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The forest road was dark, the wood swollen with water. When lightning cracked the sky, Elm pulled his hood over his head and narrowed his eyes against the sting of rainfall.
Ione had not donned a cloak. Or shoes. Her feet and ankles peeked out from beneath her white dress, the fine fabric speckled by mud. She must have been cold, but she didn’t complain.
Her voice vibrated through her back, a delicate hum against Elm’s chest.
He couldn’t make out her words over the noise of his horse. “What?” “Is she all right?” Ione asked, louder this time. “Elspeth.”
Even saying Elspeth Spindle was alive felt less than true. “I don’t know.” Elm gritted his teeth. “Does it bother you that she tore your betrothed limb from limb?”
Ione kept her eyes ahead. “As much as it bothers you, I imagine.” Hauth. Blood on the floor, blood on his clothes, blood all over his face.
Yes, it bothered Elm. For all the wrong reasons. “Count yourself lucky you didn’t have to see what was left of him when she was through.”
They came to the crossroads, the forest road diverging. Elm veered the horse east, to the place he hated most in the world. Stone.
“When does the inquest begin?” Ione asked. “Anxious for the Chalice, are we?”
“I’m not afraid of the truth.”
Elm bent, putting his mouth near her ear. “You should be.” “Yes. I imagine I should.”
He glanced down. He hadn’t spoken much to Ione Hawthorn. Most of what he knew about her, Elm had gathered in glances—many of which had been stolen.
Her face had always been easy to read, even from across the great hall at Stone. Her expressions were genuine, her smiles so unrestrained that Elm had almost felt sorry for her. That kind of naked authenticity had no place in the King’s court.
He’d always thought she was beautiful. But the Maiden—that useless pink Card—had curated her beauty until it reached unearthly perfection. Her hair and skin were without blemish. The gap in her front teeth was gone. Her nose was smaller. The Maiden hadn’t made her taller, hadn’t— thank the bloody trees—diminished any of her remarkable curves. But she was different than the yellow-haired maiden he’d watched smile at Stone. More controlled.
Colder.
His eyes raked over her. Had Elm not noticed the dip in her throat, the swell of her breasts as she breathed—the shape of her thighs beneath her dress—he might have kept his eyes on the road. Had he kept his eyes to the road—
He might have seen the highwaymen.
They wore cloaks and masks and stood in a line, blocking the road. Elm yanked the reins, pulling his horse to a stop. The animal whickered, then reared. Ione slammed into Elm’s chest and he put an arm around her waist, holding her firmly against him.
The first highwayman bore a rapier and several knives on his aged leather belt. The next held a shortbow, the arrow aimed at Ione’s head. The third, taller and broader than the other two, carried a sword.
“Hands in the air, Prince Renelm,” called the man with the shortbow. “Reach for your Scythe and I’ll shoot you both.”
Elm’s nostrils flared. Slowly, he slid his arm off Ione and raised his hands into the air. “Bold of you,” he said, appraising them. “Three is a small number to take on a Prince and a party of Destriers.”
“I see no party.” The highwayman with the sword kept one hand on his hilt and stepped to Elm’s horse, taking the animal firmly by the bridle. “You look alone to me, Prince.”
Elm said a silent curse for leaving Gorse and Wicker behind at
Hawthorn House.
Ione was silent, her spine pressed firmly against his chest. Elm tried to lean back, afraid she’d feel the pounding of his heart—but there was nowhere to go. Smooth as a snake, Ione’s hand glided behind her, prying along the hem of his tunic near his belt.
Elm froze.
Ione tugged at the fabric, searching, icy fingers grazing over his lower abdomen, near the pocket along his hip.
The pocket where he kept his Scythe.
“Don’t you dare, Hawthorn,” he said into her hair.
The threat in his voice did nothing. In one smooth maneuver, Ione’s fingers were in his pocket, grasping his Card.
Elm kept his eyes on the highwaymen and his hands in the air, his thoughts scrambled, an unwelcome vulnerability twisting in his stomach. He didn’t want Ione Hawthorn to touch his Scythe. He didn’t want anyone to touch his Scythe.
The highwaymen stalked forward.
“He’s not entirely alone,” the highwayman with the knives corrected, stepping closer. He let go of the hilt of his rapier and reached for Ione’s leg, his hands rough as he pushed the hem of her dress up. “Not with this exceptional creature.” He ran a finger down Ione’s bare calf, his muddy glove leaving a mark upon her. “Trees, your skin is cold.”
