Pressed up against the dungeon wall, cold in the clutch of his Mirror Card, Ravyn watched Elm and Ione disappear down the dungeon corridor. He didn’t miss the strain in his cousin’s shoulders, nor the way Elm shadowed Ione. Alert. Attentive.
It wasn’t just balance. Elm was… entangled with her. Unguarded in the darkness of the dungeon, his face had been an open book. What Ravyn had suspected before the inquest hit him now like a blow. Elm. Ione.
Spirit and trees.
The Nightmare’s laugh drifted like smoke up the stone walls. You don’t approve, Captain?
It’ll wreck him if the King decides to kill her.
I imagine he thinks the same thing about you and this body I currently occupy.
Ravyn tore the Mirror from his pocket and released himself. He wanted the Nightmare to see the hate in his eyes. She has a name, parasite. Say it. Or don’t speak of her at all.
The Nightmare’s yellow gaze met his wrath, measuring him. Ravyn took a step back. As for Elm, you won’t get your hands on him. He won’t be coming with us.
What makes you think I’d hurt him?
Ravyn scoffed. He’s a Rowan. Descendant of the man who stole your throne and killed your kin. You’ve had five hundred years to imagine your revenge. His stomach turned as he looked at the old blood beneath the
Nightmare’s fingernails. Surely you want him dead.
I had plenty of time to hurt him. Only I didn’t. The Princeling sensed me
—saw my strange eyes—and recoiled. He understands, far better than you, Captain, that there are monsters in this world. He let out a long breath. My claws would find no purchase in a Rowan who is already broken.
When Ravyn’s rigid jaw didn’t ease, the Nightmare grinned. Above rowan and yew, the elm tree stands tall. It waits along borders, a sentry at call. Quiet and guarded and windblown and marred, its bark whispers stories of a boy-Prince once scarred.
His voice in Ravyn’s mind went eerily soft. And so, Ravyn Yew, your Elm I won’t touch. His life strays beyond my ravenous clutch. For a kicked pup grows teeth, and teeth sink to bone. I will need him, one day, when I harvest the throne.
 |
Ravyn had sent three notes after his talk with the King. The first was to Gorse, the particularly harsh Destrier the King had chosen to accompany them on the journey for the Twin Alders. Given the swiftness of his uncle’s choice, Ravyn was under no illusions that Gorse had been picked because he’d be particularly helpful. The Destrier was likely a spy—instructed to watch Ravyn carefully, and report on his actions the moment they returned to Stone.
Best of luck with that.
In the second note, addressed to Filick Willow, Ravyn had written—
The castle keys are in the cellar. See that Erik Spindle and Tyrn Hawthorn don’t freeze to death.
And in the third, addressed to Elm, Ravyn had penned a single, wobbly line.
I’ll see you soon.
Dawn was creeping upon them, the pressure behind Ravyn’s eyes reminding him that he had been awake for far too long. It seemed like a cruel joke that only a day had passed since he’d dug up the Shepherd King’s sword. It felt like a week ago.
He brought the Nightmare to the cellar off the stairs, with the stag
carved above its door, and waited outside for the monster to change out of Elspeth’s tattered dress. Somewhere above, the castle bell rang—five tolls.
When the Nightmare stepped out of the cellar, he was garbed head to toe in black—spare attire Jespyr had left behind. He looked as Elspeth had when they’d disguised her as a highwayman on their way to steal Wayland Pine’s Iron Gate Card.
A knot choked up Ravyn’s throat.
“Who will be joining us on our fair quest?” the Nightmare drawled. “Jespyr and another Destrier—Gorse. But first, we go to Castle Yew. I
need to know Emory is safe.” He rolled his neck, joints popping. “I aim to ask the Ivy brothers to accompany us as well.”
The knowing, mocking smile that so often snaked in the corners of the Nightmare’s mouth slipped. “Good. We’ll need at least one spare.”
“What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer. “This Destrier—Gorse. Can he be trusted?”
“No. The King bade me to bring him. The Spirit can eat him for all I care.”
The word King held an acidic note. It was not lost on the Nightmare. He pushed past Ravyn. “Careful, Captain. Your stony veneer is rubbing thin.”
Ravyn caught his arm. The Nightmare had pulled his—Elspeth’s—hair into a short plait. Ravyn blinked, tracing the plait once, twice, then a third time. “You cut her hair?”
The Nightmare jerked out of his grasp. “It was matted with blood.”
Ravyn peered back through the cellar’s open door. A pair of scissors sat upon the old wooden table. There were chunks of dark hair on the floor.
Whatever crossed his face stopped the Nightmare in his tracks. The monster peered through narrowed eyes, dropping his gaze to Ravyn’s knotted hands. “It will grow back,” he said slowly.
Ravyn pushed ahead without another word. When he passed a Black Horse tapestry, he ripped it off the wall with a violent yank, dusting his shoulders with mortar. He threw it to the ground, the iron rod striking stone with a loud clang. If he had known a way to rip the Shepherd King out of Elspeth and throw him on the floor, he’d have done that, too.
 |
The Destriers waited for him near the castle doors, shifting like nervous horses at the sight of the Nightmare.
Gorse stood apart, arms crossed over his chest, looking less than thrilled to be selected for the journey.
“I’m off on the King’s orders,” Ravyn said, his voice echoing against the walls. He locked his hands behind his back, sure to look each Destrier in the eye. “Keep to your patrols—your training. Do as you would had I remained.”
A Destrier in the back stepped forward. Oak. “Who shall we defer to in your absence, Captain?”
“Whichever Rowan—Elm or the King—sees fit to answer you.”
The Destriers exchanged glances. Linden spoke, the scars on his neck stark in the early light. “You’re not bringing Prince Renelm with you?”
“No.” Ravyn heaved a breath. “I will return as soon as I can. Be wary, Destriers. Be clever.”
“Be good,” the Nightmare mocked from behind his back.
They left on horseback. The Nightmare chose a black palfrey from the stable. When he mounted, the horse’s nostrils went wide, its skin rippling with noticeable distress. It reared, but the Nightmare kept his seat.
They tore through the bailey and over the drawbridge, first Gorse, then the Nightmare. Ravyn rode last. He allowed himself one final look at Stone. There were few people in the bailey—no one watched them ride away.
No one, save two tall men. One wore a golden cloak that caught the wind, and the other a plain black tunic. The King, and—
Ravyn’s stomach plummeted into his boots. Elm.
The Nightmare slowed his pace. When he looked back at Elm, his voice drifted in the air, oil and honey and poison. “Neither Rowan nor Yew, but somewhere between. A pale tree in winter, neither red, gold, nor green. Black hides the bloodstain, forever his mark. Alone in the castle, Prince of the dark.”
