Cursed, p.45
Cursed, page 45
She was mortal.
She was alive.
And she hurt. Everywhere, she hurt. Her legs, her thighs, her womb. Serilda groaned, placing a hand to the base of her stomach. Her flesh felt distended and unfamiliar, her muscles weak. Perchta had given birth and immediately gone into battle, treating her mortal body like it was disposable. She’d had no time to rest, and Serilda felt like her flesh had been stretched too long on a loom and was now left fragile and tired and sore, so incredibly sore.
Serilda rolled onto her side and tried to push herself up. If Perchta could be a warrior in this skin, then so could she. But before she could even grasp that this was real, and she was back in her body, and she was whole again—the ground split open beneath her. A jagged offshoot from the crevasse, burrowing across the courtyard toward the collapsed stables. Hounds were howling, Perchta was screaming, and suddenly—Serilda was falling.
She cried out, arms flailing, trying to find purchase, but there was only snow and ice and weakened stone, her legs kicking at nothing, a black emptiness reaching up to claim her.
Then hands on her arms.
Parsley on one side, Meadowsweet on the other. Their fingers crushingly tight as they hauled Serilda out of the abyss. They all fell into the snow.
Perchta and the Erlking ran for them.
“Get up! Get up!” Meadowsweet shouted, as they scrambled on the slippery stones. Serilda felt awkward in her body, with its soft belly and delicate limbs, like it was a dress that no longer fit her. But she made it to her feet. The Erlking and the huntress gave chase.
Long fingers clutched at the back of the cloak, but Serilda reached for the clasp and let it go. The Erlking stumbled back and she continued, racing for the gatehouse. The moss maidens ran ahead of her. Her feet felt leaden as they pounded against the boards of the drawbridge—until she slipped on the ice and fell.
Serilda screamed, instinctively rolling onto her back, preparing to fight.
Perchta had gathered up a handful of golden chains. She grinned at Serilda, pulling the chains taut, and Serilda could see the bloodthirsty vengeance in her eyes. She could imagine how the huntress would wrap those chains around her throat and pull tighter—tighter—
Perchta stepped over the threshold of the gatehouse, out from its shadows.
And vanished.
Serilda drew in a breath of icy-sharp air as the huntress reappeared, bewildered, back in the center of the courtyard.
Mere steps away from the crevasse.
The gatehouse gave one final groan. The wooden support beams splintered. The stones began to fall, crashing down across the drawbridge.
Serilda pushed herself up and lurched away. Parsley and Meadowsweet reached for her and they dashed over the wooden planks and onto the land bridge with its rows of shuddering torches.
A crowd waited on the shore. The townsfolk were gathered on the docks, watching, horrified. The moss maidens that had survived the battle, soaked from the icy lake water, clutched wool blankets to their shoulders. Serilda saw Leyna, gathered up in her mother’s arms, Frieda at their side. She saw the seven gods. She saw Wyrdith, her mother.
And on the ground—lying side by side—she saw Gild and their daughter.
Serilda staggered off the bridge and fell to her knees. Her strength drained away from her as if a plug had been pulled from the pit of her stomach. Her heart, an erratic, strangled heartbeat, was finally back. Thumping, thumping, thumping inside her chest.
She turned back in time to see the castle fall. The keep, the towers, the walls. Swallowed up not just by the gash in the earth, but by the entire lake. Water surged into the vacuum it created. A whirlpool churning, pulling the castle into its depths. Waves crashing against what remained of the bridge.
The castle collapsed down into Verloren, taking the Erlking and his huntress with it.
Serilda watched until the destruction was over and the lake water gradually returned to a calm, steady surface.
The castle was gone.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Serilda hunched forward, sobbing. She shut her eyes. Dug her fingers into the snow until she could no longer feel them. For a long time she didn’t move. Too afraid to face the reality that would tear her apart.
For a long time the wind whistled past her ears and no one spoke.
The story was over. She had won. And she had lost.
The wheel of fortune, mocking her again.
With a shudder, Serilda swiped a sleeve across her eyes and forced herself to turn around. To look at them. To see them.
