The Spirit of the Wood’s shore was much like the one I’d occupied in the Nightmare’s mind. A listless, infinite space. Only this beach was pale. The sky, the rolling waves, the fine sand—all a wan, lifeless gray.
Ravyn sat in the sand, Jespyr in his arms. He could not reach her, not with his Nightmare Card, not with his voice. No matter how he shook her— called out her name—she would not wake.
I don’t know how long we sat on that beach, waiting for the Spirit of the Wood. The Nightmare gnawed at a fingernail, watching the Yew siblings from the corner of his eye.
Ravyn’s voice was ragged. “How long do we wait?” “The Spirit keeps her own time.”
Dozens of cuts from branches and thorns marred Ravyn’s face. He looked so tired. When he pressed a calloused finger to his sister’s neck, a pained sound came out of his mouth. “Her pulse is slowing. The fever is killing her.”
Do something, I pleaded in my dark chamber. Don’t let him lose hope.
“Your family is steeped in magic,” the Nightmare replied, harsher than he should. “She will live.”
Ravyn clamped his eyes shut and said nothing.
“You did not come all this way to yield to despair.” Ravyn didn’t answer. But another voice did.
It came from the sea, deep and vast. It filled my dark room, echoing near and far. “The King of Blunder,” it called, “come to barter once more.”
When the water parted, a creature with claws and pointed ears and silver eyes slipped out of it. And I knew, deep within the inky blackness in my veins, who she was.
The Spirit of the Wood.
“Welcome back, Shepherd King. Welcome, Ravyn and Jespyr Yew.” Her unearthly eyes met my window. She smiled. “Welcome, Elspeth Spindle.”
