THE SCYTHE
Be wary the red, Be wary the blade.
Be wary the pain, for a price will be paid.
Command what you can, Death waits for no man.
Be wary the pain, for a price will be paid.
There were three other Providence Cards in the room besides Ravyn’s. Elm’s Scythe, a Chalice in Jespyr’s tunic pocket, and the gray light of a Prophet emanating from Morette Yew. I gripped the edges of my chair, looking for softness in their faces.
But I was met with silence—their eyes masked by restraint.
The cellar door closed with a slam. I was getting used to the sound of the lock clicking behind me. When no one spoke, Ravyn cleared his throat. “This is Elspeth Spindle, Erik’s first daughter, niece of Tyrn Hawthorn.”
There were a few murmurs at my uncle’s name. After a moment, Ravyn addressed me, his expression unreadable. “These are my mother and father, Morette and Fenir Yew. Physician Willow, my cousin, and my sister, you already know.”
The dim light in the room made it difficult to see much of a resemblance between Ravyn and his parents. Morette was the King’s sister—her eyes were Rowan green. Fenir, like Jespyr, had rich brown eyes, much darker than Ravyn’s and Emory’s misty gray. The only similarity I could make out was a long, distinguished nose on Fenir Yew’s stern face, same as Ravyn’s.
“I understand, Miss Spindle,” Fenir said, his voice deep, “that you wish to know the truth about us. About why we are seeking Providence Cards.”
I nodded, my muscles tense.
“Before we unravel the truth, we must first see if you are deserving of it,” Fenir continued. “Are you willing to submit to our forum—that this council might test your trustworthiness?”
Ravyn moved behind me. I glared at him over my shoulder. “Submit?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Our trust?”
“I wanted answers.”
“And I wanted a night of drunken debauchery,” called Elm from the table, the Scythe slipping in and out of his long, narrow fingers. “Yet I’m back in this broom closet for the second time today. So, if it’s not too much trouble, Miss Spindle, have a bloody seat so we might get on with it.”
Ravyn shot his cousin a nasty glance and put a hand to his brow. He looked tired. Tired and deeply annoyed. “This is how you get your answers, Miss Spindle,” he said. “Nothing comes free.”
Nothing comes free, the Nightmare murmured in accord.
I sighed. I was going for irritation, but the crack in my voice betrayed the disquiet lingering deep in my chest. “All right, then,” I said. “I submit to your forum.”
Elm and Jespyr stood from their seats and approached me. Ravyn joined them at my side. “This is simple enough, Miss Spindle,” he said. “We each present a Providence Card. Choose one, and we’ll proceed.”
Elm, Jespyr, and Ravyn pulled the Cards from their pockets: the Scythe, the Chalice, and the Nightmare. Red or turquoise or burgundy. Control, truth serum, or the violation of my mind. The Mirror, Ravyn kept in his cloak.
My stomach knotted instantly.
“They’re to gauge your honesty,” Jespyr explained.
To keep you from lying, more like, the Nightmare said.
To my silence, Jespyr softened her voice. “It’s a test we all must take, I’m afraid.”
The Nightmare sat in the darkness, his mind bleeding into mine. Choose the Scythe, child. Trust me.
I glanced at Elm. Even at a slouch, the Prince was easily the tallest of
the three. His auburn hair fell over his brow, unruly. When he caught me watching him, he winked, his lips twisting, a fox-like sneer. A challenge.
Anger spiked my blood. “The Scythe,” I said, crossing my arms across my chest.
The Prince’s smile widened.
Jespyr shrugged, returning to Filick and her parents at the table. Elm continued to flip the Scythe Card, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger as he moved to the hearth, resting his elbow upon the mantel.
Ravyn did not sit. He pocketed his Nightmare Card and moved to the wall opposite me. The dogs followed him, yawning, before folding themselves at his feet. I could only see half the Captain’s face, the other half lost to shadow. But I could not mistake the directness of his gaze. Two eyes the color of storm clouds, aimed at me.
My heart raced.
Elm tapped the red Card three times. “Have you ever been in the grip of a Scythe before, Spindle?”
“No.”
“It’s less abrasive than you might imagine. I cannot make you tell me the truth—not like the Chalice. I can only affect your emotions, your willingness to tell me everything I need to know.”
“Sounds horrible.”
The Prince smiled. But there was no humor behind his green eyes. “Some think the Scythe forces the mind to turn against itself—to feel emotions not its own. But the truth is, the Card doesn’t force anything. You’ll feel a little strange—your eyes may glaze over. But in the end, you’ll want to do everything I ask of you. A tad less frightening, no?”
“I’m not frightened,” I said through my teeth.