Someone had thought to put a new blanket around her daughter, one that wasn’t covered in blood. But that wouldn’t bring color back to her lips and cheeks. That wouldn’t bring life back to her perfect little face.
Erlen was crouched at Gild’s side, her cadre of monsters spread around them, looking as mournful as any of the humans. Someone—perhaps Erlen—had untied the laces on Gild’s tunic and pressed a clean cloth around his wound to stop the bleeding, though Serilda knew it was useless.
He was gone.
They were both already gone.
Serilda crawled toward them, ignoring the aching tenderness of her body and the icy snow that soaked through her skirts. She took the infant into her arms, held her close to her chest. The body felt cold. Too cold. Too still.
Dragging in a sorrowful breath, she looked up at the assembled gods. The seven old gods, who had stopped answering prayers a long time ago.
“I want to make a wish,” she declared, in a voice as strong as she could make it. “I wish for you to bring them back. Bring Gild and my child back!”
The gods watched her, and there was pain and sympathy in their faces, but no one stirred. No one moved to answer her.
It was Wyrdith who finally knelt in front of Serilda. Before they had spoken, Serilda could feel the regret. The refusal perched on their tongue.
“No!” Serilda yelled. “Don’t tell me you can’t do it! It’s still the Endless Moon! You have to do this!”
“My girl,” murmured Wyrdith, eyes shimmering. “The wish promised on the Endless Moon was already used by the Erlking. Destroying the veil took too much of our magic. We cannot grant another wish.”
Serilda screamed. A soul-searing scream that clawed at her insides. She bent over Gild, burying her face in his chest, holding their child between them. She screamed and screamed until those screams dissolved into agonized sobs.
Only then did she hear Wyrdith’s words, so faint she almost missed them.
“But … perhaps…,” started the god of lies, “there might be something that Velos can do.”
Hope surged through her. Serilda lifted her gaze again.
Velos’s expression darkened toward Wyrdith, and they gave a strict shake of their head.
“Please,” gasped Serilda. “Please don’t take them from me.”
Velos stepped forward. “Their spirits have already passed on. There was nothing to tether the boy to the mortal realm, and I cannot break the bond between the boy and the child that was forged through the bargain you struck. The child is his, in death … as in life. I am sorry.”
“I won’t accept that! You brought back Perchta, why can’t you bring him back, too? There is a vessel here, right here.” She placed a hand on Gild’s chest. “So bring him back!”
“A vessel, yes, but … in order to summon a spirit to the mortal realm, one must speak their true name.” Velos sighed. “I wish I could help you, after all you have done for us. But I cannot. Without a name, he will not even be able to pass through the gates on the Mourning Moon, as most spirits can. I am sorry. But he can never leave.”
Serilda gaped at Velos. At Wyrdith. At the gathered gods and the townsfolk, Erlen and the monsters, Leyna and her friends. No one could help her.
The horrible truth of the Erlking’s curse struck her in a way she’d never understood before. It wasn’t just about erasing Gild and his family from history. It wasn’t just about taking away his memories so he would never know who he had been or the love he’d had.
It was a cruelty that would last forever. Even if the prince did manage to untether himself from the castle, to become mortal, to eventually die and pass into the land of the lost … his spirit could never return. He would be in Verloren forever. Unremembered, unloved.
She gazed at Erlen, and realized that the curse would affect her in the same way. Three hundred years old, and still so young and fearless. Trapped in an unjust destiny, all for the Erlking’s vengeance.
“His name is Gild,” Serilda said weakly, returning her attention to Velos. “The prince of Adalheid. Vergoldetgeist—the Gilded Ghost. How many names do you need?”
Velos shook their head. “None of those are his true name.”
“But this isn’t fair. He was cursed. The Erlking stole his name! No one knows what it was … not even you!”
“That is true,” said Velos, “but the magic would answer if you spoke true.”
Serilda sagged. She studied Gild’s face, too pale beneath his wash of freckles. His hair and skin smeared in blood. Would she really never see his mischievous smile again? Never know that impish laugh or witness that particular glint in his eye when he was about to do something he knew she wouldn’t approve of?
