The great hall was full of light, drenched in the aroma of herbs and butter- glazed foods—perfumes and wine. Laughter bounced against its ancient walls, and music tangled in tapestries, pirouetting around pillars and knotting itself in skirts. But just a wall away, past great iron doors, another hall waited. One devoid of color, of smell, of sound, its only adornment a looming chair made from the hardy wood of rowan trees. Besides the dungeon, it was Elm’s least favorite part of the castle.
The throne room.
“Open it,” Ravyn said to the sentries guarding the door.
The hinges groaned like waking beasts. Elm kept his eyes forward, gritting his teeth, their steps echoing in the cavernous room.
There were twin hearths, one on each side of the throne room. Both were lit, roaring with smoldering logs, their flames casting long, jumping shadows across the stone floor. Between the hearths was a dais. Upon it, King Rowan sat on his throne, his face shadowed by a heavyset brow. He wore his crown—gold, forged to look like twisting rowan branches—and a matching gold cloak with fox fur at its collar. There were no seats beside the throne on the dais—no one equal to the King. King Rowan’s only companions were three enormous hounds, whose dark, unblinking eyes traced the room.
The King watched them approach. In his right hand was a silver goblet.
In his left, a Scythe.
Destriers lined the walls, lost in shadow. Wicker and Gorse were among
them.
Ten paces from the dais, Linden let go of Ione’s arm. She stood in the heart of the throne room, shoulders even, her hair catching fingers of firelight.
Ravyn and Elm stood behind her.
The King leaned into his throne. “Come,” he growled, ushering Ravyn forward to his usual place on the left side of the throne. Ravyn stepped onto the dais, his arms folded tightly behind his back. The King watched through narrow eyes, then turned his gaze on Elm. “And you.”
Elm blinked and didn’t move. He wasn’t the High Prince. His place had always been on the perimeter—lost in the shadow of the hearth with the rest of the Destriers. “What?”
“There is a vacancy at my side,” the King said. “Fill it. Unless you, too, would like to submit to the Chalice.”
Elm stumbled forward. He positioned himself on the right side of the throne and tried not to think of the hundreds of times Hauth’s boots had scored the stones beneath his feet. He glanced over his father’s head at Ravyn, who stood entirely still.
Elm straightened his shoulders and pressed his lips together in a firm line. But his tolerance for stillness was less evolved than Ravyn’s. Even when he imagined himself perfectly still, his boot tapped. When he willed it to stop, his fingers twisted in his sleeve. When he bound them into fists, his head filled with the gnawing sound of his molars grinding together.
The King stared down at Ione. “I see Renelm did not put you in chains.”
Ione’s eyes flickered to Elm. “His methodology is dissimilar to your other son’s, Majesty.”
“Indeed.” The King looked out over the Destriers. “Shackle her.”
A Destrier next to Gorse stepped forward, a chain rattling in his hands. He took Ione’s wrists, first one, then the other, roughly locking the cuffs in place. When he let go, the weight of her iron restraints rounded Ione’s shoulders.
Elm’s stomach constricted.
A guard brought forth a tray, a crystal goblet filled with wine upon it.
Linden took the goblet in one hand. With the other, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a Chalice Card.
“Bring them in,” the King barked, making Elm jump.
The throne room door opened once more, the echoes of rattling chains abounding. Jespyr and three other Destriers stepped forward, bringing two men with them. One was tall with dark, graying hair and piercing blue eyes he refused to lower. The indefatigable Erik Spindle.
The other prisoner was shorter. His hair was thinning and his clothes ragged. There were bruises on his face and he walked with a limp. Tyrn Hawthorn did not look at his daughter, nor the King. His gaze remained low. Elm winced at the sight of him, Tyrn’s defeat—his sorrow and shame
—wafting, fetid, through the throne room.
The Destriers planted Erik and Tyrn on either side of Ione and stood in a line behind them. Jespyr looked up at Elm from behind Erik’s back. Her face was drawn, her jaw strained. Still, she shot him a wink—a brief reassurance.
