Until, finally, the carriage veered off the commonly traveled road onto a bumpier path heading straight into the forest.
Serilda braced herself as the tree cover loomed ahead of them, half expecting to feel a change in the air as they passed into the shadows of the boughs. A chill trickled down her spine. But she felt nothing out of the ordinary, except perhaps that the air grew a tinge warmer, with the trees offering shelter from the wind.
It was also much darker, and though she squinted for any glimpses afforded by the full moon, its light barely filtered through the tight-knit branches. Occasionally there were faint silver glimmers alighting on a gnarled tree trunk. Illuminating a pool of standing water. Catching the beat of wings as some nocturnal bird flitted between the boughs.
It was a wonder the bahkauv could find their way, or that the coachman knew where to go in such darkness. But their pace never slowed. The thud of their hooves was louder here, echoing back to her from the forest.
Travelers rarely ventured into the Aschen Wood unless they had no other choice, and with good reason. Mortals did not belong here.
For the first time, she began to feel afraid.
“Stop it, Serilda,” she muttered, letting the curtain close. There wasn’t much point in looking out at the scenery, anyhow, with the darkness growing thicker by the moment. She glanced at the skull lantern and imagined that it was watching her.
She smiled at it.
It did not smile back.
“You look hungry,” she said, opening the pack her father had sent. “Just skin and bones … without even the skin.” She pulled out the cheese and broke it in half, then held one portion out to the lantern.
The nostrils flared, and she imagined she could hear a long, airy sniff. Before the teeth pulled back in disgust.
“Suit yourself.” Leaning against the bench, she took a bite, reveling in the comfort of something as simple as salty, crumbly cheese. “With teeth like that, you’re probably used to hunting for your food. I wonder what type of beast you were. Not a wolf. At least, not a normal one. A dire wolf perhaps, but no—even bigger.” She pondered a long time, while the candle flame wavered unhelpfully. “I suppose I could ask the coachman, but he doesn’t seem the chatty sort. You two must get along well.”
She had just finished the hunk of cheese when she felt a change in the path under the carriage wheels. From the vibration and bounce of a rough, rarely traversed forest road to something smooth and straight.
Serilda peeled back the curtain again.
To her surprise, they had passed outside of the woods and were heading toward an enormous lake that shimmered with moonlight. It was surrounded by more forests to the east and, though she couldn’t see them in the darkness, no doubt the foothills of the Rückgrat Mountains to the north. The western edge of the lake disappeared in a shroud of thick mist. Otherwise, the world glittered in white diamond snow.
Most surprising was that they were nearing a city. It was surrounded by a thick stone wall with a wrought-iron gate, with thatched roofs on the outer buildings, tall spires and clock towers farther in. Beyond the rows of houses and shops, barely visible on the edge of the lake, stood a castle.
The carriage turned, and the castle was no longer in Serilda’s view as they drove through the massive entry gate. It had not been shut, which surprised her. For a town so close to the Aschen Wood, she would have thought for sure they would keep their gate locked at night, especially during a full moon. She watched the buildings pass by, their facades a patchwork of half-timbered framing and ornamental designs carved into gables and overhangs. The city seemed huge and dense compared with their little town of M?rchenfeld, but she knew, logically, that it was probably still quite small compared with the larger trade cities to the south, or the port cities to the far west.
At first, she thought the city might be abandoned; but no, it felt too tidy, too well-maintained. Upon closer inspection, there were signs of life. Though she saw no one, and no window glowed with candlelight (not surprising, for they must be near the witching hour by now), there were neat, snow-dusted garden patches and the smell of recent chimney smoke. From the distance, she heard the unmistakable bleat of a goat and the answering yowl of a cat.
The people were simply asleep, she thought. As they should be. As she would have been, if she hadn’t been summoned for this strange escapade.
Which brought her thoughts circling back to the more pressing mystery.
Where was she?
The Aschen Wood was the territory of the dark ones and the forest folk. She had always pictured Gravenstone Castle standing dark and ominous somewhere deep in the forest, a fortress of slim towers taller than the most ancient trees. No stories had ever mentioned a lake … or a city, for that matter.
As the carriage passed along the main thoroughfare of the town, the castle loomed back into view. It was a handsome building, stalwart and commanding, with a bevy of turrets and towers surrounding a large central keep.
It wasn’t until the carriage turned away from the last row of houses and began crossing over a long, narrow bridge that Serilda realized the castle was not built at the edge of the town, but on an island out in the lake itself. The ink-black water reflected its moonlit stonework. The wheels of the carriage clattered loudly on the cobblestone bridge, and a chill enveloped Serilda as she craned her neck to see the imposing watchtowers flanking the barbican.
They passed over a wooden drawbridge, under the arched gateway, and into the courtyard. The mist hung cloyingly to the surrounding buildings, so that the castle was never revealed in its entirety, but shown only in glimpses before being shrouded once more. The carriage stopped and a figure darted out from a stable. A boy, perhaps a few years her junior, in a simple tunic and shaggy haircut.
A moment passed before the carriage door was opened, revealing the coachman. He stepped aside, gesturing for Serilda to follow. She bid farewell to the lantern, earning her a peculiar look from the ghostly driver, and stepped down onto the cobblestones, grateful when the coachman did not offer his hand again. The stable boy already had the huge beasts untethered and was ushering them back toward the stable.
Serilda wondered if the massive steeds she’d seen during the hunt were stabled there, as well, and what other creatures might be kept by the Erlking. She wanted to ask, but the coachman was already gliding toward the central keep. Serilda skipped after him, flashing a grateful smile at the stable boy as she passed.
He flinched away from the look, ducking his head, showing a mottle of bruises along the back of his neck that disappeared down the collar of his shirt.
Serilda’s feet stumbled. Her heart squeezed. Were these bruises from his ghostly life here among the dark ones? Or were they from before? Possibly even the cause of his death? Otherwise, she couldn’t see what might have killed him.