He glances around the room, at the other courtiers in attendance. “Perhaps…alone?”
All right.
At a jerk of my chin, the nobles scurry from the hall like well-trained ants, leaving only my advisors and me. I think of sending them away as well, but they’d never have it, and I don’t feel like fussing with them.
When the last of the courtiers leave, Hendrick reaches inside his jacket and produces a fabric-wrapped bundle. “I’m curious which of your artisans can create…this.”
Rainart gasps when he sees the impossibly fine, shimmering strands of gold, all wrapped together like a skein of thread.
“Where did you get that?” I demand, leaning forward.
“The daughter of the man who owed me the debt. She produced it overnight.”
“Who is she?” Rainart asks.
“Hans, a peddler in the village, is her father. I didn’t catch her name.”
As I stare at it, marveling at the delicate threads, my advisors chatter like starlings in a tree. Vaguely paying attention, I hear them call in one of my stewards, demanding he fetch the tax books.
Not half an hour later, they have the information they require. This man Hans is delinquent. He’s supposed to come in for an audience in just over a fortnight to discuss payment.
“Call for him now,” Rainart says, his eyes shining with gold lust. “Have him come in immediately.”
Hendrick tucks away the package, looking concerned—and rightly so. Who knows where this new mania will lead?
“You’ve never seen anything like it?” Hendrick asks, turning back to me, leaving my men to their plotting.
I shake my head. “Not ever. The only people I’ve heard who have the ability to spin gold are the elves, but they are—”
I cut off abruptly, growing cold.
No. It can’t be. Surely the girl the man speaks of is not…
“Where did you say this man lives?” I demand, and my tone is so sharp the room goes silent.
Hendrick widens his eyes. “A meadow past the village, Your Majesty.”
“You may leave now,” I say, my tone as hard and frigid as winter steel.
“Your Majesty…?”
“Go!”
The fool has no idea what he’s done.
I sit, silently stewing for more than two hours, until the peddler stumbles into the throne room. He squeezes his hat in his hands, fear practically oozing from his pores.
So this is Greta’s father. I dislike the man immediately, if only for inadvertently throwing his daughter into an incomprehensible mess. I’ve seen that look on my advisors’ faces before. It doesn’t end well.
“Are you Hans?” Rainart demands, immediately getting to the point.
“I… I am,” he stutters, lowering his eyes.
“Are you aware that you are several months behind on your yearly taxes?”
“Your Majesty,” the man appeals, twisting that ratty hat in his hands. “Our pigs were—”
“Enough!” Rainart bellows, striking the man mute.
“Tell us about your daughter.”
Hans blinks, his eyes widening, surprise nearly knocking him over. “My…daughter?”
“We’ve heard interesting rumors. Rumors we’d like you to verify.”
The peddler begins to shake his head. “I don’t—”
“Are you acquainted with Hendrick Belacore?”
“I am…” He shakes his head, looking almost dizzy from the abrupt change of subject.
“Are you aware that your daughter paid your debt to him this morning?”
Hans’s face goes perfectly blank, and he stutters before he finally says, “No, I was not—”
“And are you aware that she paid him in spun gold?”
And there—a flash of recognition, something Rainart latches onto.
“Do you have any idea how this might be?”
The man swallows, overwhelmed—just as Rainart wants him. “I—”
“Yes or no?”
“Perhaps,” he finally blurts out, looking green.
“Explain.”
Hans wipes his hand over his brow. He’s even paler than he was when he entered. He turns his attention from Rainart to me, entreating me with his eyes. “I’ve only heard rumors, Your Majesty.”
“What rumors?” Herman asks, stepping forward, his tone softer than Rainart’s. His round belly undulates as he walks, and I wonder how he stays upright when it gets to moving as it does.
The man shifts to my short, round advisor. “People have told me—in the shops—that my daughter has paid our debts…in strange ways.”
“Define strange.”
