Cursed, p.20
Cursed, page 20
Pusch-Grohla had only enough time to gasp when she saw it, before the Erlking plunged the tip into the flesh where her throat met her shoulder.
Serilda screamed.
Pusch-Grohla threw her head back, teeth bared in agony.
With a flick of his hand, the Erlking undid the golden chains that bound her and stepped back. Pusch-Grohla collapsed to her knees amid the ash-covered tree roots.
She began to change.
Serilda’s eyes widened as the old woman’s body morphed, her withered hands turning into glossy black hooves, her long hair becoming a milk-white mane.
She had barely blinked, and then there was a unicorn before her, majestic and proud, lying on folded legs. From the pearl in the center of Pusch-Grohla’s diadem emerged a spiraling horn, longer than Serilda’s arm and glistening like fire-filled opals.
As a woman, Pusch-Grohla had been one of the ugliest creatures Serilda had ever encountered. But as a unicorn, she was magnificent. So much that tears pricked at Serilda’s eyes to see her there with the arrow buried in her pearlescent coat.
No sooner had she transformed than the Erlking once again threw the chain around her, capturing her neck in a golden loop. She shook her head in a half-hearted effort to dislodge it, but it was no use. She was beaten.
“I do like you better when you cannot speak,” said the Erlking. Glancing over his shoulder, he snapped his fingers. “Child, come here.”
A moment later, Gerdrut stepped forward, her round face streaked with tears and ash.
“Please,” whimpered Serilda. “Leave her be. She’s been through enough.”
“I am not going to hurt her, dear wife,” he said, beckoning Gerdrut closer. She did as she was told, though her whole body was trembling. “But this part requires an innocent. As I said, most myths do have some truth in them.”
Gerdrut gave a violent shake of her head. “Please. I don’t want to.” Her voice broke.
“But you will anyway.” He flicked his fingers and Gerdrut approached the unicorn, her sobs becoming louder as she grasped the unicorn’s horn in both of her tiny hands.
“Wait,” said Serilda. “No. Don’t make her do this. Don’t. Please.”
The Erlking ignored her. He nodded at Gerdrut.
The child squeezed her eyes shut and pulled as hard as she could, snapping off the horn at its base. The unicorn reared back, but held by the golden chain it had nowhere to go.
“I’m sorry,” said Gerdrut through staggered cries. “I’m so sorry!”
“Well done,” said the Erlking, holding out a hand. “Finally you’ve made yourself useful.”
Gerdrut gave him the horn, then fled into Serilda’s arms.
The Erlking held the horn up to the firelight with a triumphant grin, while embers and debris drifted around him. “You see, if I had tried that, it would have turned to dust in my grasp. That would have been a shame, wouldn’t it?” He gestured toward the waiting hunters. “Load the unicorn onto one of the carts, and be quick about it. I wish to be home by sunrise.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Serilda felt numb as the caravan left the smoldering remains of Asyltal and countless bodies of fallen moss maidens behind. Smoke clung to their party. Fine flakes of ash had settled into gray-black snowdrifts on the tops of carriages and wagons.
The hunters had suffered many wounds, from missing limbs to deep gouges that revealed decaying flesh beneath their shimmering skin. Serilda saw them pulling arrows from their sides and tying strips of cloth around cuts that sizzled and smoked almost as much as the forest floor.
Despite this, their attitudes struck her as ebullient. She had never seen them grinning so widely with their crimson lips and sharp cheekbones. She had never seen their eyes glowing so bright.
They moved through the forest as victors.
Their attitude was in sharp contrast to that of her and the children and the other servants in attendance. They might have been marching to their own funerals.
Serilda was so lost in painful memories—replaying the awful snap of the unicorn’s horn over and over again—that it took a long time for her to notice the brightening sky, occasionally glimpsed through the trees, and to realize they were not heading in the direction they had come.
Still astride her horse at the front of the parade, she frowned at the Erlking. “You said we were going home.”
His eyebrows raised. “And we are.”