Ione’s entire body went still, her leg tensing under the highwayman’s touch. Elm’s voice came from the back of his throat. “Get your fucking hand off of her.”
“Then give us what we want, Prince.” “Which is?”
“Your Cards,” said the man with the sword. He was looking at Ione’s leg. “Give us your Scythe and Black Horse. If you throw in the Maiden Card—and the woman attached to it—we’ll let you keep the horse.”
Rage burned in Elm’s mouth like bile, fingers curling to fists in the air. “Keep those hands up, Prince,” said the highwayman with the shortbow.
“Move, and I’ll send this arrow into the woman’s heart.”
Ione’s voice seeped out of her mouth. “So kill me. If you can.” Her hazel eyes lifted to the highwayman with the bow. She drew in a breath—then tapped the Scythe three times behind her back. “Let loose your arrow.”
The highwayman looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue. His bow jerked, the tip of the arrow shifting directions. With a strangled cough, he shut his eyes and released his arrow.
Elm slammed Ione forward, flattening her against the horse. But no arrow whizzed overhead. He heard a sickening sound and looked up, face- to-face with the highwayman touching Ione’s leg.
The tip of the arrowhead, crimson red, protruded from the man’s throat. The highwayman choked, blood spilling out of his mouth and neck. His fingers grasped for purchase as he dropped to the ground. He caught Ione’s dress, yanking her—and Elm—off the horse.
Elm hit the muddy road, his arms caged around Ione. She coughed, his Scythe locked in her fist, her entire body seizing as she tried to wrench herself free from the highwayman with the arrow in his throat.
Elm pushed to his feet and kicked the bastard away, and then he was running, closing the distance between himself and the second highwayman
—the one with the sword. Elm wore no sword to match. Reluctant Destrier that he was, he’d left it at Stone. His only blades were two throwing knives he kept on his belt, mostly for show.
The first knife missed. The second nicked the highwayman along his inner thigh. Elm reached into his pocket. The Scythe was gone, but he carried another Card. A brutish one he almost never used, inherited when he took up the Destrier cloak.
The Black Horse.
Elm tapped it three times, harnessing an old weapon he always kept with him. He may have been less powerful without Ravyn and Jespyr—but he had enough rage for the three of them.
He dodged an arrow as it sang through the air, then the swipe of the sword. He closed the distance between himself and the highwayman, denying the blade its leverage, and sent his fist across the man’s face.
He struck again and again, his knuckles colliding with the highwayman’s cheeks and nose and jaw. The world around Elm crumbled, and suddenly he wasn’t hitting a stranger in a mask anymore, but his own brother, his father—even Ravyn.
The highwayman fell backward onto the road and did not stir. Elm stood above him, his hands screaming out in pain. He turned to look for Ione—
And came face-to-face with the shortbow.
“Acquiesce,” the highwayman said, his arrow aimed at Elm’s chest. “I don’t want to kill you. Just give me the Scythe.” He trembled. “And I will let you go.”
Elm raised his hands once more. Only this time, they were covered in blood. “Would that I could. But I don’t have it.”
Whatever boldness the highwayman possessed, it was hanging by a thread. His eyes were wild, his breath as panicked as a trapped animal’s. “Yes, you do. You made me shoot him. You forced me!”
Elm had little talent for soothing. Still, he lowered his voice, forcing his fury back down his throat. “Put the bow down,” he said. “There is no escape if you injure me. My family will hunt you. And when they find you…” He looked into the highwayman’s eyes. “Get away while you can.”
But the highwayman did not answer. He dropped the shortbow to the ground, holding only its arrow. Without blinking, he pressed the tip of the arrowhead into the soft skin below his palate.
His eyes were so empty he might as well have already been dead.
Ione came out from behind Elm’s horse, her bare feet silent as they trod across the muddy road. She did not look like a bride any longer. Her white dress was stained with blood and soil. Pink lips pressed into a thin line, Elm’s Scythe flipping between her fingers. Her hazel eyes narrowed on the highwayman.
“Go on, then,” she said without feeling.
A chill crawled up Elm’s back. He whirled on the highwayman. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t—”
The highwayman shoved the tip of the arrow into the flesh below his jaw. He made a terrible strangled sound and collapsed, his black mask absorbing, then letting his life’s blood onto the forest road.
