Shadows in the corridor loomed, only to scurry away. They seemed taller in the witching hour, dawn mere hours away. Elm rubbed his eyes and blinked. He needed sleep—badly. He opened his mouth to ask Ione if the Maiden kept her from feeling tired when footsteps sounded down the corridor.
Ione shoved him into a doorway. Elm’s ribs collided with an iron doorknob, and he let out an abrupt breath. “That,” he seethed, “hurt.”
The echoing footsteps grew softer. Whoever it was, Physician or guard or servant, they were not coming their way. Ione stood rigid, waiting. Torchlight caught the bridge of her nose, the heart-shaped curve of her lips, the soft line of her throat and the shadow where it hollowed.
Elm looked away.
Only when the corridor was quiet again did Ione acknowledge him. “Sorry. I forgot. You’re delicate.”
“Yes, I am. I should be abed, resting my delicate body.” He waved his bruised knuckles in front of her face. “Not all of us have a Maiden Card to heal our mortal carcasses into perfection.” He looked at her hands. “That cut. Did you feel pain?”
Every part of Ione’s face was closed to him. “Yes. It takes a moment for the Maiden to heal me. When it does, it feels good, euphoric even, not to be in pain.”
“Sounds nice.”
“You could have a Maiden if you wanted.” She slipped out of the
doorway, her steps silent as she continued down the corridor. “You’re a Rowan. Don’t you take whatever you fancy?”
“Clearly not, when all I fancy is a proper night’s sleep.” “It was your idea to go to the dungeon.”
“And a brilliant one, considering Elspeth has the happy ability to see Providence Cards by color—even at a distance.”
Ione skittered to a halt. “She does?”
“Indeed.” Elm picked at his fingernail. “Rather handy. Especially for you.”
“How so?’
He shot her a pointed look. “You asked for free rein of the castle, yet failed on numerous occasions to specify where in Stone your Maiden Card resides. Which has led me to one rather interesting conclusion.” He cocked his head to the side. “You don’t know where your Maiden is, do you, Hawthorn?”
Ione drew in a breath, then continued down the corridor. “How exhausting it must be, wanting everyone to know how clever you are, Prince.”
Elm caught up with her in two strides. “But you’re still using the Maiden’s magic. If anyone else had touched it, your connection would be severed.” He leaned over her, his voice tipped with satisfaction. “Which means you’re the one who misplaced it.”
A frown ghosted over Ione’s brow. She didn’t look at him. Not in the way she normally didn’t look at him—too indifferent to bother. This time, she seemed intent not to meet his eye.
“What happened? Celebrate a little too hard on Equinox? Put your Maiden Card in a flowerpot and waltz away?”
“Something like that.”
Elm chuckled to himself. “No shame in it. Spirit knows I haven’t spent an Equinox sober in”—he counted on his fingers—“some years.”
Ione kept her eyes forward. “Just get us to the dungeon. After that, you can go back to being the cantankerous, wayward Prince you were born to be. Trees know I’ll be pleased to be rid of you.”
Elm trailed her down the corridor to the stairs. He didn’t have to tell her which turns to make. All they had to do was go down. “Is that what people call me? Wayward?”
“I’ve heard the word prick thrown around.” “Naturally.”
Ione’s shoulders rose, half the effort of a shrug. “It’s said you like your freedom too well—that you’re an unruly, rotten Prince. Unmatched with the Scythe, but a poor Destrier. That’s what the men say, at least.”
Rotten. Elm shoved the word down and schooled his features to a lazy smirk. “What do the women say about me?”
Ione kept her gaze decidedly upon the stairs. “Nothing of note.” “But with far less disappointment in their voices, I should think.” A faint blush rose up her neck into her cheeks. “Perhaps.”
Elm’s smirk budded to a smile. He traced Ione’s blush with a curiosity he decided was purely scientific. It felt like a game of discovery, watching her face, seeing what sliver of emotion the Maiden would allow her to show
—noting what had brought it on. Elm loved games. The playing, the cheating, the winning. Mostly, he loved the measuring of his opponent, the unearthing of their limitations.
