a kiss to the top of Gerdrut’s curls, then drew the others tight against her. She ignored the shudder that scuttled across her skin at the feel of them all, their bodies like brittle leaves ready to crumble. She was grateful to have them close, dead or otherwise.
