by Casey Lane
He sinks into his chair, and he and Gerlind share a pleasant conversation that I am happy not to be included in. If I time it right, I can sneak off to bed before Gerlind leaves for the evening, and I won’t have to speak with Father again until morning.
It’s not that I don’t care for him—I do. But he hasn’t been the same since Mother died. He’s gruff now, impatient. There was a time he used to smile, but those days are long gone.
Just like Mother.
“I have an audience with the king tomorrow,” he says to Aunt Gerlind, catching my attention for the first time during the meal.
That explains why he’s in a fouler mood than usual. I doubt we have enough to pay our taxes. It was a lean summer, and several of our pigs were stolen by the cave trolls that live high in the rocky cliffs. We don’t usually see their type in our black forests, for they fear the reclusive Alfars. Sadly, the trolls were feeling brave, and our pens were not as secure as they should have been.
Subtly, I tuck Mother’s golden locket under my bodice and slide the hand that bears her ring under the table and onto my lap. Even if it’s all we have left, I will not lose them to our less-than-beloved ruler.
Father turns his eyes on me, and I go cold. Did he notice? His expression turns calculating, and he tilts his head as he studies me. I squirm under his gaze, feeling like a mouse who’s caught the unwanted attention of an owl. “The king is still unwed.”
Startled, I frown.
“Perhaps he will forgive us our debts if I were to offer your hand.”
I clamp my lips shut, knowing I will regret it if I laugh out loud. Even if the idea is absurd.
“And why not?” Father demands, reading my incredulous expression, and then turns to Aunt Gerlind. “Is she not beautiful?”
Aunt Gerlind looks concerned. “Greta is very beauti—”
“And he is not so very old.” Father turns back to me. “It’s not as if I would be offering you to an old man.”
No, the king is not old, but he is rumored to be quite mad. He’s been engaged four times and found fault with every one of his future brides—all of whom did not live to see the day of their wedding.
Fortunately for me, this is not a bargain His Majesty will accept, whether he is sane or otherwise.
I look away, push the stained red cabbage and beets around on my plate, and let my thoughts drift back to Rune, where they are the happiest.
Chapter 2
I wait for Rune by the creek, our creek. It’s here I met him when I was young, and it’s here I wait for him every day when my father is haggling with villagers in the market. Even in winter, when the snowdrifts are high and the wind is bitter, I wait for Rune. But this afternoon feels significant, like it’s the day my life will change.
As I’m pondering these fanciful thoughts, the world goes dark.
“Guess,” Rune whispers into my ear, his hands still covering my eyes. I never hear him approach; he’s silent like a wraith. But he smells like fir needles and thunderstorms, and I would know him even if he never spoke.
“How can I guess,” I say cheekily, “when I don’t know your name?”
He drops his hands, and I turn to find him giving me a wry look. He still makes me weak-kneed, just as he did when I was a small girl. He was a youth then, but taller than any of the boys in the village. Rune’s still tall, far taller than I am, but his shoulders and chest have broadened. He’s lean but strong, handsome but ethereal. His hair has grown long, as is fitting for his kind, but he keeps it back, like a warrior of the forest.
My heart skips a beat when I notice he’s strung the gold medallion to a leather strip, and he wears it around his neck. I brush the warm metal with my fingertip. Rune watches me, his expression guarded, and I slowly meet his eyes.
“We could leave the Black Forest,” he says quietly. “Travel north, where the men are fair and tall. No one would ever need to know that I’m Alfar.”
My hand goes still, and then I slide my palm down his chest. It feels intimate, this press of rough fabric against my palm. Rune is warm and solid under his tunic, and it’s easy to imagine nestling up to him, taking comfort in his embrace. “What are you saying?”
Rune shifts closer. “You know what I’m saying.”
“Do you mean it?” I ask, my voice quiet. “Truly?”
His hand travels to my face, and he brushes his thumb over my jaw. “Truly.”
Could I do it? Run away from this land that’s been my home since birth, move to a kingdom of short summers and months of ice and snow? Rune pulls me closer, and I rest my cheek against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat, in tune with my own, and I close my eyes.
