Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(17)

Elm’s smile did not touch his eyes. He rolled his shoulder, and Ravyn’s hand fell. Because you’ve never been turned by a beautiful woman, have you, Captain?





Chapter Nine

Elm





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 hands 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 Hawthorne. 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.”