“This is not the way to Adalheid.”
“What indication have I ever given that Adalheid was my home?” After a hesitation, he added, “Or yours, for that matter. She who adores her superstitious little village.”
“Gravenstone,” she said, ignoring the slight. “We’re going to Gravenstone.”
“As I said.” His teeth flashed. “Home.”
“But why now? As I understand, you abandoned Gravenstone three hundred years ago.”
“I abandoned nothing. My castle was taken from me, and now I finally have the means to reclaim it.”
Serilda’s hands tightened in her horse’s mane.
For a while, they carried on in silence, made more pronounced by the steady clomps of their horses and pack animals, the creaking wheels of wagons and carriages behind them, the sounds of a forest beginning to wake up as night bled into morning.
“We tried to return to Gravenstone,” said the Erlking, surprising her after such a long silence. “It was never my intention to stay in Adalheid. I wanted nothing more than to leave the ghosts and that … prince to his eternity. After the veil fell, we made our way back to Gravenstone, and we found it … changed.” He seemed almost melancholy as he spoke. “In our absence, Pusch-Grohla had placed a spell over the castle grounds, forming an impassable barrier. Her only motive was to keep us out. To never allow us to return to the castle that was rightfully ours. To never again allow access to Gravenstone or—” He cut off so abruptly a chill swept along Serilda’s spine.
The Erlking did not know she was aware of part of this history. As he spoke, she thought of the prince’s tale—Gild’s tale. After he shot an arrow into Perchta’s heart, the sun rose while she lay wounded on the bridge to Gravenstone. On the mortal side of the veil, there was no longer a castle for her to flee to. Instead, there was a gate. The gates to Verloren.
As the prince watched, Velos emerged and reclaimed Perchta, stealing her away to the land of the lost. After that, Pusch-Grohla had arrived and sealed off the gates. Evidently, in doing so, she had sealed off the entrance to Gravenstone as well.
“That’s why you went after Pusch-Grohla,” murmured Serilda. “You need her to break the spell on the castle.”
“I need the horn to break the spell,” he clarified. “I have another use for Pusch-Grohla.” His expression eased. “Though I won’t say it isn’t gratifying to have the old hag in chains.”
Serilda looked away, her guilt returning in force. She was still trying to piece out the idea that Pusch-Grohla was actually a unicorn and the Erlking had known about it, but that seemed an unimportant mystery, given all that had happened.
The road narrowed, branches scraping at the sides of the carriages. It felt as though the forest was fighting them. Fallen logs across the path. Thick roots that made the horses stumble. Thorns lashing out at the intruders. The tree trunks grew closer together, as if they were an army of soldiers closing their ranks. Serilda felt a prickle of unease as the Aschen Wood grew increasingly dense, blocking out any hint of the sky, the mountains, the world beyond.
With a crook of the king’s fingers, the ghost servants scurried forward to clear the way, beating back the forest with shovels and scythes.
They broke through the tree line, all at once, revealing an amethyst sky overhead and a sight that stole away Serilda’s breath.
Before them stood two trees—an ash and an alder—their trunks spiraled around each other as if trapped in an eternal embrace. They were too enormous to be real, so tall their tops vanished into the clouds. A canopy of branches spread like an enormous umbrella in every direction, disappearing into the misty forest. At their base, a labyrinth of gnarled roots so vast it might have covered the entire city of Adalheid.
The ash tree was flourishing, its delicate, tear-shaped leaves a vivid summer green.
The alder, on the other hand, appeared to be dying. Most of the leaves had fallen from its withered, gray-tinged branches, filling the spaces between the massive roots with a brittle carpet of brown and ochre. It was if the ash were slowly draining the alder of life.
The alder tree, Serilda realized. The tree that had sprouted up from the depths of Verloren and burst into the mortal realm, forever creating a chasm through which the dark ones had escaped, forever earning their leader the title of the Alder King.
But—there was no castle.
