Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(104)

His voice softened. “But then I saw him on Market Day. Holding my daughter. Wrapping her in his arms the way I’d once held Iris in mine. He was not the same man who’d taken my place as Captain.” Erik shook his head. “Because that Captain of the Destriers is not a man, only a mask. A show of Rowan might. And there will always be stronger things in this world than Rowan might.”

Elm shut his eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’ve never said any of it out loud. I wanted to see what it tasted like, being honest.”

“And?”

“Bitter.”

The corner of Elm’s bruised mouth lifted. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll take your confessions to my grave soon enough.”





The sound of coughing came from the next cell. “I can’t stomach this rot they feed us,” Tyrn Hawthorn wailed.

Erik paced, kicking his boots together every so often to keep his toes alive. “So starve.”

Tyrn’s platter of food ricocheted off the bars, an ugly knell that echoed through the dungeon. “You think I’m weak.”

“I know you are,” Erik answered.

“Would it surprise you that I’ve killed a man?”

Elm raised his brows. He’d tried to pace as well, but after an hour, he’d gotten sleepy. “A little.”

Tyrn’s voice went thin. “He was a highwayman. It was by chance that he and I traveled the forest road at the same time. When I saw the Nightmare Card’s burgundy velvet, peeking out from his sleeve, I didn’t think—I just ran him through and stole it.”

He rasped another cough. “I thought of him while I plotted a way for the Card to earn my family favor. But even when it did and Ione was engaged to the High Prince, I felt no joy, only fear of losing everything I’d gained. I betrayed Elspeth, because I was afraid that—” His voice began to wobble. “That if Ione didn’t become Queen, I’d be a murderer for nothing.”

Erik stopped pacing.

“So you’re right,” Tyrn said. “I am weak. My wife and children know it. Everyone knows it. I’m weak, and entirely bloodstained.”

Elm was drifting, near and far. “Welcome to the club.”





The clanging of a sword against the cell bars ripped Elm’s dream away. The cell door wrenched open. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was dragged along with Erik Spindle and Tyrn Hawthorne out of the dungeon up the long, winding stairs in a sea of black cloaks. He vaguely recognized the men whose fingers dug into his skin. Destriers. Not only the ones he’d trained with, but older ones, too.

The way their fists slammed into Erik’s stomach confirmed it. “Traitor,” they spat at him.

Erik said nothing. Unmoved, unwavering. Even Tyrn had the decency not to cry out when a Destrier shoved his face into the castle door.

Gray morning light made Elm wince, his eyes slow to focus. When they did, he saw that there was snow upon the ground.

Destriers, old and new, sat upon their mounts in the bailey, waiting.

At their lead, tall and broad and beautiful, Hauth wore their father’s crown and a deep blue doublet with a gold rowan tree embroidered across its chest. He spun his Scythe between his fingers and surveyed the prisoners down his nose. When his green eyes landed on Elm, he nodded. “Your misery is almost at an end, brother. The highwayman meets the hangman. But first—how about a ride into town?”

They strapped him to a horse like a newly slaughtered deer. Elm could only see the ground—the path directly beneath the animal’s legs.

Nearly all of it was covered in snow.

He felt every break, every bruise upon his skin expand on the journey into town. When the dirt road ended and the clacking knell of hooves against cobblestone met his ears, he knew they were on Market Street.

He strained against his tethers—tried to look up. There were red and gold ribbons, strewn over doorframes and lantern posts. “What day is it?”

Linden rode next to hm. He reached down—hit Elm over the back of his head with a club. His voice was a sneer. “Solstice.”

Elm’s vision tunneled, a sticky warmth sliding through his hair.

When he came to, the horses had stopped. Rough hands untied him—yanked him out of the saddle and set him on weak legs and screaming, frostbitten feet.

Castle Yew’s reaching towers loomed over him.

The castle door was open—not latched how Jon Thistle usually kept it. When the Destriers dragged Elm and Erik and Tyrn inside, the air was cold. Stale.

The knot in Elm’s stomach shot up into his throat. Something was horribly wrong.

Castle Yew was abandoned—its hearths left untended, the estate empty of laypeople, doors and windows left open despite the chill air.

“Take one last look, Renelm,” Hauth said. “At midnight, this creepy old place will make a proper Solstice pyre.”

They passed through the house and out the eastern doors into the gardens, stomping over shrubs and brambles until they were in the meadow near the ruins.

There were Destriers—six more of them, waiting. Morette and Fenir and Jon Thistle were with them. So was Emory. When they saw Elm, their chests heaved, tears turning Morette’s green eyes glassy.

Elm’s relief to see them lasted only as long as it took to take in their appearances. They were bruised, pale—shivering. They wore no cloaks against the chill. Emory was swaying on his feet, held up by his mother and father’s arms.