A charm is neither living nor dead. When an animal born of Blunder dies of age, bury it in deep soil. When the soil sprouts seed, unearth it. Take from the animal a piece no greater than the palm of your hand. Whether bone, hair, or feather, your charm is a safeguard in the mist, for the animals of Blunder remain free of the Spirit’s snare.
A charm is neither living nor dead.
We found an old rope left by farmers that led us through the mist back to Stone. My legs jumped with phantom spasms—ready to run again at any sign of danger. But the Captain’s path was steadfast.
Weeds and overgrown grass covered the walls on the east side of Stone. My hands shook as we came upon a rounded wooden door covered in cobwebs. Ravyn pulled a small brass key from his belt. I heard the click of the lock, and a moment later he ripped the door open, dust and vines displaced—the door hesitant to move.
Ravyn held it open for me, his gray eyes tight on my face. “After you,” he said.
I hung back like an animal wary of a trap.
“Best we don’t linger.” He gestured inside. “You go first.”
I peered into the dark corridor beyond. “Where does it lead?”
The Captain of the Destriers ran his hand over his brow, impatience cutting through his low voice. “Miss Spindle. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Strange, coming from the man who might have pierced your heart on the forest road.
My breath hitched as I entered the shadowy corridor, my eyes slow to adjust to the dark.
“This way,” Ravyn said, closing the door and leading me down twists and turns—a labyrinth of tall corridors and unmarked rooms.
We reached a stone stairway that descended into blackness. The Nightmare’s voice pricked my ears. In the cold and the dark, the stone does not age. The light cannot reach where the shadows doth rage. At the end of the stairs, by rope or by blade, they take the sick children, to burn in a cage.
I shuddered. The King’s dungeon and the rumors of what happened there had long since put their hooks in me. I glanced down the stairwell, the shadows, long and twisted, reaching for me with cruel, gnarled fingers.
I didn’t realize I had stopped walking until Ravyn cleared his throat, halting a few paces ahead. He must have seen the terror on my face because, for a moment, the firmness around his eyes softened. He glanced down the stairwell. “I’ll never take you there, Miss Spindle. You have my word.”
With that he turned, leaving me no choice but to follow. He led me down another hall, past a long gallery of portraits—Rowan Kings of the past. We veered left, into an ill-lit servants’ passage. There we took a short set of steps that dropped us at a door fashioned from wood so dark I couldn’t tell its origin. Its only distinction was two stags carved into the wood just below the frame.
Ravyn fumbled for another key, his cloak so dark over his broad back it stole the dim light around us. Unlike the frosty shadow of the dungeon, I could feel the warmth radiating off him. I was suddenly very aware of how closely we stood—the shape of his shoulder blades—the calluses of his fingers as he searched for the correct key. His cloak smelled of mist and cloves.
It felt far too intimate, feeling his warmth. I tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. Ravyn took another key—this one long and iron forged
—and clicked it into place, releasing the lock on the stag door. When he glanced at me over his shoulder, I had the stark impression he knew I’d been watching him.
He pushed open the door, and I stepped inside.
A moment later I was pressed into the stone wall, the clamor of barking dogs in my ears. They snarled at me—two hounds with sharp white teeth, pulled from their bed of hay at the sound of intruders.
In the blackness, the Nightmare hissed, his claws flashing. But before the dogs could pounce, Ravyn pulled them back, jerking their collars and calling severe commands.
The hounds retreated back to their hay, their untrusting eyes never leaving me.
“They’re not vicious,” Ravyn said. “They hardly bark as often as they should, lazy things. I don’t know what’s gotten into them.”
I peeled myself off the wall. “Animals don’t like me,” I murmured, my heart pounding as I took in my surroundings.
The room looked like an abandoned cellar. There were no windows—no natural light. A small hearth nestled on the far wall illuminated the room. An old rounded table stood near the hearth, surrounded by chairs that did not match. A shelf with old tomes was positioned on the south wall, its contents perhaps older than the room itself.