“Think about it,” he murmurs.
I promise I will, but I already know my answer. If Rune wishes to leave, I will go with him.
“The king has agreed to marry you,” Father exclaims, his face jubilant as he strides up the path.
I almost drop the armful of autumn flowers I’ve gathered from the garden outside the cottage. I look at him, baffled. “I’m sorry, he’s…what now?”
There is no possible way I heard him right, none at all. After all, my head has been in the clouds since I departed from Rune’s side less than an hour ago.
We didn’t linger together as long as usual. Rune left to make plans—plans that in no way involve me marrying the king.
Father’s dull brown eyes twinkle in the late afternoon light. “His Majesty has agreed to make you his wife.”
I blink at him, stunned into silence. Father watches me, looking at me 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.
“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 ill just yet, I let the flowers tumble to the table and turn.
“Greta, you will marry the king.”
“Why would he want me? He’s never even laid eyes on me.”
Father averts his gaze, finding one of the vases very interesting indeed.
“What have you done?” I demand. My sanity slowly returns after the shock, and fear sets in.
He crosses his arms, stern. “I have given you the life every girl would dream 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 the 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?”
Father stares at me for several long seconds. “I told him you can spin straw into gold.”
I look back at him, dumbfounded. My blood goes cold, but my palms begin to sweat. “Why would you tell him that?”
“There has been talk.” He turns away. “Whispers about you in the village—about the company you keep.” I begin to shake my head, but he continues, “About the Alfar you’ve befriended.”
My mouth goes dry, and I swallow my fear. “That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows the Alfars don’t befriend humans, and even if they did, we don’t truly know that they can spin gold. That’s a rumor, a legend.” My voice grows higher and higher until I’m breathless and shrill. “And if he could, what has that to do with me? I certainly can’t—”
“He?”
I stop. Though I haven’t incriminated myself yet, I walk a precarious line. “Or she. What does it matter?”
Before Father can answer, there’s a loud and insistent knock at the door.
“Who is that?” I whisper even as my throat begins to close.
“I expect it’s the ki
ng’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 slippers and step on them with my bare feet, letting my toes sink into the pillowy fibers.
I, of course, refrain.
With no less than a dozen of the king’s men at my back, I make my way through the great hall. I attempt to stand tall, walk as if I’m not trembling on the inside. But then I am in front of him, the young, mad king, and there is no hiding my fear. It’s no surprise that he’s handsome; his lineage has been known for their dark hair and dark eyes.
“Curtsy,” a guard whispers from my back, reminding me of my manners.
Not that I’ve ever had a chance to make use of them. This is my first time in the castle, much less in front of a man of such noble breeding. Still, I do my best to sweep to the ground, hoping to look like the fine ladies I’ve seen atop the glistening mares who ride past the village and not like 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, and though he stares right at me, it’s as if he’s looking through me. “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…?” He 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, the king sits back and smiles. “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.”
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, the king will likely toss me in the stocks. Throw 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 eyes are clear. “You are to be my bride.”
“If that is what you wish,” I murmur, though my heart and my head are screaming no.
“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, lick 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, for he has not put this meeting to an end. His steward, 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 again. “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, 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, that boy. Our king.
A flurry of servants ushers me and my gaggle of guards 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.
I’m bumped and prodded and nudged to the front of the group, so that as the door is opened, I have the first view of the room I am to occupy before I can somehow sneak away and find Rune.
I suck in a gasp, and the others behind me do the same. The king did not lie. The room is exquisite—the fabrics are lush and heavy, the carpets are as plush as those in the throne room, and the furniture is carved and ornate.
And every inch of the room is covered in straw. It lies scattered about, tossed as if by a great wind. It’s sticking from the drapes, out of the pillows, under the rugs. In the corner, under the window, sits a spinning wheel.
“Is it to your liking?” the king asks from directly behind me, making me jump. I hadn’t realized he followed us.
I whirl around, my hand to my chest.
