Cursed (Gilded, #2)

by Marissa Meyer

Her and her traitorous tongue and the stories she couldn’t stop telling.

At least when he was near, she could imagine that he felt this way, too. A shared agony. A mutual desperation. A longing for what they’d once had. What had felt, for an achingly brief moment, like it might become something more.

But there is no fate, no fortune. There are only the secrets we share and those we conceal. Our own choices, or the fear of making a choice.”

Serilda couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction to be called a warrior, of all things. To be someone capable of more than spinning unhelpful tales.

“The Golden Queen!”

“I’ll defy him enough for the both of us.”

“Meddlesome beings, aren’t they? Throw about their curses and gifts and then … never heard from again.”

It was a small thing. A gentle caress. A piece of stolen affection, for the boy who had been given so little.

“You’re insufferable.” “You seem to like me anyway.”

She might be married to the Erlking, but she wanted him. Only him.

“One does not barge into a haunted castle and demand a bargain with the Alder King unless they have some appreciation for the dramatic.”

Wyrdith gave up their golden quill. Velos gave a tooth. Eostrig a horn and Hulda a serpent’s scale. Tyrr gave a gem, Solvilde an egg, and Freydon a claw.

Forever after, on the nights of an Endless Moon, like the one beneath which the veil had been created, the gods would no longer have dominion over themselves. Rather, they would be forced to take the forms of seven terrible beasts. After that, it became possible to catch a god on that long, dark night. Possible to hunt them, to capture them … and to claim that elusive wish. Ever since, whenever the full moon rises on the longest night of the year, the hellhounds can be heard sniffing and searching for their prey. Seven gods made into seven extraordinary beasts.

Cursed.

“These were my people,”

“Let’s break these curses, Serilda. And let’s find a way to make him regret ever having come to this castle.”

their expressions pained as they realized how much they had hung all their hopes on this moment. Finding their bodies. Snapping the arrows, untethering their souls, setting themselves free. But it had only been a distraction. It was never going to be that easy.

while I may not remember the dynasty I once served—I do remember an unbreakable loyalty. A pride in serving one family, one kingdom. The Erlking took that away from me, and has kept me and so many others prisoner all these years.”

“What has amused you?” “You,” she said, “and how you once threatened to cut off my head, standing in this very room. And now you are cutting my meat for me. If one cannot find amusement in that, then they are hopeless.”

Love grew out of shared memories, shared stories, shared laughter. Love was a result of knowing the many things a person did that annoyed you to the ends of the earth, and yet, somehow, still wanting to hold them at the end of every day and be held by them at sunrise every morning. Love was the comfort of knowing someone would stand by you, accept you, despite all your eccentricities, all your faults. Maybe loving you, in part, because of them.

Somehow she knew, if ever given the chance, he would realign the stars themselves to be reunited with her.

“Stay brave.”

“I am not sure I’ve done anything to earn such loyalty, but I shall certainly try to.”

“I was just thinking I could use a vacation. Would have preferred a cottage by the sea, rather than some abandoned ruins in the middle of nowhere, but still nice to have a change of scenery. Did you do the decorating yourself?”

“Astounding that you could keep it a secret for so long. And yet, all it took was one pathetic mortal girl for you to become careless with such a gift.”

“My bride, the storyteller. Always so quick with a lie on her tongue. You do not even know of the gift you possess, do you, my dear? Fortune and fate…”

“The wheel of fortune…” The Erlking cupped her face in his frosty hands. “Well? Are you feeling fortunate, godchild of Wyrdith?”

Whatever was left behind at this castle … I think it’s angry.”

“We are the old gods, Wyrdith. The world has gone on without us. Mortals have gone on without us. They may invoke our names and leave their offerings and whisper their prayers, but it is up to them, ultimately, to devise their destiny.”

There will be struggles. There will be tragedies. But humans can thrive better without our interference.”

“You are more than fortune and fate. You are the world’s historian. You are the keeper of stories and legends long forgotten. If the mortals cannot love you for your wheel, they will love you for that.”

Despite all the trouble stories had brought her, she loved telling them. She couldn’t help it. The way star-crossed romances and unexpected villains wound themselves around her heart and made her feel like she was floating above the world as the story wrote itself. Made her feel like she was a part of something important, something eternal.

There is not a soul alive who does not enjoy a good story.

There were secrets hidden in these walls. Mysteries in the flickering candlelight.

“It’s true. You want me to have hope? This is my hope. You and me, Serilda. Someday. Away from these haunted castles. In some village, dancing in the sunshine, telling stories in the public house. Maybe it’s impossible, but … it might be all I have left.”

You are more than your lies. The Erlking tipped his chair toward hers. “In the same way that you are not your god-gift … In the same way that you are not your mother or your father … We are not the vices that created us.”

Have you been cursed by the god of stories? Does every word out of your mouth somehow land everyone you love in danger?”

And here I am. The Alder Queen.” She shook her head. “Somehow as powerless to help anyone as I have ever been.”

Serilda had amassed a stack of intriguing titles—fairy tales and mythologies and a fascinating study on how artistic interpretations of the old gods had changed over the centuries.

What else could you possibly want?” The Erlking laughed. “The whole world, my love.” She fixed him with a glare. “No one should get to have the whole world. Not even you.”

“Gravenstone grew out of the gates to Verloren, and the alder tree that sprouted from its depths.” She turned in the direction of the lunar rotunda. The cave. The brambles. The whispers. Her father’s voice …

“Are you reading fairy tales, miller’s daughter? Or are you living one?”

Never in her life had she felt so unworthy.

She wished she could still think of her tales as the gift she once had, rather than the burden they had become.

Serilda had never before seen such skilled workmanship. The strands were so delicate, and each woven detail breathtakingly lifelike. Most peculiar, though, was how many of the tapestries seemed to be taken from a story. A story that Serilda had told. In some cases, a story she had lived.

The Erlking had five of these beasts. All but the wolf and the raptor.

Another story. Another ridiculous tale. Another bounty of truths, betraying the location of a mythical creature to the wild hunt. A mythical creature who was actually … a god.

She would never tell another story again, she silently vowed. Not when everything, everything somehow turned into a boon for the Erlking.

She was surprised to realize how much she cherished those memories. Days that should have been awful. That were awful. But that were strangely comforting, too.

“You have too soft a heart, my queen.” “I wouldn’t know. You took my heart so long ago, I’ve all but forgotten what it felt like.”