Only now, he wasn’t sure who his opponent was. Ione Hawthorn—or the Maiden Card.
He quickened his pace, matching Ione’s step as they took the east stairs. “And what do you think of that, Hawthorn? My reputation with women?”
“I don’t think of it.”
He laughed, a low, rumbling timbre, and Ione turned at the sound. Her eyes narrowed. “You said you didn’t have time for women.”
“When?”
“In your chamber. When I was getting dressed.”
He’d been paying attention to other things, in that moment. “I used to have time.” Elm cleared his throat. “I’ve been busy of late.”
Ione’s voice hummed in her chest. “For a Prince who doesn’t mind the King, and a piss-poor Destrier at that, one would think you had all the time in the world. Only, whenever I see you, you look as if you haven’t stopped to catch your breath. Which raises the question—” Her eyes were dark in the dim light. “What, Prince Renelm, have you been doing with all your time?”
Moonlighting as a highwayman. Stealing Providence Cards to unite the Deck without the King knowing. Using the Scythe until it makes me bleed. Worrying about Emory. Arguing with Ravyn. Bickering with my brother’s
betrothed on our way to the dungeon to see a monster—
“You should know. You’ve taken up every moment of my time today.” Elm leaned down, his mouth close to Ione’s ear—testing to see if her blush would return. “And I can’t say it hasn’t been… interesting.”
She pulled away, her expression a stone wall. “Don’t.”
There it was again. Even in the dim light of the stairwell—pink in her cheeks. “Don’t what?”
“Pretend to flatter me.” “Who’s pretending?”
Ione shook her head. A quick, dispassionate dismissal.
“Why, Ione Hawthorn.” Elm scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. “Don’t tell me it makes you feel something when I flatter you.”
“It doesn’t.” Her face was unreadable. Unreachable. “I can’t feel anything anymore.”
 |
The dungeon stairs had always been deadly. Now that it was autumn, frost already making its home across Blunder’s fields, the steps were nigh unnavigable, slick with ice. Twice, Elm had to brace himself against the wall. When Ione slipped and crashed into him, her fingers flexed like cat claws, digging into the muscles along his abdomen. Elm wrapped an arm around her shoulders, steadying her.
“How far down does this go?” she said into his chest. He gripped her tighter. “Far.”
By the time they got to the bottom, Elm was stiff all over. Given the tension in her shoulders, the fine line of her mouth, Ione was no better. She released him with a breath, stepping into the antechamber. Only then did Elm realize, with a bitter curse, that he’d forgotten the dungeon keys.
It didn’t matter. The door was already open.
A giant mouth of darkness greeted them, a bitter wind from deep within the dungeon snapping at their faces. “Where are my father and uncle kept?”
“On the south side. Your cousin is on the north.”
Ione’s back straightened, as if she was trying to force the shivers that racked up her spine into submission. She pushed into the dungeon on silent
step, darkness swallowing her whole. Elm groaned and hurried after her, catching her at the shoulder and spinning her toward the first of many passages north.
They walked in silence down rows of empty cells.
A chill sank into Elm. This wretched castle. He hated it to its last scrap of mortar, of stone, of wood and iron. He kept his eyes forward the way Ravyn always did, determined not to look into the cells, knowing they were empty—and had not always been so.
He didn’t realize Ione had spoken until her hand grazed his arm. He jumped. “Trees—what?”
“Anxious, are we?” “Just cold.”
“I might have thought you didn’t mind the cold. What with you freezing us all into statues with your Scythe, back in the throne room.”
“What’s the matter, Hawthorn? Disheartened I cut the violence short?”
She ignored the quip. “Ending violence isn’t exactly a Rowan thing to do, is it?”
Elm didn’t bother masking his annoyance at being compared to his father and brother. “I try not to use the Scythe for violence.”
“Why not?”
“To disappoint the hell out of them.”
Ione, who often seemed to give her attention only by half, was watching him. She searched his face like she had in his chamber, still looking for something she couldn’t seem to find.
