Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(18)

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, Highness.”

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.