Then a light, raspy voice said, “I have heard tales of gold-spinners, blessed by Hulda.”
Serilda looked up at the nearest rider. A pale-skinned woman, hazy around the edges, hair in a braided crown atop her head. She wore riding breeches and leather armor accented by a deep red stain all down the front of the tunic. It was a sickening amount of blood—all, no doubt, from the deep gash across her throat.
She held Serilda’s gaze a moment—emotionless—before glancing at their leader. “I believe she speaks true.”
The hunter did not acknowledge her statement. Instead, Serilda heard his boots crunching lightly through the snow until he was standing behind her. She lowered her gaze, focused on her task, though the grain stalks were cutting her palms and mud was already caked beneath her fingernails. Why hadn’t she grabbed her mittens? As soon as she thought it, she remembered that she’d given them to Gerdrut. She must look like such a fool.
Gathering straw to spin into gold. Honestly, Serilda. Of all the thoughtless, absurd things you might have said—
“How pleasant to know that Hulda’s gift has not gone wasted,” drawled the hunter. “It is a rare treasure indeed.”
She glanced over her shoulder, but he was already turning away. Lithe as a spotted lynx, he mounted his steed. His horse snorted.
The hunter did not look at Serilda as he signaled to the other riders.
As fast as they had arrived, they were gone again. Thundering hooves, a flurry of snow and ice, the renewed howls of the hellhounds. A storm cloud, ominous and crackling, racing across the field.
Then, nothing but glistening snow and the round moon kissing the horizon.
Serilda let out a shaken breath, hardly able to believe her good fortune.
She had survived an encounter with the wild hunt.
She had lied to the face of the Erlking himself.
What a tragedy, she thought, that no one would ever believe her.
She waited until the usual sounds of the night had begun to return. Frozen branches creaking. The river’s soothing burble. A distant hoot of an owl.
Finally, she retrieved the lantern and dared to throw open the cellar door.
The moss maidens emerged, staring at Serilda as if she had turned blue in the time since they’d last seen her.
She was so cold, she wouldn’t have doubted it.
She tried to smile, but it was difficult to do when her teeth were chattering. “Will you be all right now? Can you find your way back to the forest?”
The taller maiden, Parsley, sneered, as if insulted by such a question. “It is you humans who regularly lose yourselves, not us.”
“I didn’t mean to offend.” She glanced down at their immodest furs. “You must be so cold.”
The maiden didn’t respond, just stared intently at Serilda, both curious and irritated. “You have saved our lives, and risked your own to do it. What for?”
Serilda’s heart fluttered gleefully. It sounded so heroic, when put that way.
But heroes were supposed to be humble, so she merely shrugged. “It hardly seemed right, chasing you down like that, as if you were wild animals. What did the hunt want with you, anyway?”
It was Meadowsweet who spoke, seeming to overcome her shyness. “The Erlking has long hunted the forest folk, and all manner of magical kin besides.”
“He sees it as sport,” said Parsley. “Suppose, when you’ve been hunting so long as he has, taking home the head of a common stag must not seem like much of a prize.”
Serilda’s lips parted in shock. “He meant to kill you?”
They both looked at her as if she were dense. But Serilda had assumed the hunt was chasing them to capture them. Which, perhaps, was worse in some ways. But to murder such graceful beings for the fun of it? The idea sickened her.
“We typically have means of protecting ourselves from the hunt, and evading those hounds,” said Parsley. “They cannot find us when we stay under the protection of our Shrub Grandmother. But my sister and I were not able to make it back before nightfall.”
“I am glad I could help,” said Serilda. “You are welcome to hide in my root cellar anytime you’d like.”
“We owe you a debt,” said Meadowsweet.
Serilda shook her head. “I won’t hear of it. Believe me. The adventure was well worth the risk.”
The maidens exchanged a look, and whatever passed between them, Serilda could see they didn’t like it. But there was resignation in Parsley’s scowl as she stepped closer to Serilda and fidgeted with something on her finger.
“All magic requires payment, to keep our worlds in balance. Will you accept this token in return for the aid you’ve given me this night?”
Struck speechless, Serilda opened her palm. The maiden dropped a ring onto it. “This isn’t necessary … and I certainly didn’t do any magic.”
Parsley tilted her head, a rather birdlike gesture. “Are you certain?”
Before Serilda could respond, Meadowsweet had stepped closer and removed a thin chain from her neck.
“And will you accept this token,” she said, “in return for the aid you’ve given me?”
She looped the necklace around Serilda’s outstretched palm. It bore a small oval locket.
Both pieces of jewelry shone gold in the moonlight.
Actual gold.
They must be worth a great deal.
But what were forest folk doing with them? She had always believed that they had no use for material riches. That they saw humankind’s obsession with gold and gems as something unsavory, even repulsive.
Perhaps that was why it was so easy for them to give these gifts to Serilda. Whereas, for her and her father, these were a treasure like nothing she’d ever held.
And yet—
She shook her head and held her hand out toward them. “I can’t take these. Thank you, but … anyone would have helped you. You don’t need to pay me.”
Parsley chuckled mildly. “You must not know much of humans, to believe that,” she said sourly. She tilted her chin toward the gifts. “If you do not accept these tokens, then our debt has not been paid and we must be in your service until it is.” Her gaze darkened warningly. “We would much prefer that you take the gifts.”
Pressing her lips together, Serilda nodded and closed her hand around the jewelry. “Thank you, then,” she said. “Consider the debt paid.”
They nodded, and it felt as if a bargain had been struck and signed in blood for all the loftiness the moment carried.
Desperate to break the tension, Serilda held her arms out toward them. “I feel so close to you both. Shall we embrace?”
Meadowsweet gaped at her. Parsley outright snarled.
The tension did not break.
Serilda drew her arms quickly back. “No. That would be odd.”
“Come,” said Parsley. “Grandmother will be worried.”
And just like skittish deer, they ran off, disappearing down the riverbank.
“By the old gods,” muttered Serilda. “What a night.”