King Rowan’s voice cut through the room. “Elspeth Spindle is charged with high treason for carrying the infection.” The throne groaned, the King’s fingers white as he clung to the armrests. “Furthermore, she is charged with the slaying of Physician Orithe Willow and the attempted murder of my son, High Prince Hauth Rowan. Of these crimes, I have found her irrevocably guilty, and sentence her to death.” He let out a slow, venomous breath. “It is my intention, through this inquest, to learn how much I should attribute these crimes to you, her kin.”
Tyrn let out a low whimper, earning looks of disgust from the Destriers along the wall.
The King continued, his malice thinly veiled. “Tyrn Hawthorn, Erik Spindle, Ione Hawthorn. You have been summoned to Stone, charged with treason for aiding Elspeth Spindle. You committed this treason knowingly, and with full understanding of the law, which states that all infected children—for the safety of our kingdom—be reported to my Physicians.” The King shifted on the throne, his voice lowering. “You shall submit to an inquest, the depths of your crimes measured by myself, my Captain, your Prince, and the Destriers. When your wives and children are discovered, they shall do the same.” He tapped his Scythe three times. “Drink.”
Linden brought the crystal goblet forward. Tyrn Hawthorn resisted the Scythe’s magic, his hands shaking as he tried not to reach for the goblet. When he finally succumbed and drank, two Destriers had to shove his mouth shut to keep the wine from spilling out.
Linden flipped the sea-blue Chalice Card in his fingers, tapping it three times.
The goblet passed to Ione, who took its stem in both hands. She shut her eyes and raised it to her lips, strands of yellow hair falling from behind her ears, covering her face like a veil. She lowered the cup, a drop of wine lingering on her bottom lip. When she opened her eyes, her hazel gaze was sharp—focused.
And aimed directly at Elm.
There was no need for a Nightmare Card—Elm knew what she was thinking. I saved your life. Now it’s your turn to save mine.
Erik stared straight ahead and drank from the goblet, his features stony.
The King tapped his Scythe thrice more and stowed it away in his pocket. “Let us begin.” His green eyes shifted to Tyrn. “Have you always known of your niece’s infection?”
A low, ugly sob escaped Tyrn’s lips. “N-n-n…” He choked on the word, his tongue mangling on the lie. “N-n-n-n-n-n…”
The King nodded at a Destrier, who came forward and backhanded Tyrn across the face.
Tyrn groaned, blood sliding out the corners of his mouth. Still, he tried to best the Chalice and lie. “N-n-n-n-n…”
The Destrier slapped him again. When the truth seemed to strangle him entirely, Tyrn took a swelling breath, defeated. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The King’s gaze turned hateful when it landed on Erik. Of all the betrayals he’d endured thus far, it was clear he felt this one the keenest. His former Captain of the Destriers—hiding an infected daughter. “Did you know of her magic, Erik? This ability she has regarding Providence Cards?”
Erik stood like a soldier, shoulders square, legs firm. He did not try to lie. “No, sire.”
The King’s eyes jerked down the line. “And you, Miss Hawthorn? Did you know of her magic?”
Ione stared up at the throne. “No.”
“No, Your Majesty,” Linden echoed, sounding too much like Hauth.
“Asshole,” Elm muttered, loud enough to earn him a sharp look from Ravyn and a familiar murderous glare from his father.
The King returned his attention to Erik Spindle. “Hauth carried a Scythe and a Black Horse nearly everywhere he went. And Orithe Willow was no
feeble-bodied fool. Did you train your daughter in combat?” “No, sire.”
“Then how—” A line of white spit formed along the King’s bottom lip. “How was a girl of her stature able to best them?”
“Whatever skills Elspeth possessed,” Erik said, “I was never witness to them. I saw little of her.” He turned to the side, his blue eyes burning into Tyrn. “She lived with her uncle.”
The King’s wrath returned to Tyrn. “I understand your wife and sons were conveniently absent from both Spindle and Hawthorn House when my Destriers came to collect them. Where are they?”
Tyrn’s shoulders began to shake. “I don’t know, Your Grace.”
The King leaned back into his throne. “You don’t know,” he repeated. “Perhaps I do not need them. After all, your daughter is here, within my clutches.” He peered down at Ione. “You are terribly brazen, Miss Hawthorn, to continue to use the Maiden Card I gifted you.”
Ione said nothing.
The King folded his hands over his lap. “Where are your mother and brothers—your aunt and cousins?”
