The weapons weren’t on the walls, though.
Instead, they were hanging, suspended from the tall ceilings. Hundreds of swords and daggers, mallets and axes, javelins and maces, dangling precariously by bits of twine.
Serilda hastily stepped back out into the hall.
“When did he do this?” the Erlking was saying, his voice rough with anger.
The blacksmith shrugged helplessly. “I was in this room just yesterday, my lord. He must have done it since then. Perhaps even after you left on the hunt?” He sounded like he was trying not to be impressed.
“And why wasn’t anyone watching the armory?”
“There was a guard posted. There’s always a guard posted—”
With a snarl, the king struck the blacksmith on the side of his face. The man was thrown to the side, his shoulder hitting the corridor wall.
“Was that guard posted on the outside of this gate?” roared the king.
The blacksmith did not answer.
“Fools, all of you.” He jerked a hand toward the hanging weapons. “What are you waiting for? Get one of those useless kobolds to climb up there and start cutting them down.”
“Y-yes, Your Grim. Of course. Right away,” stammered the blacksmith.
The Erlking swept back out of the room, lips peeled back against his sharp teeth. “And if anyone sees that poltergeist, use the new ropes to string him up in the dining hall! He can hang there until next—”
He stopped abruptly when he spotted Serilda.
For a moment, he looked startled. Clearly, he’d forgotten she was there.
Like a curtain dropping over a stage, his composure returned. His eyes iced over; his sneer shifted from furious to respectably irked.
“Right,” he muttered. “Follow me.”
Again, Serilda was sped through the castle, past big-eyed creatures gnawing on candles and a ghost girl weeping in a stairwell and an older gentleman playing a sorrowful tune on a harp. They all went ignored by the Erlking.
Serilda had found some measure of calm since leaving the courtyard. Or, at least, her rage had been tempered by a swell of new fear.
Her voice was meek, almost polite, as she dared to ask, “Your Darkness, might I know what’s become of my father?”
“You no longer need concern yourself with him,” came the abrupt reply.
It was a stab to her heart.
She almost couldn’t stand to ask, but she had to know—
“Is he dead?” she whispered.
The king stopped at a doorway and rounded on her, eyes blazing. “He was thrown from his steed. Whether or not the fall killed him, I neither know nor care.” He gestured for her to enter the room, but Serilda’s heart was trapped in a vise and she didn’t think she could move. She remembered seeing him during the hunt. His exulted smile. His wide-eyed wonder.
Could he really be gone?
The king stepped closer, towering over her. “You have wasted my time and yours this night. Sunrise is mere hours away. Either this straw will be gold come morning or it will be red with your blood. That choice is yours to make.” Grabbing her shoulder, he shoved her through the door.
Serilda stumbled forward.
The door slammed and locked behind her.
She took in a shuddering breath. The room was twice as large as the prison cell had been—which is to say, still quite small, and still lacking in windows. Empty hooks were spaced along the ceiling. The scent of mildew and misery had been replaced with the smell of salted, drying meats—and the sweet smell of more straw, of course.
A larder, she guessed, though it had been cleared of preserved foods to make space for her task.
Another pile of straw stood in the center of the room, significantly larger than the first, along with the spinning wheel and more stacks of empty bobbins. A candle sat flickering in the corner, already burned down to the height of her thumb.
She stared at the straw, lost in her thoughts. Anguish was crushing her rib cage.
What if he was gone? Forever?
What if she was all alone in the world?
“Serilda?”
The voice was hesitant and gentle.
She turned to see Gild a few steps away, his face taut with concern. His hand hovered in the air, like he’d been reaching out for her, but had hesitated.
No sooner had she laid eyes on him than tears blurred her vision.
With a sob, she threw herself into his arms.
Chapter 22
He held her and let her cry, solid as a rock in the surf. Serilda didn’t know for how long. It was an embrace that asked for nothing. He did not stroke her hair or ask what was wrong or try to tell her everything would be all right. He just … held her. His shirt was soaked through with her tears by the time she managed to still the tremors in her breaths.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back and sniffling into her sleeve.
Gild’s arms loosened, but didn’t release her. “Please don’t be. I heard what happened in the courtyard. I saw the horse. I …” She met his gaze. His face was tight with emotion. “I’m sorry. This was a terrible night to be pulling pranks, and if he takes his anger out on you …”
Serilda rubbed the tears from her lashes. “The armory. That was you.”
He nodded. “I’d been planning it for weeks. Thought I was being so clever. I mean it was kind of clever. But he was already in a mood, and now … If he hurts you …”
Her breath hitched. His voice was thick with distress. The candlelight was catching on golden specks in his eyes.
And he was not flinching away from her. He held her gaze with no apparent disgust.
That alone made her heart skip.
And also … there was something different about him. She squinted, unable to place it. Her hands settled against his chest and Gild’s arms tightened around her waist again, drawing her closer. Until—
“Your hair,” she said, realizing what had changed. “You combed it.”
His body stilled, and a moment later, pink splotches appeared on his cheeks. He stepped back, his arms falling away. “Did not,” he said, self-consciously digging his fingers into his red hair. It still fell loose past his ears, but it was definitely tidier than before.
“Yes, you did. And you washed your face. You were filthy last time.”
“Fine. Maybe I did,” he spat. “I’m not a schellenrock. I have pride. It’s nothing to write a sonnet about.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked past her toward the spinning wheel. “There’s a lot more straw this time. And a much shorter candlestick.”