“Threads of gold,” he whispers.
“How does she do it?” Herman asks. His hands wring at his ample waist as his own greed grows.
Hans shakes his head. “No one knows.”
“We must have her,” Rainart says to Herman. “We’ll test her.”
The peddler looks like he’s going to be sick right on the throne room floor. “Please…she…”
“And if she passes our test,” Rainart goes on, his tone jubilant, “she will be our next queen.”
My heart seizes. I know this game. I know it well.
“T…truly?” Hans asks, hope dawning on his face like a new day. “She is yours, Your Majesty, of course. Take her hand with my blessing.”
This man, too, is a fool.
Rainart dismisses him. Hans bows several times, nearly tripping over his feet, and then practically runs from the throne room, likely off to tell his daughter she’s going to be royalty.
But it will never get that far. Rainart and his lackeys will kill her first, before we ever stand to say our vows, just as they always do.
I turn to Rainart, eying him while locking my anger inside. “She’ll need straw.”
The man stares at me.
“For the magic. Bring straw to a tower. I don’t care which one.”
The men assume it’s the poison speaking, which is well and fine, but I know something they don’t—have read histories they’ve never dipped into. Only elves spin gold, and the magic requires some sort of organic stalk to accomplish it.
It is clear to me that the only way Greta will make it through this trial is if her elven protector does the task for her. And I will give him every tool at my disposal.
Chapter 11
Greta waits for me by the creek. It’s our usual hour, has been since we were young. We never discussed it, never set up a regular time. She simply arrives while her father is haggling with villagers in the market, after she finishes her daily chores. Even in winter, when the snowdrifts are high, and the wind is bitter, she’s here.
She stands, staring at the creek, lost in her own world. I wonder if the man accepted the gold. I see no reason why he wouldn’t. Perhaps that’s not the cause of her melancholy.
For one brief moment, I worry she’s thinking of her encounter with the human king. He was taken with her; I have no doubt. But when it comes to Greta, what’s not to like?
Would she tell me if she met him again?
I frown at the thought as I step up behind her, silent as a wraith, and place my hands over her eyes. “Guess,” I whisper into her ear.
Her wildflower scent lingers in her hair, on her dress, on her skin. It’s intoxicating.
“How can I guess,” she teases, “when I don’t know your name?”
“Back to that, are we?” I drop my hands. When she turns, I give her a wry look.
She doesn’t understand that I’d tell her if I could. If there were anyone in the world I’d trust, it would be Greta. But she doesn’t need to carry that burden.
“Did it go well this morning?” I ask.
She sighs, her shoulders falling. “It did, though Monsier Bellacore questioned the gold. I hope he doesn’t spread gossip through the village.”
“He’ll go back to Leant and forget about it soon enough.”
Greta’s eyes fall to my neck, to the gold medallion
I’ve strung on a leather strip. I go still, waiting for her reaction. She steps forward and brushes the metal with the tip of her finger. I watch her, guarding my expression.
“I’ve been thinking it over,” I say quietly, my voice even, though my nerves nearly get the best of me. “We could leave the Dark Forest. Travel north, where the men are fair and tall. No one would ever need to know that I’m an elf. We could go now, before the snow comes.”
She stands there, eyes locked on the medallion. Then, ever so slowly, she slides her palm down my chest. It feels intimate, her hand on me like this.
And from the look on her face, it’s almost like she’s questioning herself, wondering if I’ll protest. Surely she must know how I feel about her.
“What are you saying?” she asks, her eyes still averted.
I shift, moving a smidgen closer. “You know what I’m saying.”
“Do you mean it?” she asks yet again, her voice quiet. “You think we should marry?”
Slowly, I set my fingers on her cheek, reveling in the feel of her soft skin, and brush my thumb over her jaw, testing her reaction. “I do.”
She’s thinking it over, weighing it in her mind. Can she do it? Will she leave the land that’s been her home since birth, move to a kingdom of short summers and months upon months of ice and snow?