Ione kept her eyes forward, unflinching. “I don’t know, sire.”
“But you knew Elspeth Spindle caught the fever. You knew it when my son pledged to marry you.”
“Yes.” Linden opened his mouth, but Ione cut him off. “Yes, Majesty.”
The King’s eyes blazed. “You agreed to marry Hauth, knowing you’d be tethering him to a family that carried sickness? You disgust me.”
“The disgust,” Ione said, her tone idle, “is mutual.”
Silence pierced the room. Even the hounds held still. Linden reached out, his hand an open palm, and slapped Ione across the face.
Elm went rigid, hands curled into fists so tight the fresh scabs along his knuckles split. Salt shot up his nose, into his mind. Don’t move, Ravyn warned. Stay right there.
The King drained his goblet. “Try again, Miss Hawthorn.”
Ione’s cheek was red only a moment where Linden had struck her. Then, slowly, the red blanched away, her skin perfect once more. “I never lied to Hauth about Elspeth. He did not ask me about my family. He did not ask me much of anything.”
The throne groaned under the King’s shifting weight. “Were you there
when she attacked him?” “No.”
“How did she come to be in a room alone with him?”
Someone shuddered down the line, drawing the King’s gaze. Tyrn. “Well?” the King barked.
Tyrn covered his eyes, wiping away tears. Or maybe he was simply trying to hide his face from Erik Spindle. “I—Prince Hauth, he wanted to speak—” He took a weak breath. “I brought Elspeth to the Prince, Majesty.” Up until that moment, Erik Spidle had been as good as glass—smooth, still. Now his entire body was directed at his brother-in-law, his blue eyes
filling with fire.
Elm’s pulse pounded in his ears. The hair on his arms prickled, the tension in the room so taut it might snap him. He dug his hand into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the Scythe and its familiar velvet comfort.
But his debt gnawed at him. I saved your life. Now it’s your turn to save mine.
It had to be now—now that she was under the Chalice—when the King would believe her. But Ione Hawthorn hadn’t given him exact instructions, only that she wanted enough freedom to roam the castle uninhibited.
In Elm’s vast experience, there was very little the Scythe could not make someone do. Despite the Chalice, he could make Ione tell a lie to save herself.
But there would be a cost. A lie was still a lie, and the Chalice repaid lying tenfold. It wasn’t long ago that he’d watched Elspeth Spindle vomit blood thick as mud, trying to lie under a Chalice.
No, he couldn’t make Ione lie; it was too risky. He would have to absolve her by proxy. The falsehood would have to come from someone else. Someone he could stomach sacrificing to the Chalice’s poison.
You, he said to himself, his gaze falling to Tyrn Hawthorn, his face still hidden in his hands. He tapped the Scythe in his pocket three times. You’ll do nicely.
When Elm felt the salt sting his nose, he pushed it outward, his green eyes narrowed, focused entirely on Tyrn Hawthorn. On what Tyrn wanted.
And Tyrn, so keen to hide his miserable face, kept the Scythe’s glassy deadness hidden behind his hands. Tyrn wanted to keep his daughter safe.
Wanted to absolve her.
Tyrn’s voice was loud, even behind the muffle of his hands. “My loyalty is to you and your family, my King,” he said. “Prince Hauth—I would never plot his injury.”
He choked on his words a moment. Elm kept his focus tight. Tell them what happened, he murmured into the salt.
“I delivered Elspeth to him because Prince Hauth promised he would handle her infection swiftly, without family dishonor. He said it was the only way to save Ione’s reputation.”
Now for the tricky part. Not an outright lie, but a mixing of truths. Something to keep Ione away from the hangman. Something that would slip into the King’s cracks and give him pause.
Lucky for Ione, Elm had years of practice learning the King’s cracks.
Tyrn coughed. When he spoke the words Elm compelled him to say, his voice was tight. “Please, sire. If you harm my daughter, everyone will know. She is beautiful, she is beloved. My family is gone—people will gossip. But if you let my Ione remain here, she will placate your court. Stop tongues from wagging. Keep people from knowing the truth of what happened to Prince Hauth.”
The King’s voice was ice. “And why should I wish to hide what happened to my son?”
