For the last Providence Card, I wanted her close,
To answer my call when I needed her most.
But she guarded her secrets, like a dragon its gold,
Saying nothing of price our bargain would hold.
But long had I suffered, and long had I bled. “I’ll pay any cost for a twelfth Card,” I said.
The salt stung my nose and her spite filled the air.
I woke in the chamber, the Twin Alders Card there.
And so, my dear kingdom, my Blunder, my land,
The Cards fall to you, paid by my hand.
For her price, it was final, our bartering done.
I created twelve Cards… But I cannot use one.
My feet moved without me, confusion, anger, and utter bewilderment warring for dominance between my head and chest. When I approached, Ravyn’s lips curved in half a smile that disappeared the moment he saw my
face.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“I know what you are,” I said, pointing an accusatory finger in the Captain’s face.
Ravyn’s spine straightened. I discerned neither anger nor fear in his expression, only intelligent silence. He stepped closer, lessening the space between us. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Do you?”
“Who’s the pretty lady?” Emory asked, peeling a twig off the rowan tree and plucking its leaves one by one. “Methinks she is a tree spirit. Nay—a King! Nay.” His smile twisted. “A villain.”
“Emory!” Ravyn snapped, eyeing his brother over his shoulder. “You’ve had your fun. Now shut up.”
“I said she was pretty, didn’t I?” Emory twirled the twig wildly through his fingers. A moment later he swore, having poked himself in the eye.
“Now, now,” Elm said, coming up from behind the hedge, his Scythe alight in his hand. “We’ve had a lot to drink tonight, haven’t we, my boy?”
Emory swatted his cousin with the twig. “Away with you and your Card, Rrrrrenelm. I’m not a baby in need of swaddling.”
When Elm glanced at Ravyn and me—our backs straight and our mouths drawn—his lips curled into a guilty grin. “You two have a few things to discuss. I’ll manage the brute.”
“Brute?” Emory began to climb the rowan tree again. “I am Emory Tydus Yew—son of warriors—ancestor of great men—harbinger of all that is to c—”
He fell out of the tree with a thud, and the garden roared with Elm’s laughter.
“Come with me,” Ravyn said without looking at me, the muscles along his jaw tight.
I followed him back up the path with stomping steps, the words coming out all at once. “First your Nightmare Card, then this. I’m growing tired of your lies by omission, Captain.”
Ravyn said nothing. The sound of Equinox—of laughter and music— grew louder. But before we could reenter the crowd, Ravyn stepped off the path into the shadow of a sycamore tree.
I had no choice but to follow him.
“What I can’t seem to fathom,” I said, knocking branches aside until we
were face-to-face, “is how you’ve lived your life so publicly. You’re the Captain of the bloody Destriers. I thought you, of all people, would be irreproachable.” I paused, heat in my words. “But you’re not, are you? You’re infected.”
“Keep your damn voice down,” he said, looming over me.
Somewhere in the back of my head, alarm bells were ringing. I’d spent most of my life cautious not to invite attention, let alone wrath, from a Destrier. But loud as they were, the bells were drowned out by an even louder din—
Anger.
“Well?” I said through my teeth. “Are you or are you not infected?”
Ravyn looked away. He was quiet a long time, his lips a fine line beneath the shadow of his nose. Finally, he spoke. “I am.”
“Does the King know?”
“Yes.” He shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’d be surprised by the counsel my uncle keeps.”
“And you’re—what? His magical pet? You trade service for a normal life while the rest of us cursed with the infection are forced to tiptoe through life, execution waiting around every corner?”
Ravyn flinched, his gray eyes narrowing.
But I kept going, my blood up. “In the cellar, the light from your Cards flickered. I didn’t understand until just now.” My eyes fell to his hand. “The White Eagles. As soon as you touched them, their light extinguished.” I searched his face, seeing him for the first true time. “What is your magic?”
Ravyn did not answer with words. Instead, he held his right hand out between us. Slowly, he unfurled his fingers. There, nestled in the palm of his hand, devoid of light and color, were the two White Eagles.
He gave me a fleeting glance. Then he turned his palm over and let the Cards fall.
The moment the White Eagles left Ravyn’s skin, their color returned. I winced, blinded by light. The Cards fluttered to the ground, falling like two white beacons. They landed between our feet, their color and light as strong as any Providence Card.
I stared at them, my breath quickening.
The Nightmare understood before I did. He clawed to the forefront of my mind, his eyes fixed on Ravyn as if he, too, were seeing the Captain for
the first time. Twelve Black Horse Cards, yet thirteen Destriers, he murmured. Have you ever seen him with a Black Horse? No, because he cannot use it. He gave a sudden laugh, startling me. Don’t you see? He cannot use Providence Cards. Or at least, not all of them.
My gaze shot up to Ravyn, the white light from the Cards casting new shadows across his face. “You can’t use them?”
The Captain was statue still. “No. But neither can they be used against me. Such is the nature of my magic. Cards like the Chalice—the Scythe— have no effect on me.”
My thoughts spun, leaves in a windstorm. “But I saw the Cards in your pocket. When you blindfolded me, I saw their lights. And I’ve seen you use the Mirror and the Nightmare.”
He bent at the waist, retrieving the White Eagles from the ground and slipping them into his pocket. “Cards lose their magic the moment they touch my skin. The Mirror and the Nightmare—and perhaps the Twin Alders—are the only Cards I can still use.”
