They formed a circle around Serilda and led her down the winding paths. She did not know where to look first.
The space before her was cavernous—not a clearing exactly, for towering trees still blocked out the sky far overhead, cloaking the world in dim shadows. But the undergrowth had been cleared out, replaced with meandering walking paths thick with spongy moss. And there were houses everywhere, though unlike any houses Serilda had seen before. These abodes were built into the ancient trees themselves. Wooden doors tucked into the spaces between roots, and windows carved from the natural knots scattered along the trunks. Thick branches curved to form winding staircases. Higher boughs held cozy nooks and balconies.
She could still hear the steady patter of raindrops far overhead, and the occasional drizzle fell down into this wooded sanctuary, but the gloom of the forest had been replaced with something cozy and charming, almost quaint. She spotted little shade gardens bursting with sorrel, arugula, and chives. She was mesmerized by the glow of twinkling lights that floated whimsically everywhere she looked. She didn’t know whether it was fireflies or fairies or some magic spell, but the effect was enchanting. She felt like she’d just stepped into a dream.
Asyltal.
The sanctuary of Shrub Grandmother and the moss maidens.
She glanced back once, hoping that Parsley would be coming, too, but there was no sign of her almost-ally.
“Our sister had to return to her duties,” said one of the maidens.
“Duties?” asked Serilda.
Another maiden released a wry laugh. “Just like a mortal to think that all we do is bathe in the waterfall and sing to hedgehogs.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Serilda, affronted. “Judging from your weaponry, I suspect you spend a great deal of time dueling and competing in target practice.”
The one who had laughed shot her a fierce look. “Don’t forget it.”
Serilda spotted more maidens lingering around the village, tending to the gardens or lounging in hammocks made of thick vines. They watched Serilda with little interest. That, or they were just really good at hiding it.
Serilda, on the other hand, was so distracted she nearly toppled down a set of stairs. One of the maidens grabbed her elbow at the last second and pulled her back onto the path.
They were standing at the top of an amphitheater cut into the side of a small valley. At the bottom was a circular pool, emerald green and dotted with lily pads. A grassy island in the center held a circle of moss-covered rocks. Two women were seated, waiting.
Serilda gasped—with relief, and an unexpected amount of joy—to recognize Meadowsweet.
The other was an elderly woman who sat cross-legged on her rock. Though, as Serilda was led down the steps, she realized that elderly could not be the right word. Ancient might be better, ageless better still. She was small, but broad, with a hunched back and wrinkles as deep as canyons cut into her pale face. Her white hair hung thin and tangled down her back, picking up twigs and bits of moss. She was dressed simply in layers of fur and dirt-smudged linen, though on her head was a delicate diadem with a large pearl resting against her brow. Her eyes were as black as her hair was white, and they stared unblinking at Serilda as she approached, in a way that made her stand straighter.
“Grandmother,” said one of the maidens, “this is the girl who has caught the interest of Erlk?nig.”
Serilda couldn’t help it. A delighted smile stretched across her face. This was the leader of the moss maidens, the source of nearly as many fairy stories as the Erlking himself. The great, the ferocious, the most peculiar Shrub Grandmother.
Pusch-Grohla.
She did her best to curtsy. “This is incredible,” she said, with a bit of disbelieving laughter in her voice as she recalled the story of the prince and the gates of Verloren she’d been telling Gild. “I was just talking about you.”
Pusch-Grohla smacked her lips a couple of times, then leaned her head toward Meadowsweet. Serilda imagined she was going to whisper something to the maiden, but instead, Meadowsweet demurely turned to the old woman and began picking through her knotted white hair. After a second, she picked something out and flicked it away toward the water. Lice? Fleas?
Nothing was said while Meadowsweet dutifully found two more bugs, and the rest of the maidens who had led Serilda to this place fanned out and claimed stones around the circle, leaving Serilda standing in the middle.
Once they were settled, Pusch-Grohla sniffed and sat up straight again. She never took her gaze from Serilda.
When she spoke, her voice was thin as watered-down milk. “This is the girl who stuffed you into an onion cellar?”
Serilda frowned. To say it that way made her sound like a villain, rather than the hero.
“She is,” said Meadowsweet.
Pusch-Grohla sucked on her front teeth for a moment, and when she spoke again, Serilda noticed that a few of those teeth were missing, and the ones she did have didn’t quite fit her mouth, or each other. As though they’d been borrowed and repurposed from a helpful mule. “Is there a debt owed?”
“No, Grandmother,” said Meadowsweet. “We were happy to show our gratitude, although”—Meadowsweet glanced at Serilda’s throat, then down to her hand—“you do not wear our gifts?”
“I have hidden them away for safekeeping,” she said, keeping her tone even.
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Behind the veil, they were most securely hidden, and she knew Gild would keep them safe.
Pusch-Grohla leaned forward, staring straight through Serilda in a way that reminded her of a hawk watching the skittering path of a mouse across the fields.
Then she smiled. The effect was not so much jolly as disconcerting.
It was followed by a loud, wheezing laugh, as she pointed a crooked finger with swollen knuckles toward Serilda. “You honor the god of lies with that clever mouth. But, child”—her countenance dissolved into sternness—“do not think to lie to me.”
“I would not dare …,” said Serilda. She hesitated, not sure what to call her. “Grandmother?”
The woman sucked her teeth again, and if she cared one way or the other what Serilda called her, it did not show. “My granddaughters gave gifts worthy of your assistance. A ring and a necklace. Very old. Very fine. You had them with you when Erlk?nig summoned you on the Hunger Moon, and you have them with you no longer.” Her gaze turned sharp, almost hostile. “What did the Alder King give to you in exchange for these trinkets?”
“The Alder King?” Serilda shook her head. “I didn’t give them to him.”
“No? Then how is it you have spent three moons in his care, and yet you remain alive?”