To be wary is to be keen—
Keen of those who may use magic for wrong.
To be clever is to be wise—
Wise not to use the Cards too often.
To be good is to be reverent—
Reverent of balance—of the salt in the air—of the Spirit of the Wood.
Be wary. Be clever. Be good.
Filick came and went, the Well Card stashed deep in his white Physician’s robes. I saw him to the door but did not have the strength to carry myself all the way back up to my room. I lingered in the parlor, near the fire. Balian brought me warm broth, and I sipped it as the house filled with noise from rousing guests.
I didn’t see Nerium or my half sisters, and for that I was glad. But I did hope to see Ione, just as soon as I could summon enough energy to pull myself to my feet.
Don’t, I said when the Nightmare stirred. I want to be alone.
Too bad, he called, slithering across my mind. Someone’s coming.
I sank into my chair, praying I would go unnoticed. But when the parlor door pushed open, I froze, my uncle the last person I expected to see.
He was searching for something, his head whipping about. When I called his name, he jumped. “Elspeth.” He coughed. “There you are.”
I struggled to my feet. “Here I am.”
“I heard you were sick. Are you feeling better?” I nodded. “A fleeting illness.”
My uncle did not seem to hear, his eyes distant, focused on the hearth, away from me. Then, after a severe pause, he said, “Your aunt is here, looking for you.”
Warmth touched my chest, a smile, unbidden, curling my lips. “Where is she?”
“Waiting in your room. I told her I’d bring you.” He pushed open the door, his mouth a pale, thin line. “If it suits you.”
We walked up the stairs in silence. Weak with the aftereffects of poison, my muscles strained, and I was forced to take several rests. My uncle lingered behind me, his steps creaking as we climbed the stairs.
When we reached the fifth landing, my room just one flight away, he shivered.
I turned, but he looked away, a strained smile on his colorless lips. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just cold.”
Perhaps he was. It was always colder in this part of the house. Still, something about his expression gripped me, the lines of his face drawn— his skin ghostly pale, as if he’d been the one who’d ingested poison, not I.
And still, he did not look at me. The back of my neck prickled. I tilted my head. “Is everything all right, Uncle?”
He nodded stiffly, gesturing back up the stairs. “Opal is waiting.”
He’s hiding something, the Nightmare murmured. I continued up the stairwell.
When I came to my bedroom, the wind whistled through the open window. Gray afternoon light cast long shadows across the creaky wood floor. Above me, a spider’s web clung between the rafters, stirred by the draft. Had I not been there that very morning—the bed still upturned—I might have thought the room utterly abandoned, everything still and stale and cold.
My aunt was not there.
But Hauth Rowan, hidden in the shadow of the wardrobe, was.
The Nightmare hissed viciously, his claws slashing in the darkness. Run.
But it was too late. My uncle had already stepped behind me, forcing me into the room.
“Feeling better, Miss Spindle?” Hauth asked, his voice smooth.
I backed into my uncle, panic rising in my throat. “What are you doing here?”
The High Prince smiled. “I asked your uncle to bring you. So that we might talk.”
I looked over my shoulder to my uncle. “You used your Scythe on him?” Hauth smiled. “Care to answer that, Tyrn?”
My uncle’s face said it all. His hazel eyes were downturned, his brow cracked by guilt. I stared at him, waiting for him to speak, waiting for him to tell me it wasn’t real—that he had been forced to betray me and had not brought me, willingly, to the High Prince.
But he said nothing.
“What do you want?” I asked again, my voice shaking as I turned back to Hauth.
“I want the truth,” the High Prince replied. “With Ravyn on patrol, I knew I’d finally have you all to myself. So answer me, Miss Spindle.” His eyes dropped to my sleeve. “What happened to your arm?”
I was shaking, teeth on edge.
The High Prince looked at my uncle, his tone dismissive. “You may go now, Tyrn. If anyone asks, assure them Elspeth wishes to remain undisturbed, safe and asleep.” He smiled at me. “If anyone bothers to inquire.”
“Uncle!” I called, reaching for his arm. “Don’t leave!”
He could not bring himself to look at me. My uncle jerked free, slamming the door in my face. I dove for the handle, but he’d already slid the key into the latch, locking me in with the High Prince.
“Father!” I screamed, banging my palms against the wood. “Someone!
Ione! Balian! Help—”
Hauth was at my side in moments, his thick hand rough as he pushed it over my mouth, smothering my cries. “Quiet,” he said in my ear. “I want to talk. No one need get hurt.”
I reeled, turning fast enough to slap him across the face, my nails dragging across his cheek and jaw, ripping apart the old scabs I’d left a week ago.
Hauth swore and reached into his pocket, extracting his Scythe. “Hold still,” he commanded.
Salt stung my nose, the magic so potent my muscles cramped. I could not move, my mind at war with the Scythe’s influence. I gnashed my teeth and balled my fingers into fists. When I looked up at Hauth, his lips curled
in a smug grin.
“Don’t fight it,” he said. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”
I shut my eyes, my breath labored. He wasn’t the first Prince who’d tried to make me cower with the red Card. It’s not real, I said to myself, grinding my teeth together. My mind has been tested, fortified. The Scythe’s magic is merely a harsh rain—a storm to make me cower.
And the Nightmare and I did not cower.
I broke through the wall of the Scythe’s control with a guttural scream. Hauth’s green eyes widened, his jaw agape. I struck out wildly, my fist colliding with the High Prince’s hand—the hand Ravyn had injured. Hauth hissed and dropped the Scythe. I struck out again, the heel of my palm connecting with his chin. His head jutted back, his face contorted in pain. When he opened his green eyes, they were unfocused.
