The stable boy gaped at her, wide-eyed. Then his gaze darted to something past Serilda’s shoulder.
A hand clasped her elbow, swiveling her around. The Erlking’s expression was murderous.
“You do not command my servants,” he growled.
“My horse is going to die!” she screamed. “He’s old! He shouldn’t have been pushed so hard tonight!”
“If he dies, he will die having tasted the greatest thrill any gelding could hope to enjoy. Now come. You’ve wasted enough of my time tonight.”
He started to drag her toward the keep, but Serilda yanked her arm from his grip. “Where is my father?” she shouted.
In the next moment, the king had twisted Serilda’s braids around his fist and yanked her head back, pressing a blade to her throat. His eyes were piercing, his voice low. “I am not in the habit of asking twice.”
She clenched her jaw against the urge to spit in his face.
“You will follow me,” he said, “and you will not speak out of turn again.”
He released her and stepped back. As he stalked toward the keep’s steps, every muscle in Serilda’s body tightened with rage. She wanted to scream and rail and grab whatever was in reach and hurl it at the back of his head.
Before she could do anything, a ghost in a blacksmith apron ran out from the keep. “Your Grim! There’s a … a problem. In the armory.”
The Erlking slowed his steps. “What sort of problem?”
“With the weapons. They’re … well. Perhaps you should see for yourself.”
With a low growl, the Erlking swept back through the massive doors, the blacksmith on his heels. Only when the blacksmith turned around did Serilda see the half-dozen arrows jutting from him like pins in a cushion.
Serilda stood, heart still racing, fury still clouding her thoughts. She looked back at Zelig, relieved to see the stable boy carrying a pail of water in his direction.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
The boy blushed, not daring to meet her gaze. She looked past him, toward the open gate. The lowered bridge.
Her entire body was sore, but mostly her thighs and rear end, which summoned dizzy memories of charging across the land on the back of that magnificent horse. She had done little riding in her life. She was reminded now that her body was unaccustomed to it.
But she thought she might still be able to run.
If she had to.
“I would not advise that.”
The coachman appeared beside her. His warning from before returned to her.
If you run, he will only further relish the chase.
This night had shown her how right he was.
“I believe he told you to follow,” continued the coachman. “I would not make him come searching for you later.”
“He’s already gone. I’ll never find him.”
“They were heading to the armory. I will show you the way.”
She wanted to ignore him. To run. To find her father—who was out there alone. One more victim of the hunt, abandoned in a field or at the edge of the forest. He could be anywhere. What if he was hurt? What if he was—
She exhaled sharply, refusing to allow the word into her thoughts.
He was alive. He would be all right. He had to be.