Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(115)

“You’re about to find out,” the Nightmare said.

A light chased away some of the shadows in the room. There was crackling wood, warmth. All the while, Thistle did his best not to touch Ravyn’s wound as he cut away the clothes above his waist.

Somehow, Ravyn’s hand found the Nightmare’s wrist. He looked up, firelight catching those eerie yellow eyes. “The Deck?”

The Nightmare’s face was unreadable. “We’ll know soon enough.”

“The fire is going,” Jespyr called from the hearth. “Now what?”

“Warm your hands. Then come stand by me.”

Jespyr hurried to the side of the table a moment later. “He’s so pale.”

“I’m going to wrench the knife out of him. And you, Tilly—” The Nightmare bit the inside of his cheek. “Jespyr. Put your hands on his open wound. The rest of you, hold him down. If a petty thing like a broken nose can make him thrash, this certainly will.”

Jespyr tensed at Ravyn’s side. “You want me to...put my hands on his wound?”

The shadows around Ravyn were deepening, despite the fire. He was cold again, shivering. More tired that he had ever felt.

“I can hear his heart stumbling,” Emory whispered, voice breaking. “He’s going.”

Ravyn made a low groan and flinched, sending a new wave of agony up his body. “I’m all right.”

“Trees, you stupid pretender.” The Nightmare gripped Jespyr’s wrists—brought her hands near the dagger in Ravyn’s side. His father and Thistle gripped Ravyn’s legs, and his mother and Petyr moved to his shoulders. “Ready,” Morette said.

“Ready,” Fenir and Thistle echoed.

The Nightmare’s gaze collided with Ravyn’s. “Elspeth says she’s utterly sick of you.”

His voice was weak. “She didn’t say that.”

“No. She didn’t.” The words slipped out of the Nightmare’s mouth on a fine thread. “Time to be strong, Ravyn Yew. Your ten minutes are up.”

He ripped the dagger out of Ravyn’s side, and Jespyr pressed her hands into his wound. A pain such as Ravyn had never known swept into him.

The world went black.





When Ravyn woke, he was no longer in the great hall but in his bedroom, sweating beneath several layers of quilted blankets. He tried to sit up, but a firm hand on his chest kept him down.

Ravyn raised his gaze and caught his breath, a lump rising in his throat. “Elm.”

His cousin looked down at him, auburn hair a tousled mess, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “Now who’s the one who looks terrible?”

Ravyn started to laugh, but pain shot up his body, cutting it short. He put a hand to his side. He was shirtless, his entire abdomen wrapped in thickly padded linen.

He sat up too fast. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days.”

“Is the Deck—has the mist—”

Elm’s smile widened. He moved to Ravyn’s bedroom window. Drew back the curtains. “See for yourself.”

Blue sky met the smudged glass. Ravyn’s breath caught, sunlight pouring into his room. He’d never see the world in that color before. Yellow. Full of warmth. Of promise.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Ravyn felt dizzy—hollowed out. “Elm.”

His cousin raised his gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

Elm’s smile dropped. “What for?”

“I should never have left you at Stone.” Ravyn swallowed the lump in his throat. “I knew how much you hated it there, and I left you.”

Elm had barely opened his mouth to answer before the door burst open. Jespyr squealed, then hurtled toward Ravyn’s bedside. “Oh, thank the bloody trees, I’d thought I’d killed you.” She put her hand on his forehead—grabbed at his bandages. “Filick’s been to check on you. He said it was a miracle you didn’t bleed to death—”

“You’re elbowing his windpipe, nitwit,” Elm said, dragging her off. “Imagine how humiliated you’d be to kill him after bragging to everyone under the sun about saving his life.”

“That’s rich, seeing as you’ve been twirling that new Providence Card in everyone’s face for two days straight.”

They bickered—an old familiar song. Ravyn hardly heard it. His eyes were on another figure in the doorway. One who stood straight, with light in his gray eyes and warmth kissing his skin. Ravyn held out a hand. “Come here, Emory.”

A crooked smile slid over the boy’s mouth. He lunged for the bed—landing on Ravyn so hard it tossed the wind from his lungs. He groaned, mussing his brother’s dark hair. “You’re better.”

“I am. Three taps of that new Card, and look”—Emory reached out, pressed his bare palm against Ravyn’s cheek—“I can touch people. No visions. No magic. Blissful nothingness. Fit as a fucking fiddle.”

Jespyr feigned a gasp. “Emory. You can’t talk that way in front of the King.”

Emory jumped from Ravyn’s bed. Curtsied with an invisible skirt and bowed before Elm. “Apologies, Your Holiness.”

“It’s Highness, you little—”