Stop fidgeting!” Filick Willow snapped, his fingertips cold as he pressed the skin above Ravyn’s brow together. “I can’t sew properly when you move like that.”
Ravyn stopped tapping his foot and sat still on a stool in the King’s chambers. The enormous hearth burned, fueled by pine kindling. Filick leaned over him with needle and stitching, meticulously repairing the split above Ravyn’s left brow.
It was late. The Destriers were gone—sent to sleep. Dark shadows lingered beneath the King’s eyes as he paced in front of the hearth, drinking deeply from a silver goblet. Every so often his voice would hitch, snagged on rage.
“Some Captain of the Destriers,” he fumed. “Immune to Card magic. Unrivaled in combat.” He glowered at Ravyn over his shoulder. “Knocked senseless by Erik Spindle, a man who’s spent three days freezing in the dungeon.”
Ravyn shook his head, a knot already forming where Erik’s chains had collided with his temple. “It’s nothing.”
“What did I just say about holding still?” Filick said, yanking the needle and pulling seams of flesh together. “You’ll look like a common cutpurse if this doesn’t heal well.”
Elm snorted from the hearth.
“And you,” the King said, turning on his son. “A dead man could have wielded the Scythe sooner than you.”
Elm picked dried blood from beneath his fingernails. “You have a red Card in your own pocket, do you not?”
The King’s face mottled. “You stood at the right hand of the throne. The Scythe—and all the pain it brings—is your responsibility.” His voice lowered. “Hauth understood that.”
Elm’s eyes narrowed at his brother’s name. But before he could reply, the King’s doors pushed open. Jespyr stood in the doorway, her face drawn
—her wavy hair shooting in every direction, flecks of dried blood splattered across her cheeks.
“Well?” the King demanded.
“Spindle and Hawthorn have been returned to the dungeon, sire.” “In separate cells, I hope,” Filick muttered.
The King exhaled. A moment later the entire tray of silver goblets clanged across the floor, wine spilling onto the stone at their feet. “Hauth does not stir. Orithe is dead. Erik, Tyrn—men in my closest circle—have spent over a decade in deceit, hiding Elspeth Spindle’s infection. And yet, until the Twin Alders is safe in my hands, it seems I am the one who must yield.” His gaze returned to Ravyn, his wide nostrils flaring. “This is all your fault.”
Ravyn knew enough of his uncle’s ire to keep a stern jaw and say nothing.
Elm had no such restraint. “How do you imagine that?”
The King began to shout. “Was she not staying at Castle Yew? Nested like a cuckoo under my Captain’s bloody nose?”
“In his defense,” Elm said, “it’s a rather large nose.”
The whites of the King’s eyes turned red. For a moment, he looked as if he might wrap his brutish fingers around his son’s throat. “I should purge all three of you from my guard for such abhorrent ineptitude.”
After a stifling pause, Jespyr spoke. Her voice was calm. “Oversights were made, Uncle. We have been tireless in our patrols—keen to manage your kingdom well. We didn’t see what was in front of us. Elspeth was such a quiet, gentle presence beneath our father’s roof.”
“A liar’s ruse.”
The blow to Ravyn’s head had sent his mind wandering. He sat in the King’s overwarm chamber—but a sick part of him would rather have been in the dungeon.
Ten minutes, he said to himself for the hundredth time in four days. It all might have been different had I gotten to Spindle House ten minutes sooner. His eyes lifted to the King. “It’s not us who made a liar out of Elspeth Spindle. The moment the infection touched her blood, she was bound to be a liar. That’s how things are, in Blunder.”
The King’s step caught. He turned, eyes burning into Ravyn. Silence stole the air in the room. Even Filick’s hands stilled. Everyone was watching. Waiting.
“Get out,” the King said. “Everyone. I’d like to speak to my nephew alone.”
Ravyn felt Jespyr’s eyes boring into him. He did not face them. He was locked into the King’s stare. Filick tied the last stitch on his brow and pulled away, following Jespyr wordlessly out the door.
Elm lingered by the hearth.
“Go, Renelm,” the King commanded.
Elm shot Ravyn a pointed glance and turned away, slamming the door behind him.
The King waited for the silence to settle. “Do you value your place here, nephew?”
Ravyn held the King’s gaze. “I don’t know what I value, Uncle.” “You do not wish to be my Captain?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want.”
The last container that hadn’t been shattered or thrown upon the floor was a silver flagon. “Finally, something we agree on.” The King pulled a long drink. When the flagon dropped from his lips, his eyes were unfocused. “I will let Ione Hawthorn remain in the castle. If only to dissuade rumors of Erik and Tyrn’s treachery at court. Still, people will wonder at Hauth’s absence. There will be gossip and unease. Blunder needs control, not violence and backhanded treachery.”
He stared into the fire a moment longer, then crossed the chamber to his velvet-draped bed. The frame creaked beneath his weight. “Let Elspeth Spindle keep her word, then,” he muttered. “Follow her out of the castle into the mist—let her find the Twin Alders Card for me. Then drag her back. If either of you tries your hand at anything clever, I will pluck Emory back from Castle Yew. He won’t have a fine room and fire for comfort this time.” The King yawned. “He’ll have a cell.”
Ravyn’s fury was a swift wave. He felt it in every strained muscle, hot words of malice catching in his craw. But his face remained without expression.
“When you return, I will do as the Old Book says.” The King closed his eyes. “I will spill Elsepth Spindle’s infected blood come Solstice. Unite the Deck. After five hundred years, I will be the Rowan who finally lifts the mist.” His voice began to drift. “That is what people will say, when they speak of my reign.”
“As you say, Uncle. We’ll leave immediately.” Ravyn turned to leave. “Elm stays here.”
He froze at the door. “He’s my right hand.”
“And my second heir.” The King sank into his bed. “I cannot risk him to the same danger that broke Hauth.”
“The Ni—Elspeth—she wouldn’t hurt him.”
The King barked a laugh. “Even you don’t believe that.”
Ravyn combed his mind for a deception that would bend the King’s will. But the words didn’t come. His mind was brimming with fog, lost to exhaustion, so tired it hurt.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Elm won’t like being left behind.”
“He’s a Prince of Blunder. What he likes is of no consequence.”
Ravyn was not about to tread headfirst into the mist—into the unknown
—alone with a five-hundred-year-old monster hell-bent on righting the wrongs of the past. He needed someone to watch his back.
Someone who had always watched his back.
“Jespyr,” he said, unyielding. “I’ll need my sister.” It cost him, but Ravyn lowered his head. “Please.”
The King was silent a moment. When he finally consented, it came as a low grunt. “Fine. Take another Destrier as well. Gorse.”
Ravyn brooked no argument. He gave a curt nod and opened the door.
“You’ll get your wish,” the King called after him. “When this is all over, I’m stripping you of command.” His words were coated in spite. “You’ve proven a wretched disappointment, Ravyn.”
Ravyn lowered himself at the door, a final bow. “From you, Uncle, that is praise indeed.”
