Perchta saw the god and cried out. She tried to stand, but she was too weak and the arrow through her chest would not allow her to move.
As Velos approached, the prince stepped back, bowing his head with deference, but the god paid him no heed. It was rare that the god was able to reclaim one of the dark ones. Once, they belonged to death. Demons, some called them. Birthed in the poisoned rivers of Verloren, creatures born of the cruel deeds and haunting regrets of the dead. They were never meant for the land of mortals, but in the beforetimes, some escaped through the gate, and the god of death had mourned their loss ever since.
Now, as Perchta screamed with rage and even fear, Velos threw the chain around her and, defying all her struggles, dragged her back through the gateway.
No sooner had they descended than the brambles grew together, so thick one could not see through them. An entire hedge of unforgiving thorns disguised the opening amid those towering stones.
The prince collapsed to his knees. Though he was heartened to see the huntress taken away to Verloren, his heart was still broken from the loss of his sister, and his body so weak he thought he might collapse right there on the rotting bridge.
He thought of his mother and father, who would soon awaken. All the castle would wonder what had become of the prince and princess who had disappeared so suddenly in the night.
He wished with all his heart that he could go to them. That he could have been fast enough, strong enough, to rescue his sister and bring her back home to safety.
Just before he allowed his weary eyes to shut, he heard a heavy thumping, felt the vibrations on the bridge. With a groan, he forced himself to look up.
An old woman had emerged from the forest and was hobbling across the bridge.
No. Not just old. She was ancient, as ageless as the tallest oak, as wrinkled as old linens, as gray as the winter sky. Her back was hunched and she walked with a thick wooden cane that was as gnarled as her limbs.
Her vulpine eyes, though, were brilliant and wise.
She came to stand before the prince, inspecting him. He tried to stand, but he had no strength left.
“Who are you?” said the woman, in a tattered voice.
The prince gave his name, with as much pride as he could muster, despite his weariness.
“It was your arrow that pierced the heart of the great huntress.”
“Yes. I hoped to kill her.”
“Dark ones do not die. But we are grateful that she has finally been returned to Verloren.” The woman glanced behind her, and—
Chapter 23
Serilda yelped, jumping away from the unexpected, feather-soft touch along her wrist.
“I’m sorry!” said Gild, launching himself backward. His leg hit the spinning wheel and sent it toppling onto its side.
Serilda grimaced from the crash, her hands flying to her mouth.
The wheel spun half a turn before coming to a stop.
Gild looked from the fallen wheel, back up to Serilda, grimacing. “I’m sorry,” he said again. His face pinched—with an apology, and maybe embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have. I know. I couldn’t resist, and you were so lost in the story, and I …”
Serilda’s hand went to cover the bare skin of her wrist, still tingling from his barely-there caress.
Gild followed the movement. His face fell into something like despair. “You’re so?…?so soft,” he whispered.
A clipped barking laugh escaped her. “Soft! What are you—” She stopped short, her gaze falling on the wall behind the toppled spinning wheel, and all the bobbins that had been empty when her story had begun. They now gleamed with spun gold, like gems in a jewelry case.
She looked down at the floor, completely bare, but for her traveling cloak and the candlestick, still burning strong. “You’re finished.” She returned her focus to Gild. “When did you finish?”
He considered for a moment. “Just now when Shrub Grandmother showed up. It is Shrub Grandmother, isn’t it?”
His voice was serious, almost as though the wizened old woman really had appeared before them.
Serilda pressed her lips against a smile. “Don’t spoil the story for yourself.”
His smirk turned knowing. “It’s definitely her.”
Serilda frowned. “I didn’t realize you’d stopped. I suppose I could have been helping more.”
“You were quite engrossed. As was I—” His last word broke off into something strangled. Again his gaze dipped to her bare arm and suddenly he was turning away, his cheeks flaring red.
Serilda thought of how often he seemed to find reasons to touch her, even when he didn’t have to. Brushing her fingers when she handed him the straw. Or the way he had nuzzled her hand the last time, and how the memory sent an unexpected thrill through her even now.
She knew it was only because she was alive. She was not a dark one, cold as ice in the dead of winter. She was not a ghost, who felt like they would dissolve if you so much as breathed on them. She knew it was only because—to this boy who had not touched a mortal human in ages, if ever—she was a novelty.
But that didn’t keep her nerves from shivering at every bit of unexpected contact.
Gild cleared his throat. “I would say we have, maybe, half an hour before sunrise. Is there … more to the story?”
“There’s always more to the story,” Serilda said automatically.
A grin like the thaw of spring came over his face. Gild plopped himself down on the floor, crossing his legs and cupping his chin. He reminded her of her charges at the school, attentive and eager.
“Go on, then,” he said.
She laughed, then shook her head. “Not until you answer some of my questions.”
He frowned. “What questions?”
Serilda sat against the wall opposite him. “For starters, why are you dressed like you’re getting ready for bed?”
He sat up straighter, then looked down at his clothes. He raised his arms, his sleeves billowing. “What are you talking about? It’s a perfectly respectable shirt.”
“No, it isn’t. Respectable men wear tunics. Or doublets. Or jerkins. Not just a poufy blouse. You look like a peasant. Or a lord who’s lost his valet.”
He guffawed. “A lord! That’s a fine idea. Don’t you see?” He stretched out his legs in front of him, crossing his ankles. “I’m the lord of this whole castle. What else could I possibly want?”
“I’m being serious,” she said.
“So am I.”
“You make gold. You could be a king! Or at least a duke or an earl or something.”
“Is that what you think? Dearest Serilda, the moment the Erlking learned of your supposed talent, he brought you here and locked you in the dungeon, demanding that you use your skill to benefit him. When people know that you can do this”—he gestured at the pile of gold-filled bobbins—“then that is all they care about. Gold and wealth and riches and what you can do for them. It is not a gift, but a curse.” He scratched behind his ear, taking the momentary pause to work a kink from his shoulders, before sighing. It sounded sad. “Besides. Nothing that I want can be purchased with gold.”