Warmth crept over me—a lightness of being. Gone was my fear, my strain. Suddenly the room felt less dark. The dogs, curled at Ravyn’s feet, seemed an adorable picture. When I glanced at the others, I felt joy, my frown transforming to a smile as laughter lines creased my face.
Darling, the Nightmare said. You can’t make it so easy for him to control you.
I couldn’t help it. I was happy—euphoric. My laughter filled the room like bread rising from a tin. I brushed tears from my eyes and put my hand over my mouth, trying to control the giggles bubbling inside me. I eyed
Ravyn, wishing for a sign of his elusive half smile. He watched me from the shadows, his mouth a tight line. And it made me happy all the more, knowing his eyes were fixed on me. Doubled over, hands on my stomach, I let go of a lifetime of strain and laughed, not a care in the world.
My joy siphoned away, replaced by hopelessness and the sudden, violent urge to hurt myself.
I slapped myself across the cheek. Hard.
The Nightmare hissed, anger flaring across my mind. I looked up at Elm, my eyes wide.
But the urge to hurt myself raged on, insatiable, fed only when I slapped myself again. I cried out, my cheek tender, abruptly aware I was not in control of my own emotions, powerless to stop them.
At the table, my audience shifted. “Elm,” Morette Yew warned.
“I need to be certain she’s under my hand before we begin,” the Prince said, his handsome face calm. “Otherwise, there will be holes in the influence.”
When I slapped myself a third time, Ravyn pushed away from the wall so abruptly the dogs leapt up with a snarl. “Enough,” he said, ice in his voice.
“All right, all right,” Elm said, winking at me. “Sorry. I had to make sure there was a tether.”
My cheek was half-numb, half-aflame. “You couldn’t have made me spin around the room?” I hissed through my teeth.
“Anyone might spin. Not everyone is willing to hit themselves.”
I should have chosen the Chalice. At least Jespyr’s not a raging asshole. Easy now, the Nightmare said. Let him think he’s in control.
He IS in control.
Elm leaned on the mantel once more and inspected his fingernails, as if he’d already grown bored. “She’s all yours,” he said to his uncle.
Fenir Yew folded his hands on the table. “Why don’t you start by telling us about yourself, Miss Spindle.”
I tried to ignore the pain in my cheek. Gone was the impulse to hurt myself. In its place, I felt an urgent desire to be truthful—earnest. I shot Elm a narrow glance, the Scythe spurring me to reply. “I was born twenty years ago in Spindle House in Blunder,” I said. “But I only lived there until
I was nine.”
“When you caught the infection and moved to Hawthorn House?” I nodded.
“Your father was the Captain of the Destriers,” Fenir said, his brow low. “Why did he not report your fever?”
I had anticipated the question. “He felt I was a danger to his second wife and their children, so he sent me away.” My voice hardened. “But he did not wish to see me die.”
Elm continued to pick at his nails. “Who knew Erik Spindle had a heart?”
Fenir ignored his nephew. “Why did he place you with the Hawthorns?” “My mother and my aunt were very close.” I paused. “Though I suspect
the fact that Hawthorn House is in the wood, out of sight, greatly appealed to my father. He offered my uncle coin.”
Jespyr leaned forward. I did not miss the surprise in her voice. “Erik paid them to take you in?”
It sounded so pitiful, said aloud like that. I had little stomach for pity. “He paid my uncle,” I bit back. “My aunt had no price.”
“Fond of coin, old Tyrn,” Elm muttered.
Fenir watched me, weighing my words on a scale I could not yet fathom. “You’ve lived with the Hawthorns for many years. You must know how your uncle came by his Nightmare Card.”
My stomach coiled. “I don’t. That is—I was a child. I only recall that when he returned with it, his sword was bloodied.”
Fenir blinked. “A child? How long has Tyrn had the Card?” I grimaced. “Eleven years.”
A collective gasp filled the cellar. “That Card is worth a fortune,” Jespyr cried. “Why on earth would Tyrn Hawthorn hold on to it so long?”
“He was waiting for the right price,” Morette Yew said, her long, dark hair falling over her shoulder. “And now, with his daughter betrothed to Hauth, Tyrn’s bloodline will inherit the throne.”
My stomach dropped. So cold—so calculating. And I realized, though I had spent the majority of my life in his house, I hardly knew my uncle.
Deep and rough as gravel, Ravyn spoke from the shadows. “I have a few questions.”
Elm straightened at the hearth. Gone was the look of boredom, his face
lifted by a fox-like smile. His green eyes shifted between me and the Captain of the Destriers. Whatever he anticipated, it seemed to promise a good time.
Ravyn stepped out of shadow and stood before me, eyes fixed on my face. I fought the urge to squirm in my seat. “Do you trust us, Miss Spindle?” he asked.
