Page 34 of Anwen of Primewood (The Eldentimber #2)

F irm hands grasp hold of my shoulders. Galinor drags me from the room before it fully registers that it’s him who holds me. Once we’re outside the chamber, Milton slams a heavy cross beam in place, locking Father inside.

“No!” I yell, scrambling to lift the wood. “Mother is in there!”

Galinor pulls me back and wraps me fully in his arms. Milton says something, but I don’t hear over my panic.

“Anwen, stop!” Galinor commands, and that finally gets through to me.

I stare at him, gasping for breath.

“Your Ladyship.” Milton’s voice is clipped and irritated. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “He won’t hurt your mother. She’s the only one he’ll listen to when he’s like this.”

I rub my eyes to try to get the horrible image out. “He’s a gargoyle.”

Forever, I will be haunted by the image—the gray, twisted horns drilling from his skull, the black depthless pits that became his eyes, the leathery, stone-like skin.

Galinor clutches me closer.

If I find the demon who did this to him, I will slay him myself.

Realizing I’ve gone still in his arms, Galinor says, “Anwen?”

I glance up, and he gives me an odd look. My eyes must be wild.

“The fairies said the curse will be lifted once the caster of the curse dies,” I tell him. Galinor looks concerned, but I press on, “I will find this man, and I will kill him.”

Galinor and Milton exchange a look.

I’m exasperated they don’t immediately see the brilliance of my words. “It will lift the curse!”

“Anwen,” Galinor says. “Curses deal with blood magic. I’m not going to let you go after a wizard. I don’t want you anywhere near one.”

I pause to think. “The caster isn’t necessarily human. It might have been a griffin or a dragon or—”

A soft knock sounds from my parent’s chambers. Immediately, Milton raises the beam and opens the door for my mother. Once she’s through, Milton again secures it.

She takes a deep breath and lays her head back. “Or a gremlin.”

“I’m sorry?” I am genuinely started by her theory. “You think it was a gremlin that did that ?”

Gremlins are small, obnoxious creatures with large ears and larger feet. They use their magic for trivial irritations like changing the color of a person’s hair or stretching out the fingers in one’s gloves.

“They don’t even live in Elden,” I argue. “They’re from the other side of the world.”

Mother sets her hands on her hips, and her eyes drift to the ground. “One lives here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father obtained him several years before you were born.”

I cross my arms. “Obtained him? You make it sound like he brought it here with a ship full of cargo.”

She gives me a wry look.

“Why would he do that?”

“Your father thought it was clever and funny,” Mother answers. “He thought he could make a pet out of it.”

Galinor opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand, cutting him off. “Don’t start.”

“Anwen!” Mother gasps when I snap at Galinor, probably thinking of his crown.

“Where is this gremlin?” I ask. “And why haven’t you killed it yet?”

Mother looks taken aback, and then she flushes and looks away. “You don’t think we’ve tried? Nothing can kill the little beast. In the end, your father gave him to a gimly just to be free of it before it could cause any more damage.”

She might as well have said the thing had been adopted by unicorns. Irving would have liked that better, anyway.

I rub my temples. “Where can we find this gimly? ”

Mother narrows her eyes. “There is nothing you can do—not unless you can find another stone.”

I shake my head, knowing after speaking with Brug that it would be impossible.

“Please, Lady Galia, where can I find the gimly?” Galinor asks.

She purses her lips as she looks up at Galinor. She seems unsure. “You can’t help.”

“Let me try,” Galinor presses.

Her eyes flicker from Galinor to me, and then her shoulders sag. “He lives over the ridge, in a cottage by a lake. But he can’t help us.”

So close.

“We can still try.” Galinor turns to me. “Shall we go hunt a gremlin?”

Relief washes over me. He’s not going to leave. He’s going to help me.

“Just let me change.”

Mother, of course, argues, but in the end, Galinor convinces her to let me come. She’s helpless against his smile, and I almost feel bad for taking advantage of it. Almost.

Frost covers the ground, and the morning air is cold. The sun just crests the horizon when we reach the gimly’s cottage.

Mother might be wrong. This doesn’t look like a magical being’s home. Two cows graze in a fenced pasture by the pond, chickens peck the ground, and wash has been hung out to dry. The linens should have been taken in the night before because now they are stiff with frost.

Galinor knocks on the door, and we wait. At first, there is no response, but just as Galinor lifts his hand to knock again, the door flies open.

Though they are magical beings, gimlies look like humans for the most part. But I’ve never met one, so I hadn’t realized exactly how human they look. My jaw slackens as I stare at the man in front of me.

He narrows his eyes and then looks at the sun—as if he’s pointing out it’s too early for visitors. He then takes a puff of his pipe and says, “Hello, Anwen. I see you found your way back to Primewood.”