Tyrn dropped his hands, revealing blurry eyes. “Because it was your fault. It was you who forged the marriage contract with a family that carried the infection. You who valued a Nightmare Card above all else.” His voice went eerily quiet. “You are just as much to blame for what happened to Hauth as my daughter is.”
The air in the cavernous room stilled. The King’s mouth was open, tiny red lines shooting across the whites of his eyes. On his other side, Ravyn was staring into Tyrn Hawthorn’s face, searching it. The Destriers shifted as they cast sidelong glances, their shadows dancing on the floor.
Ione stared at her father, slack-jawed.
The telltale agony—the one Elm knew far too well—of using the Scythe too long began. A shooting pain, needle-thin, slid through his head, starting near his temple, prodding deeper with each passing second. He blinked away the pain, but there would be no hiding it if his nose began to bleed.
He prayed this was enough to keep Ione alive—that the King was fearful
enough of rumor and dissent to stay his hand, at least until Elm could come up with a better plan. He tapped the Scythe three times and let out a long, ragged exhale.
Everyone was still focused on Tyrn. No one noticed Erik Spindle shift until the former Captain of the Destriers had shoved Linden and Ione aside and wrapped his chains around his brother-in-law’s throat.
The visage of the indefatigable spindle tree shattered into a thousand splinters. “You did this?” Erik said, voice breaking. “You gave Elspeth up?”
Tyrn’s face was turning red. “No more than you did.”
Linden drew a dagger. “Get back, Spindle.” When he stepped closer, Erik pivoted, far quicker than a man his age ought to be. He caught Linden’s wrist—twisted—and ripped the dagger from his hand.
“Where is she?” he demanded, the tip of the blade aimed at Linden’s throat. “Where is my daughter?”
There was a mad dash for the heart of the room. Elm launched himself off the dais the same second as Ravyn. Destriers swarmed, smothering the light from the hearths as they hurried past, plunging the throne room into shadow.
Jespyr got to Erik first. She dug her fists into his tunic, yanking him backward. Erik let loose a wordless cry and swung the dagger wildly through the air. Its blade found no purchase in a Destrier.
It caught Ione instead.
So sharp it made no sound, the dagger cut across Ione’s hands, cleaving the flesh of her palms.
The King barked orders, but Elm did not hear them. He was shoving Destriers—bashing against the sea of black cloaks—forcing his way into the tumult.
The throne room floor was marked in red. Ione slipped, caught between Tyrn and the two Destriers fighting to keep him still. They were crushing her. Elm shouted her name, then again, louder, panic-tipped. “Hawthorn!”
When she looked up, her eyes crashed into Elm’s. She managed to push away from her father. When she reached out, her fingers fell from Elm’s grasp, slick with blood.
“Come on,” he shouted. His muscles strained—shoulders sang in pain— every fiber of his strength spent reaching, reaching—
He caught the chain tethering Ione’s wrists. It was cold, heavy. Elm
wrapped his swollen fingers around it and pulled, squeezing Ione between Destriers, freeing her from the bedlam.
She crashed into his chest and pressed her head against his sternum. It rose and fell with Elm’s torrid breaths. When he reached for her hands, a hiss slipped through his teeth. Erik Spindle had cut his niece palm to palm, a long, ugly valley of red—of flesh and muscle.
Elm held her hands against his chest to stanch the bleeding, then reached into his pocket. The moment velvet touched his fingertips and salt pinched his nose, the world around him faded.
He imagined a crisp winter breeze, a frozen statuary. All was silent, all was still. The statuary was a perfect rendering of the throne room. Only, in his imagination, it, and everyone in it, was enveloped by ice—frozen.
The smell of salt grew stronger, biting at his mind. He ignored it, twirling the Scythe between his fingers. Ice. Stone. Stillness. Silence. “Be still,” he said to himself. “Be still.” He kept saying the words, willing the world around him to yield to his Scythe. Be still, be still.
BE STILL.
When he opened his eyes, the throne room was frozen in place. Erik— Tyrn—Ione—the Destriers—the King—all frozen, their eyes wide and glassy. Everyone but Ravyn, who turned to look at Elm. There was blood on his face.
The chaos had ceased. All was silent, all was still. All but for the blood that slid from Elm’s nose.
