Gild flinched and pulled away.
He wasted no time in settling himself at the spinning wheel and beginning the task. He seemed to work twice as fast as he had before, his jaw set and his eyes focused only on the straw being fed into the wheel. It was magic itself to watch him. The confident movements of his fingers, the steady thump of his foot on the pedal, the deft way his hands tied the golden threads onto the bobbin as they emerged twinkling from the wheel.
Serilda once again set about assisting him as well as she could. The night passed quickly. It seemed that every time Serilda dared to glance at the candle, another inch had been lost from the wax. Her fears rose as she tried to estimate how much work they had done. She surveyed the pile of straw, picturing what it had been when she’d first arrived. Were they halfway through? More? Was there yet any sign of the sky lightening outside the castle walls?
Gild said nothing. He hardly moved but to accept each new handful of straw she handed him, always maintaining the steady spinning of the wheel.
So much for all her fantasies of romance, she thought dryly, then chastised herself for it. She was grateful—endlessly grateful that Gild was here, that she would live another night, despite the Erlking’s impossible demands.
If they finished, that is.
The piles of straw slowly dwindled and the pile of sparkling bobbins grew, until there was a wall of gold thread glistening near the door.
Whir …
Whir …
Whir …
“I’ve been asking around to see if there are any spirits named Idonia.”
Serilda blinked. Gild was not looking at her. His focus never left his work. He seemed tense after their bargain. She supposed she felt pretty tense, too.
“And?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing so far. But I have to be careful who I ask. Don’t want it getting back to His Darkness, or he might get suspicious of us.”
“I understand. Thank you for trying.”
“If I do find her …,” he started uncertainly. “What should I tell her?”
Serilda considered. It seemed like an impossible hope at this point. What were the chances, that of all the hunt’s victims, her mother would be one the king had deigned to keep in his servitude? Her search felt futile, especially when she was supposed to be worrying about herself, her own servitude.
“Just tell her that someone is looking for her, I suppose,” she said.
At this, Gild did glance up, looking like he wanted to say more. But he hesitated for too long, then eventually returned his focus to his work.
“Shall I continue our story?” Serilda suggested, eager for a distraction. Something that didn’t have to do with her mother or her firstborn child or this rotten predicament she was trapped in.
Gild sighed, relieved. “I wish you would.”
The old woman stood on the bridge before the prince, her face in a permanent scowl, yet her eyes alight with wisdom.
“By returning Perchta to the land of the lost, you have done us a great service, young prince,” she said. Then she gestured toward the surrounding woods, and a group of figures began to emerge into the dappled sunlight. Women of all ages, with skin that gleamed in every shade, from tawny gold to darkest brown, and tufts of lichen sprouting between antlers and horns.
They were moss maidens, and in that moment, the prince knew that he was in the presence of their leader, Pusch-Grohla, the Shrub Grandmother herself.
“Ha! I knew it was her!”
“Oh, yes, you’re very clever, Gild. Now hush.”
Shrub grandmother was not known for being kind to the humans who ventured too close to the forest folk. She often demanded that mortals complete impossible tasks and punished them when they failed.
Or—sometimes—rewarded them for deeds of kindness and courage.
One could never be sure of her mood, but the prince knew enough to show respect. He lowered his gaze.
“Stop groveling,” she snapped, thumping the end of her walking stick so hard it broke through one of the rotted boards. “Can you stand?”
He tried to get to his feet, but one leg buckled from his weight.
“Never mind,” growled the old woman. “Do not kill yourself to impress me.”
She walked past him, staring up at the black stones, where the gate to Verloren had stood. “She will do everything she can to escape. Perchta will never be content to be a prisoner of the underworld. She is most cunning.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “If she ever returns, the creatures of this world will once again be in danger of her arrows and blades, her fathomless brutality.” She turned to the women gathered at the edge of the woods. “Until that day, we will stand watch over this gate. We will ensure that no one ever comes out of Verloren, that the gods themselves will not open these doors to allow the huntress passage. We must stay vigilant. We must keep guard.”
The moss maidens nodded, their expressions fierce.
Hobbling up to the stones, Shrub Grandmother lifted her walking stick over her head and said an incantation, the words languid and solemn. The old language. The prince watched, speechless, as the tall black monoliths tipped toward the center of the brambled clearing. The ground thundered as they struck the earth. Branches splintered and groaned.
When she was finished, the gates to Verloren had been sealed, permanently trapping Perchta in the afterworld.
She turned back to the prince, something almost like a smile stretching across her toothless mouth. “Come, young prince. You require healing.”
The moss maidens built a hammock of branches and vines, and together, they carried the wounded prince into the woods. He tried to look back as he was taken away. To see if there was any hint that Gravenstone Castle stood hidden behind the veil, and his sister’s body, perhaps her ghost, somewhere just beyond his reach. But all he saw was an impassable field of brambles and thorns.
The forest folk took the prince to Asyltal, their home and sanctuary, a place so hidden by magic that the Erlking himself had never found it. There, Shrub Grandmother and the moss maidens, in all their expert knowledge of healing herbs, nursed the prince back to health.
He did not know that behind the veil, the Erlking was pondering his revenge.
The dark ones do not mourn, and neither would the wicked Erlking. Only fury was allowed inside his black heart.
Fury, and a burning need for retaliation against the boy who murdered the only being he had ever loved.
As the days passed behind the veil, the Erlking began to concoct a terrible plan. He would ensure that the prince would soon come to know the same fate he had dealt upon the Erlking himself. A future without peace, without joy.
Without end.
The days passed slowly as he crafted his vengeance.