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She took another step, then another.
On the seventh step, her fingers brushed—not wood, but fabric. Thick and heavy like a tapestry.
Serilda pushed the fabric aside. Gray light spilled forward. As she emerged from the tree, her breath caught.
A dozen or so moss maidens formed a tight circle around her, each one gripping a weapon—spears, bows, daggers. One had a very poisonous-looking wolf spider perched on her shoulder.
They were not smiling.
She spotted the schellenrock crouched behind the group, just as one of the maidens handed him a small wooden bowl teeming with wriggling bugs. He licked his wide lips before enthusiastically burying his face in the bowl.
“You,” said one of the maidens, “are very loud, and very cumbersome.”
Serilda stared at her. “I’m sorry?”
The maiden cocked her head to the side. “We have been waiting. Come.”
They formed a circle around Serilda and led her down the winding paths. She did not know where to look first.
The space before her was cavernous—not a clearing exactly, for towering trees still blocked out the sky far overhead, cloaking the world in dim shadows. But the undergrowth had been cleared out, replaced with meandering walking paths thick with spongy moss. And there were houses everywhere, though unlike any houses Serilda had seen before. These abodes were built into the ancient trees themselves. Wooden doors tucked into the spaces between roots, and windows carved from the natural knots scattered along the trunks. Thick branches curved to form winding staircases. Higher boughs held cozy nooks and balconies.
She could still hear the steady patter of raindrops far overhead, and the occasional drizzle fell down into this wooded sanctuary, but the gloom of the forest had been replaced with something cozy and charming, almost quaint. She spotted little shade gardens bursting with sorrel, arugula, and chives. She was mesmerized by the glow of twinkling lights that floated whimsically everywhere she looked. She didn’t know whether it was fireflies or fairies or some magic spell, but the effect was enchanting. She felt like she’d just stepped into a dream.
Asyltal.
The sanctuary of Shrub Grandmother and the moss maidens.
She glanced back once, hoping that Parsley would be coming, too, but there was no sign of her almost-ally.
“Our sister had to return to her duties,” said one of the maidens.
“Duties?” asked Serilda.
Another maiden released a wry laugh. “Just like a mortal to think that all we do is bathe in the waterfall and sing to hedgehogs.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Serilda, affronted. “Judging from your weaponry, I suspect you spend a great deal of time dueling and competing in target practice.”
The one who had laughed shot her a fierce look. “Don’t forget it.”
Serilda spotted more maidens lingering around the village, tending to the gardens or lounging in hammocks made of thick vines. They watched Serilda with little interest. That, or they were just really good at hiding it.
Serilda, on the other hand, was so distracted she nearly toppled down a set of stairs. One of the maidens grabbed her elbow at the last second and pulled her back onto the path.
They were standing at the top of an amphitheater cut into the side of a small valley. At the bottom was a circular pool, emerald green and dotted with lily pads. A grassy island in the center held a circle of moss-covered rocks. Two women were seated, waiting.
Serilda gasped—with relief, and an unexpected amount of joy—to recognize Meadowsweet.
The other was an elderly woman who sat cross-legged on her rock. Though, as Serilda was led down the steps, she realized thatelderlycould not be the right word.Ancientmight be better,agelessbetter still. She was small, but broad, with a hunched back and wrinkles as deep as canyons cut into her pale face. Her white hair hung thin and tangled down her back, picking up twigs and bits of moss. She was dressed simply in layers of fur and dirt-smudged linen, though on her head was a delicate diadem with a large pearl resting against her brow. Her eyes were as black as her hair was white, and they stared unblinking at Serilda as she approached, in a way that made her stand straighter.
“Grandmother,” said one of the maidens, “this is the girl who has caught the interest of Erlkönig.”
Serilda couldn’t help it. A delighted smile stretched across her face. This was the leader of the moss maidens, the source of nearly as many fairy stories as the Erlking himself. The great, the ferocious, the most peculiar Shrub Grandmother.
Pusch-Grohla.
She did her best to curtsy. “This is incredible,” she said, with a bit of disbelieving laughter in her voice as she recalled the story of the prince and the gates of Verloren she’d been telling Gild. “I was just talking about you.”
Pusch-Grohla smacked her lips a couple of times, then leaned her head toward Meadowsweet. Serilda imagined she was going to whisper something to the maiden, but instead, Meadowsweet demurely turned to the old woman and began picking through her knotted white hair. After a second, she picked something out and flicked it away toward the water. Lice? Fleas?
