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“What about the Erlking and the wild hunt?” she asked. “When did he abandon Gravenstone and come to reside in Adalheid Castle?”
“Well, now, that is an interesting question,” said Frieda. “But we have to consider that the existence of Gravenstone might be nothing more than folklore. It may never have existed at all.”
Serilda shook her head. “No, the Erlking himself told me that he had left Gravenstone because it held painful memories for him, and had come here to Adalheid instead. And he mentioned a royal family. He said they weren’t using it anymore.”
The color slowly drained from Frieda’s face. “You … you really have?…?methim?”
“Yes, I really have. And I’ll almost certainly be meeting him again on the next full moon, which is not that far away, and I would love to know something more about that castle and the ghosts who occupy it before I do.” She set down the books that Frieda had already given her, though nothing yet had struck her as particularly helpful. “Isn’t there any documentation about who built the castle? What methods they used? What quarry the stone came from? You mentioned artisans before. The keep has incredible stained-glass windows and iron chandeliers as big as this room, and in the entry hall the columns are carved with the most ornate imagery. It would have been an ambitious undertaking. Someone must have commissioned all of that, probably hired the most accomplished craftworkers from all over the realm. How can there not be any record of it?”
Frieda’s eyes were shining, awestruck. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “No one alive has ever seen the things you’re talking about. No one other than you, that is. All we see are ruins. But judging from the architectural style, I would estimate the castle was built … perhaps five hundred, six hundred years ago?” Her brows pinched as she looked around at the books surrounding them. “I don’t disagree with you. You’re right. One would expect there to be some records. But I can’t think of anything I’ve ever seen that gave insight into our local history beyond … maybe two or three centuries ago.”
“And nothing at all about a royal family?” Serilda persisted, feeling desperate. There must besomething.“Birth or death records, family names, coat of arms?”
Frieda’s mouth opened and closed. She looked a little lost, and Serilda had the impression that it was rare for her to be stymied.
“Maybe there were records,” said Leyna, “but they were destroyed?”
“That does happen,” said Frieda. “Fires and floods and the sort. Books are fragile.”
“There was a fire?” said Serilda. “Or … a flood?”
“Well … no. Not that I know of.”
Sighing, Serilda scanned the piles of books. How could a town so successful and wealthy, situated on the edge of the Aschen Wood to one side, along a well-traveled trade route to the other, have no concept of its own history? And why was it that she seemed to be the only one who had ever noticed how peculiar that was?
She gasped. “What about a cemetery?”
Frieda blinked at her. “Pardon?”
“You must have one.”
“Well, yes, of course. The cemetery is right outside the city wall, just a short walk from the gate.” Frieda’s eyes widened with understanding. “Right. That’s where we’ve buried our dead since the city was founded. Which would mean—”
“Since the castle was built,” said Serilda. “Or even earlier.”
Frieda gasped and gave a snap of her fingers. “There are even gravestones there that are something of a local mystery. They’re quite prominent, intricately carved, mostly of marble, if I remember correctly. They’re works of art, really.”
“And who is buried there?” asked Serilda.
“That’s the mystery. No one knows.”
“You think it could be royalty?” asked Leyna, bouncing with excitement.
“It seems odd that it wouldn’t be marked as such,” said Frieda. “And we can’t discount the possibility that there could be tombs beneath the castle itself, so it isn’t guaranteed that whoever lived there would be buried with the rest of the townsfolk.”
“But there’s a chance,” said Serilda. “Will you take me to see them?”
The cemetery was acres and acres of gray headstones as far as she could see. Clusters of blue and white wildflowers were scattered among the stones and tucked among the roots of mature chestnut trees, their spring blossoms like white candlesticks among the boughs. Serilda scanned the engravings, saddened, though not surprised, to see how many of the gravestones belonged to children and newborns. She knew such was common, even in a town as prosperous as Adalheid, where disease could so easily take root in a small body. She knew of a number of women in Märchenfeld who spoke openly about their miscarriages and babes being stillborn. But knowing the realities of life and death did not make it any easier to see.
In the distance, closer to the road, she noticed a small hill where the gravestones were not tall and exquisitely carved, but nothing more than large plain stones laid out in a tidy grid. Hundreds of them.
“What are those?” she asked, pointing.
Frieda’s expression was sorrowful as she answered. “That’s where we bury the bodies left behind by the hunt.”
Serilda’s feet stuttered and came to a stop. “What?”
“It doesn’t happen after every full moon,” said Frieda, “but it happens often enough that … well. There have been so many. We usually find them by the forest, but sometimes they’ll have been left right outside the city gates. We wait a week or so to see if anyone comes to claim them, but that’s unusual. And of course, we have no way of knowing who they are or where they came from, so … we bury them there, and hope they find their way to Verloren.”