Not the dungeon, then.
Don’t be so sure, the Nightmare said. There are many different kinds of cages.
I ignored the bite in his words and moved to the table, wary of the dogs. “What now?” I asked.
The Captain ran his fingers through his dark hair, strain creasing his eyes. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He hurried out the door. I did not bother to listen for the click of the bolt
—I knew he’d lock me in. I approached the shelf, looking for something— anything—I could turn into a weapon. The dogs watched me, growling their discontent, but did not stir from their beds.
Now we wait.
The Nightmare strummed his nails together, a sharp, ugly discord. He knows you’re infected. And he knows, to some extent, you are aware of the Providence Cards in the castle.
I winced. I had not meant to say it, there in the mist, alone with the Captain of the Destriers. The moment I’d mentioned Providence Cards, Ravyn’s ears had perked. I’d clasped my lips together, but it was too late.
I tapped my foot on the floor, an anxious, chaotic rhythm.
But the Nightmare was untouched by my disquiet, his voice almost lazy. Suppose you simply told him you can see Providence Cards? Or rather, that I see them.
I stopped fumbling with one of the dust-ridden tomes on the shelf. Don’t be stupid.
He may surprise you.
He’s already done that, I said, eyeing the door, listening for footsteps.
Not all surprises are good.
The Nightmare laughed, as if he understood a joke I did not. Mark my words. He’s going to test your magic. He tapped his claws. Or, more accurately, test MY magic.
I groaned into my sleeve, retreating to a wooden chair. The room was bare of weapons. Should danger arise, I would have to rely on the one in my mind.
Footsteps sounded once more on the stone steps, followed by the click of the key. The dogs perked their ears, and I braced myself.
Three people filed into the cellar. Ravyn Yew, a stranger, and a young woman. By the shape of her stern jaw and the short cut of her dark hair, her lean body fitted by a richly hemmed tunic rather than a stifling dress, I knew exactly who she was.
Jespyr Yew, Ravyn’s younger sister, and the only female Destrier.
They stood in a crooked line before me, each with a fixed expression of caution. The man between the Yew siblings was older, his tunic plain and his beard untrimmed. I stared at him, unable to place him.
Then I noticed the small willow tree, woven in white thread, on the breast of his tunic.
I leapt from my chair. “You brought a Physician?” I cried. “Why not just run me through with your dagger?”
“Easy,” Ravyn said, his voice smooth. “We just want to ask you questions. He’s not going to report you. Isn’t that right, Filick?”
“I am bound to obey the Captain,” the older man said. He gave Ravyn a faint wink, then approached the table with caution, as if I were a wild, fretful horse. Taking the chair to my right, he lowered himself to a seat.
“My name is Filick Willow. What is yours?”
I cast Ravyn a hateful glance. My whole life, I’d managed to avoid Physicians. This time, there was nowhere to hide.
I lowered myself into my chair and straightened my back with a boldness I did not feel. “Elspeth Spindle,” I said, my voice cold.
“How old are you, Elspeth?” “Twenty.”
He leaned in, observing me. “How old were you when you caught the infection?”
“Nine.”
“I see. And what magical abilities did your infection grant you?”
I tried not to squirm as I weighed my options. If I lied and said I had no magic, they could hardly let me leave. I was still a witness to the Captain of the Destriers’ moonlighting as a highwayman.
And what, my dear, was he looking for, dressed all in black, stalking the forest road?
A spark flickered through my mind. There was a way to lie and tell the truth at the same time.
That’s how the best lies are told—with just a sliver of truth.
I took a deep breath, then another. Slowly, I eased the muscles in my face—the tension in my jaw, the furrow of my brow. By my third breath, my face was expressionless.
“My magic shows me Providence Cards,” I said.
Filick’s eyebrows shot so high they’d disappeared beneath his hairline. Jespyr’s jaw dropped. Next to her, Ravyn leaned forward, shock momentarily cracking the stone control masking his face.