“Farmer Ergmin?” I say, shocked to see the old man who gave me the ride to Estlebrook in his wagon.

“What do I owe the pleasure?” From his tone, I can tell it’s not a pleasure at all. And though he looks mildly curious, he doesn’t seem terribly surprised to see me.

Getting right to the point, Galinor says, “We understand you are harboring a gremlin.”

Ergmin squints in the bright sunlight, which has now risen to just the right height to blind a person. “A gremlin, eh?”

“My mother said Father gave you one many years ago,” I prod.

Ergmin looks at me, sighs, and then smiles. “Ah—that gremlin.” He steps inside. “Come in.”

His house doesn’t smell bad exactly, but it is a little stale—as if the windows haven’t been open for several days. I spy a collection of cobwebs hanging over a closed shutter.

Make that several years.

There’s also an herbal tang to the air and the distinct smell of freshly turned dirt—which is an odd aroma for indoors.

“I suppose you want to see him?” Ergmin asks.

I don’t want to see him at all, but we might as well get it over with.

“Well, you’ll have to wait until I’ve had breakfast.” Ergmin plops down in a chair by a small table and nods to the fire.

I stare at him.

“Now, now, Anwen. I drove you all the way to Estlebrook. The least you can do is make me some porridge.”

I could if I knew how to make porridge.

Galinor takes pity on me, and he drags me to the pot.

It’s questionable whether it’s clean or not, but since I’m not eating anything out of it, I don’t really care.

A jug of oats sits on a nearby bench, and Galinor pours some in.

He also finds a clay pitcher of water, and he dumps some of that in as well.

He stirs it using a spoon hanging on the spit, and then he turns to me and raises his eyebrow.

“Aren’t we domestic?” I tease.

We wait for the porridge to cook, and the silence is a little uncomfortable.

“Did you sell your pumpkins, Farmer Ergmin?” I ask.

I’ve decided to ignore the fact that he’s a magical being. It’s less unsettling that way.

Ergmin’s lips twitch, almost as if he knows what I’m thinking. “I did. I had to change them to turnips first, but they sold.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“Turnips don’t make as much gold.” He shrugs. “But what do you do?”

I turn to the pot, waiting for the soupy concoction to boil. When the porridge is done—and by done, I mean sticky—we sit with Ergmin while he eats.

A cat jumps on the table, and it startles me so badly I nearly scream. Relieved it’s not the beast, I hold my hand out for the animal to sniff. “Where do you have the gremlin contained?” I peer around the cottage.

Ergmin snorts at my reaction to the cat, and then he answers, “I’ve bound his magic. He’s harmless now.”

As if summoned, the gremlin ambles into the room. At least, I think it’s the gremlin. He has large, rabbit-like ears, and his feet are huge.

But he’s fluffy.

And cute.

When the creature sees Ergmin has company, he looks at us with big, friendly, brown eyes. His fur is silky and spotted black and white—like a milk cow.

“Is that it?” I ask, already doubting my assessment.

This must be some other strange animal Ergmin keeps around.

“Yes.” Ergmin turns to look at the creature. “Say hello, Brugo.”

“Brugo?” I ask.

The creature bounds over to me and hops on my lap. I think he’s possibly the most darling thing I’ve ever seen, but he then opens his mouth, revealing large, sharp teeth .

Looking right at me, he howls in my face.

I shriek, sweeping the gremlin off my lap. Brugo cackles and bounds around the room, squealing.

“What’s wrong with it?” I demand, still trying to catch my breath.

“He’s a gremlin,” Ergmin answers, as if the problem were obvious.

Which, I suppose, it is.

“Kill it,” I say to Galinor.

Ergmin chuckles. “You can try.”

The prince is only too happy to comply. Galinor strikes at Brugo with his sword. The steel pauses only a hair away from the creature’s neck.

“Galinor?” I ask. “Why did you stop?”

Again, Galinor swings, and again the blade pauses before it touches the gremlin.

Galinor grits his teeth and retracts the sword. “He stops me.”

Brugo squeals and shrieks. He jumps on the table and then off again, sending Ergmin’s bowl crashing to the ground.

Ergmin shrugs. “You can’t kill him.”

I whip back to him. “I thought you said his magic was bound?”

“It’s still in him,” Ergmin answers. “And that magic won’t let you murder him.”

I groan. “Can’t you do anything?”

Ergmin raises his hand, and the gremlin freezes mid-bounce. “I can do that.”

A frozen gremlin is far better than a bounding one, but it still doesn’t help Father .

“If we can’t kill him, we can’t undo the curse on my Father,” I tell Ergmin, pleading with him to think of something.