A noise, like the snapping of teeth, echoed at the end of the corridor. Elm jerked to a halt, catching Ione’s arm, stopping her. Ahead was the last cell. Elspeth Spindle’s cell.
Or what used to be Elspeth Spindle.
“Listen,” he said. “I should tell you—”
The noise echoed again, this time with the low, oily notes of a laugh.
Elm swallowed. “Your cousin. She’s not the same.”
Ione said nothing. Her brows lowered. She pulled away from Elm, marching toward the cell. “Because of Hauth?”
“Not Hauth. Not this time.”
When Ione reached the iron bars, Elm stepped behind her, close enough that he could pull her back. There was just enough light to see a shadow
shift, and then the Shepherd King was there, fingers curling around the iron bars, his yellow eyes wide and his jaw clicking a chilling rhythm.
Click. Click. Click.
Elspeth. Shepherd King. Nightmare.
He did not shiver, seemingly untouched by the oppressive chill of his cell. His spine stooped, black hair falling like curtains over his face. He jerked his chin to the side and looked up, his gaze catching Ione.
For a moment, all was silent. Ione stared at what had once been her cousin. They looked like mirrors of each other—if one of the two had been dipped in ink.
Ione’s voice drifted away from her. “Elspeth?” “Sweet Ione.”
Ione reached a hand through the bars. Elm tensed. “Don’t,” he warned.
She didn’t listen. Her fingers grazed the skin along what had once been Elspeth’s cheek, and she drew in a gasp.
A smile crept across the Shepherd King’s face. “Do you finally see me, yellow girl?”
For the first time since he’d come upon her at Hawthorn House, Elm discerned unmistakable emotion on Ione’s face. Her pallor turned gray. Her eyes widened, and her lips drew into a fine line. Her fingers trembled as they traced the Shepherd King’s cheek. When she spoke, her voice was so thin it threatened to snap. “You’re not Elspeth.”
The Shepherd King’s smile widened. “Nor am I a stranger. I was the shadow that moved just beyond the corner of your eye. I spoke in murmurs, hummed songs you did not know. The hounds brayed, warning you of the intruder in your midst. The horses shied away and the birds grew quiet. But your parents did not heed them. And you, yellow girl, were afraid to look too closely.” His eyes dragged over her face. “But you’re not afraid anymore, are you?”
Ione pressed against the bars. “You—Elspeth—she kept so many secrets from me.”
The Shepherd King reached out, cupping her chin with a dirty, bloodstained hand. “She was wary. Clever. Good.” He rubbed his thumb along Ione’s cheek. “You and I are all that is left of her.”
“Who are you?”
“Blunder’s reckoning.” The Shepherd King’s grin was worse than any
snarl. “I am the root and the tree. I am balance.”
Ione reached out in a flash, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I want to speak to Elspeth.”
“You cannot have her. She is with me. And I am letting her rest.” “I don’t care. Give her back to me.”
The Shepherd King’s teeth scraped over his lip. For a moment, Elm thought he might tear into Ione’s soft, unblemished cheek. But his grip on her face loosened, his brow easing. “She will be free. But not until my work is finished.” His eyes flashed to Elm. “And old debts settled.”
It was the first time he’d looked at Elm directly, those strange eyes so piercing, so monstrous, so knowing.
“Elm,” the Shepherd King murmured. “A pleasure to see you again.”
Elm. Not Renelm or Prince, like every other stranger called him. Elm.
As if this man, this thing, already knew him.
And, of course, he did. For every conversation Elm had had with Elspeth Spindle—every treason she’d committed alongside him—every secret she’d heard—so, too, had the monster in her mind. Waiting, just behind her eyes. Listening. Learning.
Elm felt sick.
“You look pale, Princeling.”
“It hasn’t been easy, cleaning up after you.” “Yes. Your cousin intimated as much.”
