There was a way. She refused to accept otherwise.
She squeezed shut her eyes.
Why hadn’t she thought to ask Madam Sauer? She was a witch. She probably knew a dozen ways to?…
She gasped, her eyelids flying open.
Madam Sauer was a witch.
A witch.
How many times had she told the children this very thing? It had been a lie, then. A silly story, even a cruel-hearted one at times, but nothing serious. She had merely been poking fun of their grumpy teacher, whom they all shared a mutual dislike for.
But it hadn’t been a story.
It had been real.
She had spoken the truth.
And how many times had she told the once-ridiculous tale that she had been marked by the god of lies?
But—her father really had made a wish upon one of the old gods. She really was marked by Wyrdith. Shrub Grandmother had confirmed it. Serilda had been right all along.
She was the godchild of the god of lies, and yet, somehow … all her lies were coming true.
Could she do it on purpose?
Could she tell a story andmakeit true? Or was this part of the magic of her gift, part of the wish granted to her father all those years ago?
She might be marked as a liar, but there would be truths in her words that no one could see. Maybe she wasn’t a liar at all, but more like a historian. Maybe even an oracle.
Telling stories of the past that had been buried for too long.
Creating stories that might yet come to be.
Spinning something out of nothing.
Straw into gold.
She imagined the audience before her. The Erlking and his court. All his monsters and ghouls. His servants and attendants—those battered spirits—who, on this side of the veil, had to endure their deaths over and over again.
Gild was there, too, trapped somewhere in these walls. As lost as any of them.
And Gerdrut.
Watching her. Waiting.
Serilda inhaled deeply, and began.
There was once a young princess, stolen by the wild hunt, and a prince, her elder brother, who didall he could to rescue her. He rode through the forest as fast as he could, desperate to catch the hunt before she was taken forever.
But the prince failed. He could not save his sister.
He did, however, manage to vanquish Perchta, the great huntress. He shot an arrow through her heart, and watched as her soul was claimed by the god of death and dragged back to Verloren, from whence all the dark ones had once escaped.
But Perchta had been loved, adored. Almost worshipped. And the Erlking, who had never known true loss until that day, vowed that he would have vengeance on the human boy who had stolen his lover from the world of the living.
Weeks passed as the prince healed from his wounds, tended to by the forest folk. When he finally returned home to his castle, it was under the bright silver light of a full moon. He walked across the bridge and through the gates, surprised to find them unguarded. The watchtowers abandoned.