Chapter 1
The Erlking’s Daughters
Chapter One
ENZELLA
Enzella tripped going down the cold stone stair as the newly formed cavern gates groaned inward, like the maw of a gigantic dark beast. She caught herself against the rough wall.
The stone scraped her palms, so different from the dark forests and loam tunnels that made up the taiga of her childhood.
Recovering, she picked up her trailing skirts, ready to descend further.
The war band entered the large cavern, bearing a crowd of captives. Checking herself, Enzella hovered, squinting in the shadows, until the gates shut out the cruel moonlight.
The members of the war band pulled off their helmets and unwound the black scarves around their faces. The pale witch lights that hung from the cavern ceiling and studded the walls illuminated her brother’s silver hair as he shook it out. Enzella’s heart jumped as he spied her hiding place.
Ingridon grinned at her, a wild look in his eyes. “Is that you, Enzella? Get down here, imp.”
Dry mouthed, she padded down the last few steps.
Enzella yelped as he snatched her up and swung her around.
He threw his head back and howled like a mad wolf.
Not angry with her, then. Clutching his arms, she waited anxiously until his euphoria waned.
He had let go and sent her flying before when his mood turned.
He dumped her on the ground without warning and laughed. “We’ll have a feast tonight, imp—we got a good catch.”
Enzella picked herself up and dusted off her hands, peering at the throng of wights behind him, still and quiet.
The thaumaturges assigned to Ingridon’s war band held them in thrall.
She had never been allowed to see other wights so close before.
But here she didn’t have minders every second of the day—the Unseelie were too busy trying to form the caverns into some kind of livable space before everyone went mad.
“Disband,” Ingridon barked to his men. “Take the wights to the thaumaturges’ distillation chambers.“ The band dispersed silently, prodding the mass of captives ahead of them. Only two remained—a man and a woman, guarded by Hadrian, Ingridon’s Second.
“Those are mine,” Ingridon said, following Enzella’s eyes. “You like them?” He smiled, flashing his sharp teeth, as he looked at the woman. He stepped up to her and ran a hand down her round cheek.
She gasped and jerked back as his touch woke her from her stupor. Her unseeing eyes flew past Enzella’s face, and she started to cry. The witch lights that lit the caverns were bright and plentiful, but they were not made for wight eyes. To them, the cave was all murk and shadow.
“Don’t worry.” Ingridon ran his fingers through the wight’s hair. “You won’t be around long enough to get used to the dark.”
“Ingridon.” Their mother’s coarse, angry voice cut through his honeyed tone.
Enzella turned guiltily.
Mother leaned against the wall at the top of the stair. Her dark, gray-streaked hair straggled down around her shoulders, unbound and uncombed. Her mother’s sunken eyes glared over Enzella’s head to hit her brother full force.
“Mother,” he responded provokingly, lip twisting.
“Let that girl go.” She coughed. It rattled deep in her chest. Her thin hands dragged over her mouth, the witch light bracelet around her wrist glowing faintly.
“Why?” he asked innocently.
“You took her from a village? She’s a mountain girl, she belongs out there—”
“And?”
“All those years I kept silent, but now—you won’t steal from them! They are my people,” Mother snarled, venomous life flashing through her eyes for a moment. “If you had any decent feeling for me at all, you wouldn’t do this.”
Ingridon laughed. “Why should I care about you, hag? You’re just like us now! This is who we are! And who cares where they’re from? All you wights are the same to us.”
“Ingridon—”
“And anyway,” he continued, smiling, “I’m hungry.” Too quick to see, he grabbed hold of the woman and pressed his mouth to hers. She struggled for a moment, but blue light swirled around their lips. Ingridon swallowed. He broke the brutal kiss, and she slumped in his hold.
“Enzella!” Mother’s voice cracked. “Come here!” She coughed again, and Enzella could smell the blood coming up. She froze in indecision.
“Enzella, Mummy’s favorite monster-child,” Ingridon taunted. His eyes grew dark. He brought his hand back, and Enzella squeezed her eyes shut, braced for the coming blow. He checked his hand so close to her face the air stirred her pale hair.
He chuckled. “Well, someone’s got to run after her, and it’s not going to be me.” He tugged her hair, and then pinched the tip of her pointed ear, making her flinch. “Get on with you.”
Enzella skittered up the steps as he turned away. Everyone knew Ingridon would be Erlking after their father, and no one dared cross him except Morwe.