Her jaw fell with the realization. Those massive, tangled roots … they had grown over the castle, hiding it from view and keeping out anyone who would wish to enter.
That was the spell that Shrub Grandmother had put on this place. Her own life-giving ash tree fighting for dominance with that of the Alder King, preventing the dark ones from returning.
The Erlking urged his horse to a canter, while the caravan spilled out into the clearing. The world here was eerily silent compared with the birdsong and whistling breezes of the forest.
Serilda glanced back, searching the crowd, until she caught sight of the children. She tried to flash them an encouraging smile, but they were too busy gaping up at the trees to notice.
The Erlking dismounted and approached a gigantic root that wound along the ground like a mythical serpent, its girth almost as tall as the king himself. He pulled the unicorn’s horn from the scabbard at his belt. It shimmered in the dim morning light.
She bit her lip. The horse whinnied and she placed a hand on its neck, then felt silly for trying to tame a horse who was probably more magic than actual beast. Still, at her touch, the steed did seem to calm.
The king lifted the gleaming horn overhead, and did she imagine how the ash tree shuddered and trembled, as if frantic?
Then the Erlking drove the horn into the root.
Somewhere in the caravan, the unicorn let out a horrendous bellow, as the branches of the ash tree shrieked.
There was no other word for it. Serilda clapped her hands over her ears. All around the clearing, the roots of the ash tree began to blacken and shrivel. They died quickly, those nearest the Aschen Wood crumbling into the earth. The decay spread inward. The roots turning to dust.
As they fell back, they revealed the castle long hidden beneath.
Gravenstone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As the ash tree disintegrated, a cloak of gray dust clung to the castle walls and spread across the field and into the forest. The tree’s delicate branches gave way last, crumbling to the earth—fading away into sand and chalk and nothingness before they hit the ground. Only the leaves lingered behind, tossed like an emerald blizzard in every direction. Already a slight wind was kicking the dust and the leaves into eddies, casting them out into the woods. Serilda suspected that one good rain would wash it all away, and no one would ever know that this castle had been hidden for so long.
Left behind was the alder tree. Still vast in size, but still sickly and weak.
The castle was equally forlorn. Serilda had always imagined it to look something like Adalheid, with its tall towers and striking spires silhouetted against the sky. But where Adalheid was tall and elegant, Gravenstone was more of a sprawling fortress. Rather than an imposing wall, its outer structure was an open colonnade supported by two rows of thick black columns that stretched out as far as she could see. A dreary fog was spilling out of the colonnade, disguising whatever lay beyond.
The castle would have been further protected by a swamp moat that had been a part of as many stories as the castle itself, with its legion of bog monsters and poisoned waters. But now that deep ditch lay dry and empty, filled only with dead alder leaves and rot.
Still gripping the unicorn’s horn, the Erlking spent a long moment staring at his castle. Glancing around, Serilda took in the expressions worn by the dark ones. She had never seen anything that would mimic joy on their faces, but this might have been the closest yet. Pride, perhaps.
Finally, the king strode forward. His boots struck the onyx-black bridge over the empty moat, where carvings of scaled dragons curled along each edge.
A moment later, he passed between two of the enormous columns of the colonnade and was swallowed up by the mist.
Serilda hesitated. Should she follow? Was it dangerous? No one else was moving.
“I am the queen,” she whispered, and drove her heels into the horse’s side. It leaped forward, nervous in a way that made her even more nervous. After all these horses had seen and been through, she expected them to be unshakable. What was waiting in that castle that could unnerve these beasts, who had long hunted beside hellhounds and demons?
The horse cantered at its own hesitant pace. As its hooves clomped across the bridge, Serilda’s eye was drawn to a spot where the ancient stone seemed darker, as if stained.
She shuddered, wondering if that was where Perchta had fallen.
Thinking it brought a shot of pain to her own chest.
How she wished Gild were here.