The Scythe’s influence warred within me. All I wanted to do was answer with the earnest truth. But what Ravyn Yew and his cousin did not know was that I had great practice being at war with my own mind. Eleven years’ practice.
I gripped the seat of my chair tighter, sweat pooling in my palms. “I don’t know what I believe yet,” I said.
“What about Ravyn?” Elm called from the hearth. “You seem to trust him.”
I looked at the Captain of the Destriers, his gray eyes full of me. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder width apart. He looked every bit the soldier—stoic and severe.
But Ravyn Yew was more than a soldier. He was the shadow on the forest road. The keeper of keys and secrets, invisible but for his purple and burgundy lights. A man with many masks.
A traitor, said the Nightmare.
A highwayman, I replied.
No sooner had our eyes met—a flash of gray—did I think back to standing against the door in Ravyn’s chamber, his body towering over me, his finger pressed against my lips.
I looked away. Fast. “How can I trust him?” I said to Elm. “I’ve only just met him.”
Elm’s smile held no hospitality. “Do you think he’s handsome?”
The Prince was toying with me, like a cat its prey. I bit down, determined not to answer, but the Scythe’s influence—the desire to reply— was overwhelming.
My head began to pound. Sweat came in beads along my brow and the nape of my neck. When I spoke, my voice sounded strangled. “Yes.” Then, out of spite, “For a Destrier.”
Elm cackled. Ravyn shot him a narrow glance. Still, I did not miss the way the Captain’s lips pulled at the corner; the elusive half smile, tugged by
an invisible string.
“Tell us more about your magic,” Filick Willow said from the table. “Is it contained merely to seeing Providence Cards by color? Or do you possess other gifts?”
Tread lightly, the Nightmare warned. Feel the Scythe’s influence?
I could. I had hardly known an urge so vital as the one imploring me to tell the council everything they wanted to know about me. I felt trapped in the crumbling shelter of my thoughts, as if the Scythe were knocking against a weight-bearing pillar, the stone ceiling of my mind cracking.
When I hesitated, Ravyn’s brow perked. “Forgive me, Miss Spindle, but you do not have the appearance of someone trained in combat. It might have been luck, knocking Elm off his feet,” he said, shooting his cousin a wry grin, “but not me. Do you have other magic?”
I wanted to be honest. Rather, Elm Rowan and his Scythe wanted me to be honest. I looked at the others, many of whom had leaned forward in their chairs, eyes sharp, waiting for my answer. My palms were slick with icy sweat. One wrong word, and they’d realize it wasn’t my magic they needed… but the monster’s in my head.
Help me, I called into the void.
The Nightmare slithered across our shared darkness, churning against the current of Elm’s influence. It will be easier with me here, my dear. After all, the Scythe has no sway on me.
I blinked. What? Why didn’t you say before? You did not ask.
Magic. I felt it like salt water up my nostrils. The Nightmare stirred, loosening the rope Elm Rowan had tied across my mind. The Scythe’s magic lessened, the desire to be honest—malleable—obedient—fading, washed away by a wave of salt.
I gasped, as if coming up for air, my mind suddenly calm, the last remnants of the Scythe’s control fading like ripples on still water. When I spoke, my voice was ironclad. “No,” I said to Ravyn. “I have no other magic. I can only see Providence Cards.”
The Captain’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head to the side. I held his gaze, forcing my features to remain still. If he suspected I’d beaten the Scythe’s control, he did not say so. Still, I did not miss the sharp edge of doubt that crept into the corners of his eyes. “Who trained you in combat?”
he asked.
“No one,” I said. “I taught myself how to survive.” “And you never told anyone about your magic?”
I glared up at him. “As I told you, Captain, no one else knows. Not my father or stepmother or half sisters—not my uncle, aunt, or cousins.” I faced the others, my temper flaring. “I avoid town, Destriers, and Physicians. I keep to the wood, which, until lately,” I said, shooting Ravyn a cold glance, “was the safest place for me to be.” I crossed my arms across my chest. “Until today, my life has been one of caution, not one of magic and risk.”
A weighted silence filled the room, broken by Morette Yew’s austere voice. “Then let us proceed.” She opened her hands to the table. “Does anyone have anything new to ask Miss Spindle?”
No one spoke. After a severe pause, Morette’s gaze returned to me. Deeper than I expected, I could almost hear the iron in her voice—the sheer resolve. “Do you swear what we tell you does not leave this room, Elspeth Spindle?” she said. “Do you give your word?”
I reached in the darkness, but the Nightmare did not speak. He, like the others, was waiting for my answer.
The Scythe no longer controlled me. I was free to lie at will. But I didn’t. “Yes,” I said. “I swear.”
