Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(10)

“And you will use it to find the final Card for me?”

The Nightmare’s expression remained unreadable. “I will. So long as you honor your side of our bargain, Rowan. Have you released Emory Yew to his parents?”

The King’s hands knotted at his sides. “Tell me where the Twin Alders is, and I will release him tonight.”

The Nightmare perked a brow. “Very well.” He drew air into his nose. “Listen closely. The journey to the twelfth Card will three barters take. The first comes at water—a dark, mirrored lake. The second begins at the neck of a wood, where you cannot turn back, though truly, you should.”

The Nightmare’s gaze shifted to Ravyn. His words came out sharp, as if to draw blood. “The last barter waits in a place with no time. A place of great sorrow and bloodshed and crime. No sword there can save you, no mask hide your face. You’ll return with the Twin Alders...

“But you’ll never leave that place.”





Chapter Five

Elm





The forest road was dark, the wood swollen with water. When lightning cracked the sky, Elm pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and narrowed his eyes against the sting of rainfall.

Ione had not donned a cloak. Or shoes. Her feet and ankles peeked out from beneath her white dress, the fine fabric speckled by mud. She must have been cold, but she didn’t complain.

Her voice vibrated through her back, a delicate hum against Elm’s chest. He couldn’t make out her words over the noise of his horse. “What?”

“Is she all right?” Ione asked, louder this time. “Elspeth.”

Even saying Elspeth Spindle was alive felt less than true. “I don’t know.” Elm gritted his teeth. “Does it bother you that she tore your betrothed limb from limb?”

Ione kept her eyes ahead. “As much as it bothers you, I imagine.”

Hauth. Blood on the floor, blood on his clothes, blood all over his face. Yes, it bothered Elm. For all the wrong reasons. “Count yourself lucky you didn’t have to see what was left of him when she was through.”

They came to the crossroads, the forest road diverging. Elm veered the horse east, to the place he hated most in the world. Stone.

“When does the inquest begin?” Ione asked.

“Anxious for the Chalice, are we?”

“I’m not afraid of the truth.”’

Elm bent, putting his mouth near her ear. “You should be.”

“Yes. I imagine I should.”

He glanced down. He’d hadn’t spoken much to Ione Hawthorn. Most of what he knew about her, Elm had gathered in glances—many of which had been stolen.

Her face had always been easy to read, even from across the great hall at Stone. Her expressions were genuine, her smiles so unrestrained that Elm had almost felt sorry for her. That kind of naked authenticity had no place in the King’s court.

He’d always thought she was beautiful. But the Maiden—that useless pink Card—had curated her beauty until it reached unearthly perfection. Her hair and skin were without blemish. The gap in her front teeth was gone. Her nose was smaller. The Maiden hadn’t made her taller, hadn’t—thank the bloody trees—diminished any of her remarkable curves. But she was different than the yellow-haired maiden he’d watched smile at Stone. More controlled.

Colder.

His eyes raked over her. Had Elm not noticed the dip in her throat, the swell of her breasts as she breathed—the shape of her thighs beneath her dress—he might have kept his eyes on the road. Had he kept his eyes to the road—

He might have seen the highwaymen.

They wore cloaks and masks and stood in a line, blocking the road. Elm yanked the reins, pulling his horse to a stop. The animal whickered, then reared. Ione slammed into Elm’s chest and he put an arm around her waist, holding her firmly against him.

The first highwayman bore a rapier and several knives on his aged leather belt. The next held a shortbow, the arrow aimed at Ione’s head. The third, taller and broader than the other two, carried a sword.

“Hands in the air, Prince Renelm,” called the man with the shortbow. “Reach for your Scythe and I’ll shoot you both.”

Elm’s nostrils flared. Slowly, he slid his hands off Ione and raised them into the air. “Bold of you,” he said, appraising them. “Three is a small number to take on a Prince and a party of Destriers.”

“I see no party.” The highwayman with the sword kept one hand on his hilt and stepped to Elm’s horse, taking the animal firmly by the bridle. “You look alone to me, Prince.”

Elm said a silent curse for leaving Gorse and Wicker behind at Hawthorn House.

Ione was silent, her spine pressed firmly against his chest. Elm tried to lean back, afraid she’d feel the pounding of his heart—but there was nowhere to go. Smooth as a snake, Ione’s hand glided behind her, prying along the hem of his tunic near his belt.

Elm froze.

Ione tugged at the fabric, searching, icy fingers grazing over his lower abdomen, near the pocket along his hip.

The pocket where he kept his Scythe.

“Don’t you dare, Hawthorn,” he seethed into her hair.

The threat in his voice did nothing. In one smooth maneuver, Ione’s fingers were in his pocket, grasping his Card.