She glanced toward the kennel. The rest of the hounds were watching her eagerly, straining against their chains. But the chains did seem to be holding them, and the kennel door seemed securely latched.
She also noticed for the first time that they had gained an audience. More ghosts, with those wispy edges, as if they might fade away to nothing as soon as they passed out of the moonlight.
The dark ones frightened her more. Unlike the ghosts, they were as solid as she was. Almost elflike in appearance, with skin that shimmered in tones of silver and bronze and gold. Everything about them was sharp. Their cheekbones, the jut of their shoulders, their fingernails. They were the king’s original court, had been at his side since the beforetimes, when they had first escaped from Verloren. They watched her now with keen, malicious eyes.
There were creatures, too. Some the size of cats, with black-taloned fingers and small pointed horns. Others the size of Serilda’s hand, with batlike wings and sapphire-blue skin. Some might have been human, if it weren’t for the scales on their skin or the mop of dripping seaweed that clung to their scalps. Goblins, kobolds, fairies, nixes. She could not begin to guess at them all.
The king cleared his throat. “By all means, take your time. I am quite fond of being looked down upon by human children.”
She frowned. “I’m eighteen.”
“Precisely so.”
She made a face, which he ignored.
Serilda climbed down onto the bench as gracefully as she could, accepting the king’s hand as she descended to the ground. She tried to focus more on keeping her trembling legs strong beneath her than the feeling of cold dread that slithered up her arm at his touch.
“Ready the hunt!” the king bellowed as he led her toward the keep. “The mortal and I have business to attend to. I want the hounds and steeds ready as soon as we are finished.”
Chapter 9
The entrance to the keep was flanked by two enormous bronze statues of hunting hounds—so lifelike Serilda shied away as she passed them. Ducking into the keep’s shadow, she had to jog to catch up with the king’s long strides. She wanted to pause and marvel at everything—the enormous and ancient wooden doors with their black metal hinges and raw chiseled bolts. The chandeliers crafted of iron and antlers and bone. Stone pillars carved with intricate designs of brambles and rosebuds.
They had entered into an entry hall, with two wide staircases curving upward and a set of doors leading into opposing corridors to Serilda’s left and right, but the king led them straight ahead. Through an arched doorway, into what must be the great hall, lit with candlelight at every turn. Sconces on the walls, tall candelabras in the corners, while more chandeliers, some as big as the carriage she’d ridden in, hung from the raftered ceiling. Thick carpets and animal pelts covered the floors. Tapestries decorated the walls, but they did little to add vibrancy to a space that was as eerie as it was majestic.
The decor was all reminiscent of a hunting lodge, with an impressive collection of taxidermied beasts. Disembodied heads on the walls and whole stuffed bodies ready to pounce from the corners. From a small basilisk to an enormous boar, a wingless dragon to a gem-eyed serpent. There were beasts with crooked horns, mighty shells, and too many heads. Serilda was both horrified and fascinated. They were nightmares come to life. Well—not life. Clearly these were dead. But to think they might have been real gave her a thrill, to know so many of the stories she’d crafted over the years had some basis in reality.
At the same time, seeing such glorious creatures, lifeless and used as impressive props, made her feel a little sick to her stomach.
Even the fire crackling in the central hearth, inside a fireplace so tall that Serilda could have stood up inside without touching the flue, did little to chase away the chill that permeated the air. She was tempted to go and stand by that fire, if only for a moment—her instincts craving its homey warmth—until her eye caught on the massive creature mounted above the mantel.
She froze, unable to look away.
It was serpentine, with two crests of small pointed thorns curving across its brow, and needlelike teeth set into rows along its protruding mouth. Slitted green eyes were ringed with what appeared to be gray pearls embedded in its skin, and a single red stone sparkled in the center of its brow, a cross between a pretty bauble and a watchful third eye. An arrow with black fletching still protruded from beneath one of its bat-like wings, so small it seemed impossible that it could have been a killing strike. In fact, the beast hardly looked dead at all. The way it had been preserved and mounted, it looked ready to jump off the fireplace and snatch Serilda up in its jaws. As she drew closer, she wondered if she was only imagining the warm breath, the throaty purr, leaking out from the creature’s mouth.
“Is that a …?” she started, but words failed her. “Whatisthat?”
“A rubinrot wyvern,” came the answer from behind her. She jumped and spun around. She hadn’t realized the coachman had followed them. He stood serenely a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back, seemingly unbothered by the blood that was even now dripping from his impaled eye socket. “Very rare. His Grim traveled to Lysreich to hunt it.”
“Lysreich?” said Serilda, stunned. She pictured the map on the wall of the schoolhouse. Lysreich was across the sea, far to the west. “Does he often travel far to … hunt?”
“When there is a worthy prize,” came the vague answer. He glanced toward the door where the king had gone. “I suggest you keep up. His mild temper can be deceiving.”
“Right. Sorry.” Serilda hurried after the king. The next room might have been a parlor or game room, the massive fireplace that it shared with the great hall casting orange light across an assortment of richly upholstered chairs and lounges. But the king was not there.
She moved ahead. Through another door—into a dining hall. And there was the king, standing at the head of the ridiculous table, his arms crossed and a glower in his cool eyes.
“My goodness,” said Serilda, estimating that the table could likely seat a hundred guests along its never-ending length. “How old was the tree that gave its life to make that?”
“Not as old as I am, I assure you.” The king sounded displeased, and Serilda felt chastised and, briefly, afraid. Not that she hadn’t felt a little concerned from the moment a ghost appeared on her doorstep, but there was a thinly veiled warning in the king’s voice that made her stand taller. She was forced to acknowledge a fact she’d been trying hard to ignore all night.
The Erlking did not have a reputation for kindness.
“Come closer,” he said.
Trying to hide her nervousness, Serilda paced toward him. She glanced at the walls as she passed, which were hung with bright-colored tapestries. They continued the theme of the hunt, depicting images of hellhounds snarling around a frightened unicorn or a storm of hunters surging upon a winged lion.
As she walked, the images grew in brutality. Death. Blood. Anguished pain on the faces of the prey—in stark contrast to the glee in the eyes of the hunters.