Ravyn approached, kneeling beside my chair. He rested his arms on his bent knee. Had he not been clad in all black, severe as a crow, I might have thought him a knight kneeling before a maiden, slipped from the pages of a book. “We need you to help us collect the Deck of Cards, Miss Spindle,” he said.
Suddenly I was a little girl, sitting next to Ione as my aunt read to us from The Old Book of Alders. The silky rhythm of the ancient text swept over me, the poem on the final page and the sound of my mother’s voice ingrained into my very soul.
What was it she had once said? The Cards. The mist. The blood. They are all woven together, their balance delicate, like spider silk. Unite all twelve Providence Cards with the black blood of salt, and the infection will be healed. Blunder will be free of the mist.
I stared at the faces around me. “King Rowan, and all the Rowan Kings before him, have wanted to collect the Deck.” I gripped the lip of my chair so tightly my knuckles ached. “But you’re not working with King Rowan.
Otherwise, you would have already given him your Nightmare Card. You’re collecting the Deck on your own account…” My eyes flew to the table. “Is there going to be a rebellion? Are you going to depose the King?”
Fenir’s voice was sharp. “Nothing of the sort. Rebellion would destroy Blunder.”
Then why not work alongside the King to collect the Deck? the Nightmare said, coiling through my mind. They’re hiding something.
I waited, the room so quiet it might have been a tomb. “With the Deck of Cards,” Fenir said, “the King will lift the mist, regaining ownership of Blunder from the Spirit of the Wood.” He took his wife’s hand, his face drawn. “And he will be able to cure the infection.”
I waited, my breath fast.
“But as The Old Book of Alders so loves to remind us,” Elm said from the hearth, twirling the Scythe, “nothing comes for free. Now that my father has the Nightmare Card, he needs only two things to unite the Deck: the lost Twin Alders Card and blood. Infected blood.” He looked toward the flames, his shoulders tight. “And he’s going to kill Emory to get it.”
The strange boy—his erratic, fitful nature. Infected. Which meant Emory Yew was not a resident in the King’s castle as a token of hospitality.
He was a captive.
And they were going to commit treason to save him. Even the Nightmare was stunned into silence.
I looked away, ashamed of the cruel thoughts I’d had about Emory. The boy was sick—addled by magic. And his uncle was going to sacrifice him for it.
How easily it could have been me.
“There is more to tell,” Fenir said, breaking the doleful silence, “but not here. The hour is late, and we are still within the King’s walls. If you agree to help us, we will take you to Castle Yew.”
This time, Jespyr spoke. There was a rasp in her voice, warm, like cracking kindling. “All we need is the Well, the Iron Gate, and the Twin Alders,” she said. “After that, our Deck is complete.” She laced her fingers together. “Finding the Twin Alders won’t be easy. But with your ability to see Cards, we have an advantage the King does not. Help us, Elspeth, and we can cure Emory’s infection.” Her brown eyes searched my face. “Help us, and you can cure your own.”
Her plea tugged at me. I looked down at Ravyn to speak—to argue—I was not sure. But I couldn’t find the words. He looked suddenly quite young, kneeling next to me. Only then did I recall that, despite the gravity of his station, the Captain of the Destriers was not much older than I was.
Still, I was wary of joining him. He had not become Captain of the most dangerous men in Blunder because of a handsome face. “Whose infected blood will you use to unite the Deck, if not Emory’s?” I asked, twisting my hands in my skirt.
“Someone close to the King,” Ravyn said, his shoulders tight. “Someone who has committed great wrongs.”
I stilled my features and reached into my mind.
If the Deck is united, will I truly be cured? Who says you need a cure?
Be serious!
His laugh echoed in the cavernous dark. I know what I know. My secrets are deep. But long have I kept them, and long will they keep.
I shut my eyes and sighed. Just as I could not fathom Blunder without the mist, I could not fathom finding the Twin Alders, a Card that had been lost for centuries. Worse, the notion of sacrificing someone, deserving or not, and spilling their infected blood to unite the Deck of Cards made my stomach twist. Perhaps that was why the final page of The Old Book of Alders had always seemed like a fairy tale to me—dark, strange. Impossible.
I felt it in their eyes, their shoulders, the air we shared—tense, yet somehow hopeful. They were desperate for my help, for my magic.
I slid my hands up my arms, knowing what waited under my sleeves. I had felt it in my veins the moment I’d asked the Nightmare for help—the moment I’d broken the Scythe’s influence. It was always there, just like the creature in my mind, waiting.
Blackness. Dark as ink. Magic.
Magic strong enough to find a Card that had been lost five hundred years.
“I’ll do it,” I said, my heart drumming in my chest. “For the cure, I’ll help you find the Twin Alders.”