With his hands behind his back, he studies the room. “Yes, I believe it will do.”
My mouth works, but no words pass my lips. My focus is on the window, my only hope for escape.
The king looks at me, and his eyebrows knit as he takes in my apparent horror. To our entourage, he says, “Leave us.”
The group hesitates, but then they flee, leaving me alone with the king. He waits until they are gone, until the hall is silent, and then he looks on me with a surprisingly coherent expression. “They poison my wine.”
I gape at him, and he only laughs and leans against the door frame. “I’m not insane—Greta, is it?” He continues after I nod, “But I have to play the part, lest they realize I’m onto their game.”
“You’re very good at it,” I whisper, more than a little unsettled. Is he truly being poisoned? Or is that the madness speaking?
“You see,” he says, “I don’t know who the culprit is quite yet. So, for now, it’s easier to toss the wine into the potted ferns and pretend my mind is addled. Once I single out the man responsible…well. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you.”
Too overwhelmed to speak, I stare into the straw-covered room. “I can’t spin straw into gold, Your Majesty.”
“I know.” He fingers a strand of my hair and frowns. “I knew it the moment you walked in.”
I want to bat his hand from my hair, but I stand, eying him nervously. “How could you possibly tell from my hair?”
The king leans close, a little too close for my comfort. He smells like mulled wine and other spices I don’t recognize. “The only way you’d be able to spin gold was if your Father had a tawdry affair with an Alfar—producing you. But you’re far too brunette to have Alfar blood running through your veins, aren’t you?”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“I expect nothing, but my advisers are quite intrigued with the idea of you spinning gold, and I must keep them happy for the time being—you understand? So what I suggest is you learn how to spin straw into gold very quickly.” The king takes my shoulders and gently walks me into the room. “Because if you don’t, I’ll be forced to kill you in the morning. After all, I have a reputation to uphold. Best of luck to you, Greta.”
With a low, dramatic sigh and the click of a lock, the king is gone.
Chapter 3
The room is in a tower, the tallest tower of the castle—which is rather fitting for my predicament. I sit, straddling the sill, debating whether or not the thick, rope-like vine will hold me should I choose to climb down. Which, of course, I won’t actually do because my leg shakes at the very thought. The autumn breeze swirls around me, taunting me to try.
But I just can’t.
I’m about to crawl back into th
e room and try to change the straw like I’ve seen Rune do so many times when movement toward the base of the castle catches my attention. It’s a dark, moonless night, but the flickering lights from the torches on the ramparts shine in the darkness. Their light reflects off the moat far, far below. I squint, sure that I saw something near the base of my tower.
The silhouette climbs up the very vines I didn’t trust, fast and sure and strong. I watch with bated breath as he climbs higher and higher until I have no doubt.
It’s Rune.
I reach for him as he swings himself through the open window, and then I turn away because my shoulders begin to quake. Relieved tears sting my eyes. “How did you find me?”
Rune rests his forehead on my shoulder. “I’ll always come for you.”
Holding the back of my hand to my mouth to lock in my chaotic emotions, I turn into him. He holds me close, but his frame is tense. He’s uneasy.
Still in Rune’s arms, I look up. “What is it?”
He glances toward the window, which is so very far above the ground. “I don’t know how to get you out of here.”
My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe. “Can’t you…”
Use magic? I don’t say it, but the unspoken words hang in the air.
Rune shakes his head, a bitter smile on his face. He strokes my hair—my plain, brown hair. “If I could do that, do you think I would have climbed all that way?”
“Then what do we do?” I ask.
The Alfar looks around the room, surveying the straw. “We buy you time.”
Following his gaze, I nod, and a weight is lifted from my chest. Yes, Rune can change the straw.
But there is so much of it. And there is no creek for him to sift for the gold needed to kindle the magic.
I run my finger over my mother’s locket and then yank it over my head. “Here.”
Rune studies it for several moments, knowing what it means to me, and nods. Without a word, he clears a place for me on the bed. “Sit. It’s going to be a long night.”