“I love him,” she whispered. “And I never told him.”
“I am sorry,” said Velos, “but there is nothing you can do. Let them be at peace now.”
She smoothed a lock of hair back from Gild’s brow, then peered into the face of her child. Who she had never had a chance to know. Who she hadn’t even given a name to.
The baby was tied to Gild. If she could save Gild, she could save them both.
But she couldn’t.
She didn’t know his true name.
“Hulda?” she said, her voice breaking. “You blessed him. You blessed his whole family. Surely, of anyone, you must know his name?”
But Hulda shook their head. “The Erlking’s curse was complete. The name was erased even from the memories of the gods.”
“But it can’t be gone. Something always lives on, doesn’t it? A legend, a myth … a truth, buried in the past.” She looked at Wyrdith. “That’s what you said. When all is forgotten by history, a good story can still live on, can live forever. Well, this is a great story. A prince who fought against the dark ones and the great huntress, who bound himself to an unborn child, who saved a miller’s daughter, who … who…” She sobbed again. “Who was blessed by Hulda.”
As tears overtook her again, those words echoed in her thoughts.
Blessed by Hulda.
A gasp escaped her. Serilda went still. “A prince blessed by Hulda. A family who ruled over a prosperous land, who lived in a castle by a lake, in the northern lands, who…”
Her heart beat faster, becoming erratic. “‘Hardworking Stiltskin and the Northern Prince,’” she murmured. “The story was inspired by his ancestors. This was the kingdom they founded. That’s why Hulda was his patron deity, and the tatzelwurm their symbol, and”—she took in the ring on her finger—“the letter R. For Rumpel and…” Clutching her child in her arms, Serilda climbed to her feet. “Rumpelstiltskin,” she said. “The family name was Rumpelstiltskin.”
She felt it then—that tug of magic. Wind whistling past her ears. The air sparking against her skin. The pressure, like her breath was being dragged from her lungs. A panicky moment in which she couldn’t breathe.
Then it was over, and she could see it in the eyes around her.
“I remember,” whispered Hulda. “I remember giving my blessing. And the redheaded boy, a precocious, troublemaking thing. I gave him the gift of spinning, because I hoped it would imbue him with a stronger work ethic. And the little girl … given the gift of weaving. I remember them both, and all their ancestors before.”
A startled, hopeful cry fell from Serilda as she faced Velos. “That’s it, then. Rumpelstiltskin! Now please—please—”
But she didn’t finish. Already, she could see the refusal etched into the god’s face.
“What? Why?”
“You have given his family name,” said the god. “What is his name?”
She let out a frustrated growl. “I don’t know! That story told the start of his lineage, hundreds of years before he was even born! How should I know his full name?”
“Wait!” It was Frieda who called out. The librarian was gripping Leyna’s hand, and pressing her other palm to her forehead. “Wait,” she said again. “I’ve read about this family. In those books I showed you, remember? When you came to the library?”
Serilda shook her head. “They were blank. Everything was…” She trailed off. No. They wouldn’t be blank. Not anymore. They would be full. Full of history. Full of a powerful and respected dynasty—the family who had ruled over this city and the northern lands for centuries.
“It’s baffled scholars for ages,” said Frieda. “How the family died out suddenly three hundred years—”
“The prince,” said Serilda, hardly daring to hope again. “Do you remember the name of the prince?”
Frieda considered the question. “They call him the lost heir,” she finally said. “Ermengild? I … I think his name was Ermengild.”
Serilda turned back to Velos.
The god of death gave her a slow nod. “Who would you summon?”
She licked her lips and steeled herself, afraid that it wouldn’t work if her voice trembled. “I would have you bring back Ermengild Rumpelstiltskin, prince of Adalheid. Gold-spinner. Hulda-blessed.” She hesitated, before adding, “Poltergeist.”
Velos gave her a look that was almost proud. “You have spoken true.”
The god of death raised their lantern. The flame inside glowed brighter.