Can she give up her life to create a new one with me?
Unable to resist, I pull her toward me, closing my eyes with sheer pleasure when she rests her cheek against my chest.
“Think about it tonight,” I murmur, though I wish she’d answer now. “Give me your answer tomorrow.”
Chapter 12
I kneel in my sleeping garden, breathing in the scent of the soil. The day is cold, but the sky is clear, and I relish the feel of the sun on my shoulders. I run my finger down a brown stalk of foxglove. If I leave with Rune, I’ll never see it bloom again.
Sensing someone approaching, I stand, picking up an armful of the wild meadow rapunzel I picked on my way back from the creek. I look to the lane that leads to our cottage, and then my stomach coils with dread.
“The king wants to marry you!” Father exclaims, his face victorious as he strides up the path.
I almost drop the flowers as I stare at him, baffled. “I’m sorry, he…what?”
There is no possible way I heard him correctly, none at all. After all, my head has been in the clouds since I departed from Rune’s side less than an hour ago. I’ve been daydreaming about a future—a future that in no way involves marrying Conrad.
He wants to marry me? He remembers me?
Father’s dull brown eyes twinkle in the late afternoon light. “Yes, Greta. His Majesty wishes to make you his queen.”
I blink at him, stunned into silence. Father watches me, looking like I’ve gone quite daft considering I’m not ecstatic over his announcement. Not trusting my voice, I turn toward the cottage and step through the door. My mind whirls, confused, and I busy myself with emptying wilting flowers from vases and filling them with new ones.
Trim the stems, strip the leaves. Ignore the tightening in my throat and the fear that’s like ice in my chest.
“You should be thanking me!” Father’s not angry, not exactly. But his voice is laced with disbelief, and I know he believes I’m acting absurd and ungrateful. “Turn around and face me.”
Slowly, too lightheaded to feel sick just yet, I let the flowers tumble to the table and meet his eyes.
He takes me by the shoulders, grinning in a way he hasn’t in many, many years. “Greta, the king wants to marry you.”
“But why?”
Father averts his gaze, finding one of the vases very interesting indeed.
“What have you done?” I demand when he doesn’t answer. My sanity slowly returns after the shock, and I find my tongue. “Father!”
He crosses his arms, stepping back, his smile replaced with the usual scowl. “I have given you the life every girl dreams of. You’re going to be a queen! And you stand there, asking me what I’ve done?”
Needing something to occupy my hands, I pour water from an earthen pitcher into the newly-filled vases. “I know you’re hiding something, and I’m going to find out soon enough, so it would be prudent to tell me.” I set the pitcher aside and place my hands on my hips, trying to look unruffled. “What did you offer him? Why would His Majesty accept this exchange?”
Unless he was that taken with you.
No, that’s absurd.
Father stares at me for several long seconds. “He believes you can spin gold.”
I look back at him, dumbfounded. My blood goes cold, but my palms begin to sweat. “Why would he think that?”
“There has been talk.” He turns away. “Whispers about you in the village—about the strange gold you’ve traded for goods.”
Before I can answer, there’s a loud and insistent knock at the door.
“Who is that?” I whisper, but I know.
I know.
“I expect it’s the king’s men.” For just a moment, uncertainty crosses my father’s face. “Here to collect you.”
The castle is opulent, and the rugs are plush. I’ve never felt such a thing, and if I were anywhere else, anywhere but here, I would cast off my boots and step on them with my bare feet, letting my toes sink into the pillowy fibers.
I, of course, refrain.
With no fewer than a dozen of the king’s men at my back, I make my way into the throne room. I attempt to stand tall, walk as if I’m not trembling on the inside.
I’ve never seen such a place of grandeur, but my eyes are locked on the dark-haired man in front of me, the one who wears a crown of gold and a look of disinterest.