I still did not understand. “Why only those?”
Discernable frustration touched the edges of Ravyn Yew’s face. He opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of giggling outside the sycamore tree silenced him.
I turned around. I could only see in fragments through the leaf-strewn branches. Courtiers walked the garden path, oblivious of us, their voices loud and uninhibited as they wandered into the gardens.
Ravyn waited for them to pass. He leaned closer, his voice in my ear. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss it, Miss Spindle.”
With that he pushed past me, out from the shelter of the tree and back onto the path.
His aim was to silence me—to extinguish talk of his infection, perhaps. But there were too many questions, too many unspoken truths. I balled my hands into fists and followed him to the center of the gardens where the celebration still raged.
Defiant, I caught him by his tunic and yanked. He stopped in his tracks, turning on me like a great bird of prey. But before he could speak—unleash all that frustration chiseled across his face—someone called my name.
“Elspeth!”
I looked over Ravyn’s shoulder, recognizing Dimia’s too-loud, bubbly
voice. She stood in a group of girls several paces away. When she caught my eye she waved, spilling wine from her goblet. She lifted her skirt and bounded toward us. Behind her came a reluctant Nya, her blue eyes, normally narrow and shrewd, glassed over.
Ravyn rolled his eyes and swore under his breath. “Take my hand.”
My eyes flew to his face. A face that, in that moment, I wanted to tear my fingers across. “What?”
“We’re meant to be courting,” he said, stepping closer, his voice a growl. He offered his hand. “Or have you forgotten?”
My half sisters were a pace away. There was no time to think. I slipped my hand into Ravyn’s upturned palm, my throat constricting as he turned my hand over and laced his fingers with mine. His skin was rough, calluses tugging at the soft skin between my fingers.
We turned to face my half sisters. “Nya, Dimia,” I said, breath in my voice. “Enjoying yourselves?”
The girls were holding half-empty tumblers, ribbons loose in their hair, cheeks splotchy red. But the twins were merely drunk—not blind. Their gazes flew from Ravyn and me to our hands, woven together. Dimia’s eyes bulged, a banshee squeal slipping between her lips.
Nya did nothing but stare, mouth agape—fishlike.
“It seems you are enjoying Equinox, too, Elspeth,” Dimia said, sending a bawdy elbow into her twin’s side.
Nya blinked, her gaze darting between me and Ravyn. “But—Are you
—”
“About to dance, actually,” Ravyn said, cutting her off. “A pleasure to see you both,” he said with no pleasure at all, pulling me away from my half sisters and deeper into the crowd.
The dance had already begun, the lutes and cymbals striking a steady rhythm. Ravyn and I slipped into the circle of dancers, his hand still entwined with mine. I did not miss the way more than one set of eyes followed us, whispers trailing our steps.
I clenched my jaw, my anger returning as the Captain and I paired off. He did not want to dance to appease my sisters, and he certainly had no interest in enjoying the frivolity of Equinox.
The only reason he held my hand—stood opposite me in front of half of Blunder—was to keep me from asking any more questions of him.
Whispers echoed all around us, their static rhythm in competition with the instruments. “Is this really necessary?” I said as we turned to the music, my dress moving at the hips as we turned in half circles, one direction, then the other.
Ravyn looked down his nose at me. I felt his hand press against the small of my back. “Trust me,” he said. “Pretending is half the work.”
I met his gaze. “But I don’t trust you, Captain. How could I trust a man who hasn’t been forthright with me?”
The dance slowed, the final notes near. Ravyn’s hand slid from the small of my back up my spine, slower than it should have. When he leaned in, his jaw scraped against my ear. “I’d call an admission of treason exceptionally forthright for one day, Miss Spindle,” he whispered.
The song ended in a triumphant flurry, followed by the crash of drunken applause. Ravyn’s hand slipped off my back. When our fingers fell apart, he ran a stiff hand over his forehead and through his black hair. His gray eyes traced the flush in my cheeks, the furrow in my brow, the line of my lips.
But he said nothing.
The air was stifling, stoked by the crowd and Ravyn Yew’s silence. I lowered my brow and glared up at him for a final moment, then stalked back to the castle.
I found Emory and Elm seated near the great hall, no doubt on their way to Emory’s chambers. They’d stopped to take a drinking break.
When Elm saw me, he cracked a grin, holding up his goblet in a mock toast. “To the lord and lady of the dance. Looks like you two made up.”
I ignored his gaze and rubbed my neck, as if to erase the flush that had settled into my skin. My eyes turned to Emory, who had slipped out of his chair. When the boy saw me, his gray eyes widened.
“The Nightmare,” he said, quoting The Old Book of Alders, swinging his finger at me as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. “Be wary the dark. Be wary the fright. Be wary the voice that comes in the night.”
“Enough, Emory,” Elm groaned.
When Emory’s smile deepened, the hairs along my neck stood on end. I was suddenly certain that when he’d touched my hand on the stairwell, Emory Yew and his strange, dark magic had truly seen every last one of my secrets.
“It twists and it calls, through shadowy halls. Be wary the voice that
comes in the night.”
Before I could say anything—before I could even shiver—Emory heaved, hunching his back, and coughed blood on the stone floor.
Shame, the Nightmare said. I was just beginning to like him.