Serilda held her breath. Too scared to hope. Feeling like she would shatter into a thousand brittle pieces if she dared.
And then—a baby’s cry.
She gasped and looked down at the tiny bundle in her arms.
Her child was wailing. All pink cheeks and flailing hands.
Serilda was so surprised she nearly dropped her, and every person in the crowd jumped forward as if they could catch the child themselves.
She started to laugh. Then every emotion poured out of her as she squeezed her daughter against her chest, sobbing and shaking and afraid to believe, to trust this was real—
“Serilda?”
She spun around. Gild was sitting up, staring at her. He looked half dead still. Pale and wounded, one hand pressed to his chest, his face pinched, even as he tried to smile.
“After all that … please don’t drop our child.”
Her laughter continued, uncontrollable, as she fell to her knees. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll be more careful. I’ll be—Gild. You’re alive! And you aren’t cursed and I’m not cursed and our baby—and the Erlking and—”
“Too much,” he groaned. “Slow down.”
She couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t stop laughing. The child wouldn’t stop wailing. Serilda knew she would need to be fed soon, and bathed, and loved—loved so very much.
But first …
“I love you, Gild,” she said, pressing a hand to his face. “I love you.”
Though still weary, his grin was brilliant. “I love you, too, storyteller.” His gaze found Erlen, seconds before she joined their embrace. “I even love you, Alder Queen.”
“You have your moments,” said Erlen, not trying to hide the fact that she was crying, too. “Do you think we can figure out my name?”
“I’m sure we can,” said Serilda. “We’ll have Frieda check the books in the library.”
“And what about this little girl?” said Gild, rubbing a thumb across the baby’s wrinkled, blotchy face. “I love her, too. I can’t even believe it’s possible. The noise she’s making right now is the worst thing I’ve ever heard, and I lived in a castle with a screaming bazaloshtsh. But still … I love her so much.”
The sun surpassed the horizon, chasing away the midwinter chill. Serilda kissed Gild, and she kissed her daughter, and she kissed Leyna and Erlen and then laughed when Erlen made a face and swiped it away. Serilda could have gone on kissing every single person in Adalheid, except Lorraine chose that moment to suggest they all go to the inn and warm their toes by the fire—even the gods were welcome.
Serilda helped Gild to his feet, beaming. “What should we name her?”
“No idea. I’ve never gotten to name anyone before. Seems like a big responsibility, especially now that we know how powerful a name can be.”
Their daughter’s cries quieted as Serilda rocked her. “We’ll think of something,” she said, in awe at the tender way Gild rubbed one knuckle along the baby’s flushed cheek.
Then he grinned and pulled Serilda close, their brows pressed together, their child cradled between them. “Whatever name we choose,” he said, “I guarantee it will never be forgotten.”
There is the end of my tale, how it happened in truth.
But I see you are unsatisfied. That is the plight for us storytellers, to know that the story is never finished, our listeners never content.
Hush, now. I wish to tell you a different story, and perhaps if you listen closely, you will hear the answers to your questions.
I trust you have heard of the great tapestry maker, famous throughout Tulvask? Her most acclaimed work hangs even now in a Verenese university. People travel from all over the world to admire it, for it is a great work of art—the pinnacle of craftsmanship and skill. Its subject was considered most unique when it was first revealed, though many artisans have attempted to replicate it since.
You have not seen the tapestry? Allow me to paint you a picture.
Imagine a flourishing city beside a crystalline lake. The townsfolk are enjoying a celebration—New Year’s Day, perhaps. There are streamers hung over the streets and baskets overflowing with spring flowers, despite the snow still on the ground. There are the mayor and her wife leading a waltz across the docks. And not far away, a giddy child dancing with—of all things—a hobgoblin.
Ah yes. You are surprised. So is everyone when they finally look. When they finally see. You thought it was only half-timbered buildings and vibrantly painted doors, merry townsfolk and their simple lives. But now you notice the drude peering around a chimney. The nachtkrapp hidden among the ravens. Through the public house window, two moss maidens drinking ale.