And then I am in front of him, and there is no hiding my fear…or the flutter of my stomach—but the latter is something I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
Conrad’s striking in his finery. But it’s not surprising he’s handsome; his lineage has long been known for their dark hair, dark eyes, and dark hearts.
He watches me, his expression strangely blank, as if he’s never seen me before in his life. It causes my terror to run rampant.
“Curtsy,” a guard whispers from my back, reminding me of my manners.
I do my best to sweep to the ground, hoping to look like the fine ladies I’ve seen atop the glistening mares who visit the village—to look like anything but the daughter of a peddler.
“I thought her hair would be gold,” the king says, his voice listless. His eyes are glassy, or perhaps just bored. “Gold like the sea at sunset. Gold like a finch. Gold like a field of…gold.” He pauses over the word and then muses aloud, “Can a girl spin gold if her hair is the color of…?”
The entire room waits for him to finish his thought.
So the rumors are true. He is mad.
Conrad turns his eyes on one of the guards. “What color would you say?”
The man shifts, uncomfortable. “Brown, Your Majesty.”
The king narrows his eyes. “Surely you can come up with something a little more poetic?”
Clearing his throat, the guard answers, “Chocolate, Sire.”
Satisfied, Conrad sits back. “Perhaps she’ll spin chocolate.” He smiles at the idea, laughing to himself, and then shakes his head. “Still…disappointing.”
I wrinkle my brow and shift my gaze to those around the king, looking for a subtle clue as to how to proceed. Perhaps embarrassed by our monarch’s strange behavior, they all avert their eyes.
I push the offensive brown locks behind my shoulder and look down. “I’m sorry it displeases you, Your Majesty.”
How can’t he remember me when we’re here, standing face to face? How can’t he remember, when he’s been on my mind for weeks?
Perhaps it’s better this way.
Will he send me away because my hair is the wrong color? Might I be dismissed because Father forgot to mention the tiny detail that I’m not blond? No, given his history, he’ll likely toss me in the stocks. Thro
w me in the dungeon. Behead me.
The knot in my stomach coils tighter.
“Now then,” he says, his voice suddenly sharp. Instantly, my eyes fly to his very dark ones. He’s returned to us, and his gaze is clear. “You are to be my bride.”
I gape at him, frozen, confused.
A tiny spark of something lights his expression, something meant for only me. I stare at him, wondering if I imagined it. He widens his eyes, but only marginally. It’s enough to remind me that I must answer.
“I…if that is what you wish,” I murmur, though my heart and my head are horrified.
“Do I wish it?” He laughs, and the sound is truly chilling. “Do I wish? What do I have to wish for? I am king! I could count on one hand the things I wish for…” He trails off.
Silence. The wire-haired dog at his side whines, and he reaches down to pat it, temporarily forgetting that the rest of us exist.
“Your father says you have a very unusual gift,” he says after several awkward moments. “A gift I am eager to witness.”
“Your Majesty, I—”
“I have prepared a room for you, one of the finest in the castle.”
I swallow my fear, licking my lips, and resist the urge to fidget with my fingers. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Yes,” he muses, and then his gaze drifts to the distance again.
Everything goes still in the throne room; no one dares move. He hasn’t put this meeting to an end. One of his advisors, a short, roundish man of at least forty years, clears his throat. When the king does nothing, he does it again, louder this time.
His Majesty jumps, and his eyes focus on me once more. “Why are you loitering about?” He makes a shooing motion.
“Forgive me,” I lower into another curtsy and take that as my cue to leave. The guards at my back apparently agree because they lead me from the throne room. Father stands at the rear, with his hat in his hands. I meet his eyes, silently demanding to know how he could offer me to someone as unstable as that man.
A flurry of servants ushers my gaggle of guards and me to the room. We twist down hallways and go up countless sets of stairs. Before long, a chamberlain joins us with a tray of food and wine, and not one, but two, stewards come forward to lead the way.
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