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The salt was strong in the mist, as if the Spirit of the Wood, smelling blood, had come to watch the mayhem on the forest road. Elm checked that his horsehair charm was tight around his wrist and dragged the bodies into shrubbery. Two of the highwaymen were dead. The third—the one he’d beaten with his bare fists—was unconscious.
Elm searched their pockets, removed their masks. He did not recognize them. But he hated them—their arrogance. They’d wasted their lives for Providence Cards.
He stepped back onto the road and released himself from the Black Horse, returning it to the fold of his pocket. “Are you harmed?”
Ione stood next to his horse, her head downturned as she flipped something in her hand.
His Scythe Card.
“Hawthorn,” Elm called above the rainfall. He came closer, careful not to step in blood.
“I’ve never held a Scythe before,” she said, twisting the Card between lithe fingers. “Hauth never let me touch his.”
“It’s not a Card to toy with. The pain is excruciating if you use it too long. Hand it back before you get hurt.”
Ione retreated a step. “Yet you take me to the King, who would surely see me injured, though I knew nothing of Elspeth’s magic.” A twitch lifted the corner of her mouth. “Or had any hand in Hauth’s unfortunate circumstances.”
“Your fate is not of my making.” Elm took a rattling breath and wiped his bloody fingers on his tunic, the dark fabric quick to absorb the stain. “Give me the Scythe.”
Ione held the red Card out. But as soon as Elm reached for it, she pulled it behind her back. “What will you give me for it?”
Elm glowered. He knew nothing of the Maiden’s negative effects firsthand. What he did know he took from The Old Book of Alders, which stated that anyone who used the pink Card too long would suffer coldheartedness. He imagined callousness, disinterest, even disdain. But as he traced Ione Hawthorn’s face, he saw none of those things in her expression.
He saw nothing at all. Her features were too well guarded. It worried him, not being able to read her—a woman who had sent an arrow into a man’s neck without a second glance.
Elm spat into a broom shrub, phlegm and blood. “It’s my Card. I don’t owe you anything.”
“I saved your life.”
“I would have managed without your help.” He gestured to the puddles
of blood on the road. “All you did was make a mess.”
“I could have let him shoot you. I might have fled with the Scythe. But I didn’t.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart.” Elm took another step forward. “If only you had any.”
“I saved your life,” Ione said again, sharper this time. “Everything has a cost.”
Elm was so close to her his body blotted out the rain. He could feel her breath on his face. “Give me the Scythe. Now.”
“Don’t come any closer. In fact, don’t move at all.”
The smell of salt stung Elm’s eyes. Before he could reach out—twist Ione’s arm and rip his Card out of her grasp—he felt his muscles strain. Sweat dampened his palms, then the back of his neck. He tried to reach forward, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen, rooted to the ground.
“Hawthorn,” he warned, his jaw straining. “Stop.” “Payment first.”
Heat crept up Elm’s neck. His muscles—his joints and bones—did not heed his command, no matter how ardently he told them to move. Such was the Scythe’s power. Ione could make him jump on one leg until his ankle snapped. She could make him throw his charm to the ground and run, unbidden, through the mist. She could even make him take the knife off his belt and plunge it into his own heart.
An old panic buried deep within Elm stirred. It had been a long time since someone had used a Scythe on him. “What do you want?”
Ione’s eyes trailed his body. “Your word,” she said. “Your honor.” “To what end?”
“You must convince the King to give me free rein of the castle.” “That might not be possible.”
Ione ran the edge of the Scythe across her bottom lip. “They say you’re the clever Prince. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Elm still could not move. The panic was rising in his chest, wrapping itself around his lungs. If he wasn’t free of the red Card soon, he was going to scream until his throat ripped open. “Trees—fine! Whatever you want. Just give me the goddamn Scythe.”
Ione tapped his Card three times, releasing him. She slid her hand from behind her back and held it out. A single drop of blood fell from her nostril.
Elm ripped the Scythe from her hand. “Never,” he seethed, bending until their faces were even, “do that again.”
The blood beneath Ione’s nose grew thin, diluted by rainwater. “Neither you nor your red Card mean a thing to me, Prince. I only want balance. I saved your life.” Her hazel eyes burned into his. “Now it’s your turn to save mine.”
