One of the attendants cleared her throat and pulled open the door. “Forgive me, my lady, but we should not keep His Grim waiting any longer.”
Chapter Five
Serilda did not know what to expect from her nuptials. When she asked the Erlking, he told her there was nothing for her to do but be a happy bride. To which she responded that, since for her to be happy would not be possible, perhaps she would just sleep through it all and he could send someone to wake her when the feast started. She’d been trying to annoy him, but the Erlking had merely laughed.
Like she was joking.
She tried not to worry. It didn’t matter if she had to say some absurd vows about love and eternity. It didn’t matter if he gave her a ring or kissed her or did anything else to sell the spectacle. This marriage was a farce. Nothing was going to change.
He could claim her hand in marriage, but her heart would always be her own.
Well, except for the part where her heart was trapped inside her physical body and hidden away somewhere and she might never see it again until her baby was born and it was too late.
She was led over a high bridge that she had never crossed before to a portion of the outer wall she had never walked, a reminder that the castle was so vast, and so full of nooks and crannies, rooms and towers where her and Gild’s bodies might be kept.
She walked down a set of steps, into a long narrow corridor. The day was sunny and warm, but even now these windowless halls held a chill. The leather of her hunting uniform made soft groaning noises with every step, and though a part of her felt ridiculous in armor and breeches, another part of her felt shockingly bold, almost brave. No one could touch her, and if they dared try, she had a loaded crossbow to ensure they’d regret it.
Her entourage paused at a doorway hung with a heavy velvet curtain. They held the drapes aside, ushering her through.
Serilda stepped out onto a stone balcony and her burgeoning confidence immediately began to crumble. Her muscles tightened.
The balcony stood two stories above the northeast gardens. She had spent little time on this side of the castle, where the grounds were largely utilitarian, housing the dovecote, the infirmary garden, the groundskeeper’s cottage, a small orchard, and a vineyard.
Now a field of sorts had been set up below, fully fenced in by wooden posts. The grounds around the enclosure held the entirety of the Erlking’s court. She saw Manfred, the coachman, his impaled eye dripping blood as he looked up at her with an expression that was just a touch sadder than his usual indifference. She spied the bruised stable boy, whose head was lowered, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. The headless woman had traded her usual riding gear for a simple gown and tied a scarf around her neck to hide the wound, though her blood had already seeped through the fabric.
And there were the dark ones, who were so breathtaking it almost hurt to look at them. But theirs was a hollow beauty, absent of compassion and joy. Most appeared bored, even irate, as they glowered up at her. She returned a smile.
Gild was nowhere to be seen. She wondered if the guards had managed to capture him after all. Perhaps he was even now bound up in golden chains. The thought made her ill.
She hoped he was all right, hidden away somewhere safe.
She hoped he wasn’t planning something disastrous.
And then there was a tiny, ridiculous part of her that wished he were here. Not in the audience, watching this spectacle of a nightmare play out. But here. On this balcony. Taking her hand into his . . .
Foolish, foolish.
The balcony she stood on had been decorated for the ceremony. The stone rail was hung with a garland of roses the color of claret wine. The balusters ornamented with posies of sage and lamb’s ear tied with black lace. Gold and black banners decorated the castle walls, and spicy incense burned below, trailing a heady perfume into the air. The overall effect was lush and decadent and might even have been thrilling to Serilda, if the groom hadn’t been a cruel tyrant that murdered children and mythical creatures for sport.
The moment she thought it, she spotted the balcony directly opposite her, jutting out from the wall of the castle keep, lavishly decorated like her own. The curtains parted and the king stepped out. He was dressed in fine leather armor and tall black boots, just as he had been the first time she met him, on the night of the Snow Moon.
A hunter, and a king. The sight filled Serilda with equal parts awe and disgust.
“My bride,” he said, his honeyed voice carrying across the silence that stretched between the keep and the castle wall. “You are as radiant as the solstice sun.”
“Charming,” she responded, unflattered, as she set the small crossbow on the rail. “In Märchenfeld, we have a tradition of shattering a bunch of clay dishes right before a wedding ceremony in order to frighten away wicked spirits. I would suggest we start with that, but we might lose half our guests.”
“No dark one has ever been frightened off by broken platters and soup bowls. But the idea does amuse me.” He flashed a simpering smile, one that might have tricked their onlookers into believing that he did so dote on his strange human bride. Was anyone fooled? Was this charade even necessary? Surely no one believed there was any love between them. It would require an imagination far beyond her own, and that was asking a lot.
“Our customs,” he continued, “are a little different.”
“I gathered as much,” said Serilda. “I’ve never been to a wedding where the bride and groom were first handed deadly weaponry.”
“Then you have never lived,” said the king, stroking the curve of his own crossbow. He looked down at the crowd below. “Welcome all. I am honored at your presence in witnessing the union between myself and the lady I have chosen for my eternal companion.” He raised an arm. “Release the game.”
Down below, a series of carts were pulled toward the large fenced area, each one loaded with crates. As the crates were opened, dozens of animals were released onto the course. Hares, pheasants, a couple of boars, and two small deer. Ducks, geese, and quail. A mountain goat, half a dozen sheep, even a peacock, who unfolded its fan of bright-colored tail feathers as soon as it was free of its cage. A dozen partridges spread their wings and flew up into the boughs of a fig tree, unbothered by the fence that kept the other animals caged.
Lastly, from the largest crate, emerged a single enormous stag with glorious antlers reaching toward the bright afternoon sky.
The animals scattered across the field, some hiding in what shelter they could find, others meandering about the yard, befuddled and frightened. There was a cacophony of squawks and honks and snuffles. The mountain goat claimed a corner of the yard for itself and was quick to lower its horns threateningly toward any creature that dared to approach it.
“Our custom is simple,” said the Erlking. “You shall make a vow to me and take a shot. If your aim is true, then so shall be your words, and the vow will be considered unbreakable. When our vows are complete, then we shall all feast on our happy sacrifices.” He swept his arm toward the animals.
A sour taste gathered on Serilda’s tongue. She had eaten meat all her life, and she had no qualms about visiting the butcher in Märchenfeld or enjoying roasted pork during a feast or cooking up a hearty beef stew for her and Papa. But she had never been hunting. Never been the one to shoot an arrow into an animal’s heart or drag a knife across its throat.