“Enzella, my handkerchief,” Mother mumbled, lowering herself onto the steps as Enzella reached her. Her hands shook.
Digging in her mother’s pockets for it, Enzella heard Hadrian ask, “And the other wight?”
“I told you, a little something for Morwe,” Ingridon said offhandedly. “To raise her magic levels and cheer her up. Then you can take another crack at her.”
Enzella found the cloth and wiped the blood and phlegm from her mother’s face and hands. How Mother had gotten this far from their family suite, she didn’t know.
“The one thing I’ve done right,” Mother rasped, cupping a shaky hand over her daughter’s head. “You’re the only one who doesn’t resent me.” Enzella gathered her mother’s waist-length hair and began to braid it to quiet the twisty feeling of guilt in her stomach.
Ingridon laughed. “What’s this?”
Enzella glanced down. The male prisoner, coming out of thrall, was putting up a struggle, trying to reach the girl Ingridon held. Hadrian punched him, and he fell. Ingridon’s sword met his throat an instant later, and the prisoner froze.
“Feeling chivalrous, boy? She’s mine. Fight all you want; it won’t get you anywhere.”
The tip of Ingridon’s sword pulled a thong from the neck of the prisoner’s tunic. Hooking his sword under it, Ingridon pulled up, slicing through the leather. The sword left a shallow cut on the prisoner’s jaw.
Enzella swallowed, her pulse beating hard in her throat.
The thong and pendant dropped into the dirt, and Ingridon kicked it out of the way, even as the prisoner tried to reach for it.
“Whatever you might have been out there, you’re in the deep dark now.
And you’re just food.” Ingridon slapped him with the flat of his blade, knocking the prisoner over.
Blood dripped into the dirt as Enzella tied Mother’s plait.
“Mother? Mother, how did you get up here?”
Enzella looked up at her sister Morwe, her face silhouetted by the witch lights against the stairway arch.
Morwe’s hair, black as pitch like Mother’s used to be, curled and flowed down her shoulders to her waist, mixing into the dark glossy feathers that made up her gown.
Enzella used to wish that her hair were like her sister’s.
Morwe was one of the most beautiful girls in Unseelie court—men wanted her hand, but she would have none of them, and drove the stubborn ones away with her sharp tongue and her Arts.
“Zel, did you bring her up here?” Morwe said, voice clipped. She came forward and helped their mother stand on trembling legs, supporting what remained of her scant weight.
Enzella shook her head rapidly.
Morwe’s sharp eyes took in the tableau below in one sweeping glance. “Moonlight, I leave either of you alone for ten minutes….” Morwe muttered.
“Take me back to bed,” Mother mumbled, turning her face away.
Walking from their suite all the way to the gate cavern had taken too much out of her, even with both her daughters supporting her on either side. Mother barely made it back to her bed. She would be too tired to attend the feast.
Enzella shivered. Father would be angry, but there was nothing they could do.
Enzella held Mother’s hand while she fell into a doze, feeling the odd warmth of her mother’s fingers compared to her own. It felt a little like when Enzella had tried to grasp the witch lights as a baby.
Her mother’s chamber held a large bed piled with blankets and furs, plus a chest, washstand, and wardrobe.
Water trickled in the garderobe to the side, and the walls were covered with hangings.
In the center of the room stood a brazier full of witch lights.
As she held her mother’s hand, Enzella kept one eye on the door that led to her father’s chambers.
It remained closed, but she never knew when it would open.
Morwe opened the main door to their mother’s chamber and swept in, her gown trailing along the floor. She laid an icy hand on Enzella’s shoulder, the tips of her fingers permanently stained black from using magic. Enzella’s skin crawled.
“Time to go, Zel. I’ve brought your court dress.” Morwe held up the heavy, ornate gown of black velvet and lace.
She tilted her head back to see Morwe’s face. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.” Her sister straightened and helped Enzella out of her dress. “Don’t whine. You know the rules as well as I. Besides,” Morwe said, a bit gentler, “Ingridon should not have things all his own way.” The corner of her mouth turned up as she tossed the court dress over Enzella’s head.
“He’s got a captive to give you,” Enzella confided as she wrangled her arms through the sleeves. “The one from the gate cavern. He said you needed cheering up.”
“He did, hmm?” Morwe did up the last of her buttons and smoothed the fabric straight. “I’ll show him who needs cheering up.”
Enzella shivered in anticipation. When she was out of the line of fire, Morwe and Ingridon’s fights were a delightful sight to behold.