But only for a moment. The High Prince still had one more Card in his pocket.
The Black Horse.
A dark light flashed. I did not see him move, the Card granting him sudden, remarkable speed. I lashed out at the air, but he caught me by my injured wrist and twisted my arm behind me.
“Get off!” I screamed.
He pulled me across the room. When I tried to push him away, he slammed me into the wooden chair Ravyn had sat in that morning. He pressed his broad hand firmly against my throat. “I know it was you in the wood,” he growled. “Scream again and I won’t just snap your wrist this time. I’ll break your neck.”
He tore strips of bedding and tethered me to the chair, my hands knotted behind my back. I tugged against the binding, my broken wrist singing out in pain. “What do you want?” I seethed.
The High Prince picked his Scythe off the floor and tapped it three times. “Do you think I’m a fool—that I didn’t wonder at your wrist, broken and bandaged, that day in the yard?” He flexed his injured hand beneath his glove. “I’d thought you’d had a weapon in the wood that night. The way you scratched me…” His fingers traced his scabs. “You’re infected, aren’t you, Miss Spindle?”
Life drained out of me, replaced by a forge of seething hatred.
Hauth continued. “Why else would Ravyn protect you so ardently?” He
smiled, cruel. “Your uncle confirmed it.”
It felt as if he’d choked me. When I tried to speak, my voice was uneven. “My uncle—he told you?”
Hauth nodded, touched by a cold, heartless humor. He tucked the Black Horse into his pocket, his eyes lingering on the afternoon light outside my window. “To be fair, Tyrn tried not to give you up. But harboring an infected child is treason and a terrible, terrible death. All his hard work finding that Nightmare Card—negotiating a place on the royal court—gone. And for what?” His green eyes narrowed. “An infected niece forced upon him eleven years ago?” He shook his head. “Tyrn can keep his land, his title
—his life. I’m not after his livelihood. But I needed his help. Or rather, yours.”
I didn’t know what made me sicker, the fact that my uncle—my own family—had betrayed me to the likes of Hauth Rowan or that, somewhere deep down, I was not surprised. “Help with what?” I said.
Hauth folded his arms across his chest. “Ravyn,” he said, his lips curling. “I want you to help me with Ravyn.”
I remained silent, the Nightmare’s snarl radiating through me, burning my tongue.
“He’s been absent lately,” Hauth continued. “He and Elm and Jespyr. They disappear during patrols and keep to themselves, thick as thieves.” His jaw flexed. “And, of course, they kept your infection secret. Why would they do that, unless it was a part of a greater deception?”
It was a trap—a snare for Ravyn, Elm, and Jespyr. Hauth had provided the cage, my uncle had set the trigger, and I was the bait.
I felt like I was going to vomit. “Ravyn’s not going to tell you anything,” I said, searching for courage I did not feel. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Am I?” The High Prince bent so that our faces were even. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Was he there in the wood with you that night you attacked me?” He smiled. “If he wants me to keep your infection from my father’s listening ears, Ravyn’s going to tell me everything he’s been up to. He’ll step down as Captain.” He took me by the face, cupping my jaw roughly in his palm. “After that,” he said, his teeth on edge, “if I’m satisfied, I may consider letting you both live.”
Darkness pooled in my head like smoke off a kiln. I stared into Hauth’s
green eyes, the same wrath I’d felt that day I’d maimed the Destrier swelling in my chest.
I spat in the High Prince’s face.
My vision snapped, Hauth’s knuckles like stones as they collided with my cheek. I let out a low moan, my face hot where he’d struck it. Help, I cried out into the blackness, my injured wrist burning as I twisted against the sheets that bound me. It can’t end like this.
The Nightmare coiled in the corner of my mind. I don’t know what will happen, Elspeth, he said. Your degeneration is almost at an end.
I could see the spindle tree in the courtyard from my bedroom window. Its crimson branches swayed, ever gallant, in the autumn breeze. I whispered a goodbye no one would hear and closed my eyes, shutting out the spindle tree and my childhood room until there was nothing but shadow. Shadow, and the Shepherd King.
I’m asking for your help, I said, my voice clear. I understand the price.
Darkness plumed, smothering my senses. The Nightmare sat in the heart of it, waiting—watching. When the door rattled with a menacing knock, he slid over my eyes, his voice so clear in my head it might have been my own.
You’ll need to free your hands.
Hauth moved to the door. “Who is it?” he barked. A voice sounded on the other side of the wood.
I yanked my uninjured wrist with all my might. The sheets dug into my arms, rubbing the skin raw. I heard a key slide into the lock, the latch clicking.
Focus, the Nightmare snarled, sending burning magic down my arm.
I clenched my teeth and shut my eyes. The Nightmare’s strength enflamed my muscles as I focused on the binding around my right wrist. I pulled so hard my skin tore. When I opened my eyes, dozens of little white spots flecked across my vision.
Pain seared, hot and wet, across my arm. Fresh blood slid down my fingers to the floor beneath, staining the wood.
But my hands were free.
The door opened with a slam. I heard the clang of metal, and when I looked up I saw him—tall, pale, garbed in white. On his long fingers rested the glove-like contraption with looming, brutal spikes reaching out from
each digit.
A metal claw.
“Hello,” Orithe Willow said, looking down at me through unfeeling eyes. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Spindle.”