Filick returned his gaze to me. “What do you mean, ‘shows you’?”
Not very bright, this Physician.
“Every Card has a color, like a magical signature,” I said. “The color corresponds with the velvet on the Card’s edge. A Black Horse is black. A Well is blue. A Maiden is pink, and so on.”
“And you can see these colors?” Ravyn asked. “Even through the mist?” I exhaled. “Yes.”
Jespyr laughed—a quick, triumphant cackle. “Brilliant. This is just what we need to find the—”
“Wait a moment,” Filick interrupted. “If Miss Spindle is telling the truth
—and she has lived eleven years with this magic—then surely there have been repercussions.” His brow hardened. “The infection’s magic is degenerative. Nothing comes free.”
I kept my face even. “I’m well aware magic has a cost, Physician.” My voice quieted. “But I have yet to discover the extent of my debt. I know nothing of my degeneration.”
There was a knock on the door. Three knocks, followed by a fourth and a fifth a moment later. Ravyn moved to the door. I did not notice the bright red light spilling into the keyhole, nor did I expect the vivacity of the Scythe Card’s ruby-red color until it was already in the room.
Prince Renelm Rowan stepped into the cellar, mud still clumped onto his boots from the hunt. When his eyes found me, they were brilliant green. “Who the hell is this?”
“Elspeth Spindle,” Jespyr said.
“Erik’s daughter,” Ravyn said, sharing a pointed look with his cousin.
The Prince surveyed me. He looked like a fox to me, with his wild auburn hair and bright, intelligent eyes. “I’m Renelm,” he said, narrowing them. “But Elm will do.”
I knew who he was. I’d always known. Renelm and his older brother, Hauth, were the kind of Princes ripped from the pages of a storybook. Handsome, clever, unmarried. Only, in the Nightmare’s storybook version, they weren’t simply the kingdom’s beloved Princes.
They were also its villains.
He snarled behind my eyes, watching Elm with curled claws. The berry of rowans is red, always red. The earth at its trunk is dark with blood shed. Trust never the man who wields the Card red. His voice seeped out of him, a poisonous fog filling my mind. No peace will be known till the final Rowan is dead.
I fought a shudder, my face muscles straining against the chill the Nightmare’s words set upon me. For the Rowans, the Nightmare bore a bottomless, vengeful hatred. And I knew why. King Rowan, like his predecessors, used the ancient wisdom of The Old Book of Alders to instill fear—not wonder—of magic. He corrupted our ancient text. Defiled it so that it became a weapon to control Blunder by—just like the Scythe.
The red Card. There were only four of them in the entire kingdom. And the Rowans had always claimed them all. With it, they had the ultimate power of persuasion. Three taps of the Scythe, and you would do whatever a Rowan asked of you. If Elm asked me to hop on one leg off a cliff, I would gladly do so, not because the Scythe made my legs move—but
because it made me want to jump.
I glared at the red light beaming from Elm’s pocket, unsure if it was the Nightmare’s animosity boiling in me, or my own.
Elm was taller and narrower than Ravyn. When I stood, I had to lift my chin to look him in the face. “Pleased to meet you, sire,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’m Elspeth Spindle.”
A coy smile danced along the edges of Elm’s lips. “Spindle, is it?” he said. “Not Jayne Yarrow?”
I glanced at Ravyn, my stomach dropping. But the Captain’s eyes were suddenly fixed on his boots, a hint of color along his neck and jaw.
I took a step back, the memory of the second highwayman—of fingers pulling tightly on my hood—the hostile notes of his voice—closing tightly around me. My rage swelled, trapped in a room with strange, dangerous men who had done their best to hurt me not three weeks ago.
I slammed back down into my chair and folded my arms over my chest. If I’d had more grit, I might have spat at the Prince’s feet. “Quite the family you have,” I said to Ravyn, shooting daggers. “One assault from the two of you was enough. Tell the Prince to take his Scythe and go, or I won’t breathe another word.”
