“Come closer,” he said.
Trying to hide her nervousness, Serilda paced toward him. She glanced at the walls as she passed, which were hung with bright-colored tapestries. They continued the theme of the hunt, depicting images of hellhounds snarling around a frightened unicorn or a storm of hunters surging upon a winged lion.
As she walked, the images grew in brutality. Death. Blood. Anguished pain on the faces of the prey—in stark contrast to the glee in the eyes of the hunters.
Serilda shuddered and faced the king.
He was watching her closely, though she could read no emotion from him. “I trust you understand why I sent for you.”
Her heart skipped. “I imagine it’s because you found me so very charming.”
“Do humans find you charming?”
He spoke with honest curiosity, but Serilda couldn’t help feeling like it was an insult. “Some do. Children, mostly.”
“Children have odious taste.”
Serilda bit the inside of her cheek. “In some things, perhaps. But I’ve always appreciated their utter lack of bias.”
The king stepped forward and, without warning, reached up to grasp her chin. He tilted her face upward. Her breath caught, staring into eyes the color of a clouded sky before a blizzard, with lashes as thick as pine needles. But while she might have been temporarily dazzled by his unnatural beauty, he was appraising her without any warmth in his expression. Only calculations, and the slightest shade of curiosity.
He studied her long enough for her breaths to quicken in discomfort and a cold sweat to prickle at the back of her neck. His attention lingered on her eyes, intrigued, if hardly entranced. Most people tried to study her face in secretive glances, as much curious as horrified, but the king stared openly.
Not disgusted, exactly, but?…
Well. She couldn’t tell what he felt.
Finally, he released her and nodded toward the dining table. “My court often dines here after a long hunt,” he said. “I think of the dining hall as a sacred space, where bread is broken, wine is savored, toasts are made. It is for celebration and sustenance.” He paused, sweeping a hand toward the tapestries. “As such, it is one of my preferred rooms in which to display our greatest victories. Each is a treasure. A reminder that though the weeks are long, there is always a full moon to prepare for. Soon, we will ride again. I like to think that it keeps up morale.”
He turned his back on Serilda and moved toward a long buffet against the wall. Pewter goblets were stacked on one end, plates and bowls on the other, ready for the next meal. On the wall, a plaque held a taxidermy bird, with long legs and a narrow beak. It reminded Serilda of a water crane or heron, except that its wings, spread wide as if preparing to take flight, were cast in shades of luminescent yellow and orange, each feather tipped with cobalt blue. At first, Serilda thought it might be a trick of the candlelight, but the more she stared, the more she became convinced that the feathers were glowing.
“This is a hercinia,” said the king. “They live in the westernmost part of the Aschen Wood. It is one of the many forest creatures that is said to be under the protection of Pusch-Grohla and her maidens.”
Serilda stilled at the mention of the moss maidens and their Shrub Grandmother.
“I’m rather fond of this acquisition. Quite pretty, don’t you agree?”
“Lovely,” said Serilda around a heavy tongue.
“And yet, you see how it does not quite fit this wall.” He stepped back, eyeing the space with displeasure. “For some time now I have been waiting to find something just right to act as an ornament on either side of the bird. Imagine my delight when last full moon, my hounds picked up the scent of not one, but two moss maidens. Can you picture it? Their pretty faces, those foxlike ears, the crown of greenery. Here and here.” He gestured to the left and right of the bird’s wings. “Forever watching us feast upon the animals they strive so very hard to protect.” He glanced at Serilda. “I rather enjoy a bit of irony.”
Her stomach was roiling, and it was all she could do not to show how such an idea disgusted her. The moss maidens were not animals. They were not beasts to be hunted, to be murdered. They were not decor.
“Part of the brilliance of irony, I feel,” continued the king, “is that it so often makes fools of others, without them being any the wiser.” His tone sharpened. “I have had much time to think on our last meeting, and what a fool you must think I am.”
Serilda’s eyes widened. “No. Never.”
“You were so very convincing, with your tale of gold, of having been god-blessed. It was only when the moon had set that I thought—why would a human girl, who can succumb so easily to the frost, be gathering straw in the snow without so much as a pair of gloves with which to protect her fragile hands?” He took Serilda’s hands into his and her heart leaped into her throat. His voice froze over. “I don’t know what magic you wove that night, but I am not one to forgive mockery.” His grip tightened. She bit back a frightened whimper. One elegant eyebrow lifted, and she could tell the Erlking took some enjoyment in this. Watching her squirm. His prey, cornered. For a moment it looked like he might even smile. But it was not a smile, rather something cruel and victorious that curled back his lips. “But I believe in fair chances. And so—a test. You have until one hour before sunrise to complete it.”
“A test?” she whispered. “What sort of test?”
“Nothing you aren’t perfectly capable of,” he said. “That is … unless you were lying.”
Her stomach dropped.
“And if you were lying,” he continued, bending his head toward her, “then you also kept me from my prey that night, an offense that I find unforgivable. If such is the case, it will be your head that takes a place on my wall. Manfred”—he glanced at the coachman—“did she have family?”
“A father, I presume,” he answered.
“Good. I will take his head, too. I appreciate symmetry.”
“Wait,” cried Serilda. “My lord—please, I—”
“For your sake and his,” interrupted the Erlking, “I do hope you were telling the truth.” He lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. The iciness of his touch seared her skin. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see to the hunt.” He glanced at the coachman. “Take her to the dungeons.”
Chapter 10
Serilda had barely grasped the meaning of the king’s words before the coachman had taken hold of her elbow and was dragging her from the dining hall.
“Wait! The dungeons?” she cried. “He can’t mean that!”