Gripping the horse’s reins until her fingers ached, she passed through the colonnade and found herself facing a palace made of stone and wood. Stone and roots. It was as if the castle and the alder tree were one. Inseparable. Forged together when the alder tree first rose from the depths of Verloren, and now its roots ran like veins through marble. The structure was vast, sprawling in both directions, each of its two stories lined with narrow arched windows, inlaid with obsidian and quartz. A series of wide steps led to the main entryway, ornamented with towering sculptures of horrifying monsters, all wings and fangs and stone.
And there was the alder tree, rising into the sky from the very center of the palace.
The Erlking was nowhere to be seen, but the towering entry door, carved of glossy black stone, stood wide-open. Shadows spilled forth, almost tangible in their thickness.
Footsteps startled her. Serilda glanced back to see some of the ghosts making their way across the bridge—some on mules and bahkauv, others on foot.
“Sh-shall I take your steed, Your Luminance?” asked the stable boy, his gaze darting in every direction. “Suppose there’s got to be a stable around here … somewhere.”
“Thank you,” said Serilda, accepting his hand as she slid off the horse. “Did we bring food and supplies for the animals?”
“Yes, my lady. In one of those wagons.” His expression was bereft as he continued to take in the lichen-covered outer walls. “Quite a lot, actually. Suppose he means for us to stay here some time.” He swallowed, clearly not happy about it.
Serilda couldn’t blame him. In one night, the Erlking had uprooted them, taking his contingent of servants away from the only home they had ever known and depositing them in this strange and sorrowful place.
“It’s all right,” said Serilda, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder, refusing to shudder when her palm threatened to slip right through him. “We’ll make the best of it that we can.”
The stable boy met her gaze. He straightened, and Serilda realized he was nearly as tall as she was. He often looked so frightened and unsure, it was easy to forget that he could not have been much younger than she was when he’d died.
“Course it will be all right,” he said, a touch of color blooming on his cheeks. “We’ll make it so. For you, Your Luminance.”
A startled laugh escaped her, until she realized that he was speaking in earnest, then she suddenly wanted to weep. “I am not sure I’ve done anything to earn such loyalty, but I shall certainly try to.”
Bolstered by the boy’s words, Serilda climbed the steps to the yawning black door. Her gaze drifted up to the gargoyles perched on the upper ledges—alps and drudes and all manner of nightmares staring down at her, their eyes made from shining black stones.
She stepped into the darkness. Silence greeted her. Not just any silence, but the silence of a tomb that had spent centuries hidden from the outside world. The air smelled of loamy earth and unfurling ferns, as if the castle itself were rooted in the ground. She even detected a hint of wood smoke, though perhaps that was the smoke from Asyltal still clinging to her cloak.
Serilda waited for her eyes to adjust. Slowly, the dim light filtering through opaque windows showed her an entry hall. The walls were dark stone. Alder roots made up the beams and rafters. There were no furnishings here, as if the castle itself did not want its visitors to get too comfortable too soon.
Her attention fell to the floor, and where she expected to find the Erlking’s footsteps set into three centuries’ worth of dust, she instead found wood floors that gleamed as if freshly polished. In fact, though an ominous silence hung over the castle, it did not feel neglected. She spied no cobwebs hanging from the wall sconces, no bird nests in the rafters, no drips of water running down the walls. She even spied a floral arrangement inside an alcove—a large clay vase bursting with vivid azure cornflowers and vibrant red poppies.
They were not dead. They might have been picked that morning.
Serilda thought of the thrones in Adalheid, preserved by some spell, trapped forever in a moment of time while the rest of the world crumbled around them. She suspected some similar magic had held this castle, too, preserved and unchanged.
Waiting for the return of its master.
Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she made her way down the cavernous passage, where three tall doorways with pointed arches yawned open into what she thought might be the great hall. Scattered pieces of furniture were arranged over fur carpets. She could picture lords and ladies whiling away their evenings playing cards and bone dice by the fire. At least, she could picture the royal family of Tulvask playing card games and dice. The dark ones probably spent their time here tossing the bones of small birds and predicting their own miserable fortunes based on which way they fell.
