It was not a stampede, like she had come to expect from the wild hunt. But then, tonight was not a hunting moon.
The king walked at the helm of their parade, while the dark ones fanned out behind him, some on horses and others on foot. Even from afar she could see that they were dressed in finery. Not sumptuous velvet gowns and feathered caps, like the royal family in Verene might have worn. But in their own way, the hunters had prepared for an evening of revelry. Their jerkins and doublets were trimmed with gold, their capes lined with fur, their boots fastened with pearls and gems. They still looked as though they might commandeer a stallion and chase after a stag at any moment, but they were prepared to do so with inarguable elegance.
The ghosts followed. Serilda recognized the one-eyed coachman and the headless woman. Their clothing remained the same as always: a bit old-fashioned and covered in their own blood.
It was not long before the undead inhabitants of Adalheid Castle had filled up the bridge, pouring onto the road along the water. Some approached the feasting tables with delight, while many of the hunters gathered to inspect the game animals that had been left for their entertainment. Already, the atmosphere was growing jovial. Some of the ghost servants took to pouring ale and wine and passing overflowing goblets among the crowd. A quartet of gore-splattered musicians struck up a song that was lively if also a touch discordant to Serilda’s ear, as if their instruments hadn’t been tuned in a few centuries.
Serilda strained to get a better look at the ghouls. Would she recognize her mother if she was among them? She knew so little about her. The inclination was to look for a woman close to her father’s age, but no, she would have been in her early twenties when she went missing. Serilda wished she had asked her father more questions. What did her mother look like? Dark hair and a chipped tooth was all the information she had. What color were her eyes? Was she tall, like Serilda was, or did she have the same small brown freckles like constellations on her arms?
She searched the faces of every woman she could see, hoping to feel a surge of recognition, a surge of anything, but if her mother was among them, she couldn’t tell.
The howls of the hellhounds made Serilda duck again. On the bridge, the master of the hounds appeared, gripping a dozen leashes as the hounds strained and growled to get free. They had seen the quarry at the end of the bridge.
“Hunters and spirits,” rang the Erlking’s voice. “The immortal and the lifeless.” He took the crossbow off his shoulder and notched an arrow. A group of apparitions gathered around the trembling prey. The hunters on their horses gripped the reins, lascivious grins darkening their faces. “Let the hunt begin.” The Erlking fired the arrow—straight into the heart of the god of death. It landed with a sickening thump.
Cage doors were thrown open. Ropes were slashed.
The hounds were released.
Terrified animals scattered in every direction. Birds flapped toward the nearest rooftops. Hares and ferrets and badgers and foxes scampered into yards, down alleyways, around buildings.
The hounds gave chase, the hunters not far behind.
A raucous cheer erupted from the crowd. Wine splashed as goblets were toasted. The tempo of the music increased. She had never imagined a castle of ghosts could make so much noise, or sound so … cheerful.
No—that wasn’t the right word.
Riotous was better.
Serilda was amazed how much it reminded her of Eostrig’s Day in M?rchenfeld. Not the hunting, but the joviality, the merriment, the celebratory air.
If the dark ones hadn’t been callous murderers, she might have wished to join them.
As it was, she recalled Leyna’s warning, to wait until they were distracted by the hunt before making her move.
Staying as low as she could, she slowly crept forward.
Though there were dozens of boats moored along the dock, it was easy to spot the one that belonged to the White Swan. It was not the biggest, the newest, the nicest—not that Serilda was a particularly qualified judge of boats—but it was painted the same bright blue as the front of the public house, with a white swan on the side.
Serilda had never been in a boat before, much less unmoored and rowed one herself, and she spent perhaps far too much time staring down at the sun-faded wood benches and the fraying rope looped and knotted around an iron stand, trying to figure out if she should untie the rope before or after climbing in. And once she was in, how much would the boat sway under her weight, and how exactly was she going to use those two measly oars to steer herself around all the other boats squeezed in like sausages along this pier?
She pulled the edge of the boat closer, until it thunked hollowly against the dock. After another moment’s hesitation, she sat down on the ledge and stuck her feet into the boat, testing its sway. It dipped low under the pressure, but buoyed easily back up. Exhaling, she clambered awkwardly inside, sinking down to the floor, where a small puddle of cold water soaked into her skirt.
The boat didn’t sink. So that was encouraging.
It took another minute for her to unknot and unwind the rope. Then, using the end of one of the oars, she shoved away from the dock. The boat rocked treacherously and clonked time and again against the sides of its neighbors as she tried to steer it away. She cringed at every noise, but a boisterous archery tournament had started up as some of those who had not gone after the hunting quarry gleefully turned the god of death into a pincushion.
It took her ages to get onto open water. The boat was an uncontrolled spinning top, and she was grateful that the lake’s surface was relatively still, otherwise she would have been at its mercy. As it was, she found she had better luck using the oars to shove away from other boats than she did using them to actually row, but once she had left the confines of the narrow marina, she had no other choice. Situating herself with her back to the castle, as she’d seen the fishermen do, she took hold of both oars with tight fists and started to rotate them in stiff, awkward circles. It was much harder than it looked. The water resisted, the oars felt strange and unrelenting in her hands, and she was constantly forced to correct her course as the boat turned too far in one direction and then the other.
Finally, a couple of lifetimes later, she found herself in the shadow of the castle, just beneath the drawbridge.
From this angle, the structure was huge and ominous. The walls and watchtowers stretched upward toward the star-dappled sky, blocking the moon from her view. Gigantic boulders made up its foundation, surrounded by gently lapping water, which might have been peaceful if not broken by the ghostly cheers of the revelers on the shore.