Ravyn hadn’t said anything about going into the dungeon. He hadn’t said anything of the Shepherd King at all, save digging up his grave. Elm brushed away the sting, his gaze flickering to Ione. “She’s missing something. A Maiden Card. It’s here—somewhere in the castle. Can you see it?”
Ione’s eyes jumped between the two of them, and the Shepherd King stepped closer, his voice slithering between the bars. “Do you truly need it back, my dear?” he whispered. “Isn’t it better this way, your body safe from harm? Your soft, sentimental heart, finally guarded?”
Ione’s eyes narrowed. But the Shepherd King kept going. “Elspeth envied it—your heart. The ease of your laughter, the careless sincerity in everything you did. But I knew better. You were good, but never wary. It is why you hardly blinked when your father caged you like a canary on Equinox and left you in this cold, cavernous place.” He stroked her hair
with a listless finger. “The only reason you have not lost yourself to the despair of being shackled to Rowans is because the Maiden Card has kept you from feeling it.”
Ione was quiet a long moment. “I may not feel despair,” she finally said, “but I am still lost. I have disappeared into the Maiden, just as Elspeth has into you. And I want to be freed.”
Her words wove through Elm’s ribs, pressing into his chest. The Shepherd King’s smile faltered. “I cannot free you.” “But you can see Providence Cards by color,” Elm cut in.
He cocked his head to the side, predatory. “One of my many gifts.”
“My father keeps a Maiden Card in the vaults with the rest of his collection. Are there others in the castle?”
The Shepherd King shut his eyes—stayed silent a long moment—then laughed. A horrid, biting discord that echoed down the corridor. “Yes, dear boy. There are three Maiden Cards in Stone.”
“Where are they?”
He stepped back into shadow. “That, I cannot say. The castle is vast, the pink Cards scattered. You and my yellow girl must find the Maidens yourselves.”
Ione’s hands balled into fists. “Tell me where to look. Help me.” But the monster was gone, retreated back into shadow.
Ione screamed against closed lips, then ripped away from the cell back down the corridor. Elm followed a pace behind.
“I look forward to when we meet again, Princeling,” the Shepherd King called after him. “I have plans for you yet.”
Elm turned, but he was gone, his farewell the same eerie knell as his greeting. Click, click, click.
The journey back to the antechamber felt even colder. When they reached it, Elm caught Ione by the arm. The ire she’d displayed at the Shepherd King’s cell was gone now. There was nothing on her face.
“It’s important to you?” Elm murmured. “Getting your Card back?”
She hardly seemed to hear him. “If you think this is about beauty—that I am opposed to what the Maiden has done—you are wrong. If I could still feel what it is to like something, I would tell you that I like being beautiful. I like being healed by magic and having no pain. I like who I was and how I looked before the Maiden Card as well. What I aim to get back, Prince, is
my choice.”
When all Elm could do is stare at her, she sighed. “Go to bed—back to whatever it is you do with your time. I don’t want your help.”
“But you’ll need it, given that the castle is full of locks and I’m the one with the ring of keys.” He ran a hand down the back of his neck. “Actually, Ravyn has the keys, but technically they’re mine—”
“If this is about what happened on the forest road, our debt is settled.” “It’s not.”
“What, then?”
Elm bit the inside of his cheek. “I was a prick to Elspeth. Ravyn was falling in love with her, and I—” His eyes fell, his mouth turning with derision. “Let’s just say I’ve never had anything like that. I was too concerned with losing him to note that Elspeth was losing herself until it was far too late.”
He finally looked back at Ione. “I aim to be better. If you are disappearing like Elspeth did—and have little choice in the matter—I would like to help you.”
The lines and muscles of her face gave nothing away. But she startled Elm, raising herself to her toes to meet his eye. She hooked his chin with her thumb, and though Ione Hawthorn was so cold in all her expressions, her touch warmed him. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you aim to be better?”
“Because I have to be,” Elm said in one breath. “I care not what they say about me at court, even if it is that I’m a rotten Prince and a piss-poor Destrier.” He leaned closer. “But I do want it said, loud enough so everyone hears, that I am nothing like Hauth.”
