Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(22)

“Elm stays here.”

He froze at the door. “He’s my right hand.”

“And my second heir.” The King sank into his bed. “I cannot risk him to the same danger that broke Hauth.”

“The Ni—Elspeth—she wouldn’t hurt him.”

The King barked a laugh. “Even you don’t believe that.”

Ravyn clenched his jaw, combing his mind for a deception that would bend the King’s will. But the words didn’t come. His mind was brimming with fog, lost to exhaustion, so tired it hurt.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Elm won’t like being left behind.”

“He’s a Prince of Blunder. What he likes is of no consequence.”

Ravyn was not about to tread headfirst into the mist—into the unknown—alone with a five-hundred-year-old monster hell-bent on righting the wrongs of the past. He needed someone to watch his back.

Someone who had always watched his back.

“Jespyr,” he said, unyielding. “I’ll need my sister.” It cost him, but Ravyn lowered his head. “Please.”

The King was silent a moment. When he finally consented, it came as a low grunt. “Fine. Take another Destrier as well. Gorse.”

Ravyn brooked no argument. He gave a curt nod and opened the door.

“You’ll get your wish,” the King called after him. “When this is all over, I’m stripping you of command.” His words were coated in spite. “You’ve proven a wretched disappointment, Ravyn.”

Ravyn lowered himself at the door, a final bow. “From you, Uncle, that is praise indeed.”





Chapter Twelve

Elm





Elm caught Filick before the Physician got to the main stairwell. He had to hold the galley railing to keep himself upright, so tired his knees had begun to buckle.

Filick took a deep breath. “The King is in a foul mood.”

“I’ve seen worse.” Elm ran a hand over his face. “Did you see where they put Hawthorn? Don’t tell me those idiots took her to the dungeon.”

The Physician yawned. “She’s on the servants’ floor, I think.”

“Did you send her a Physician?”

“What for?”

“Her hands. Erik tore them open.”

Filick blinked, shook his head. “You’re mistaken.” When Elm’s mouth dropped open, the Physician gave a stiff laugh. “I assure you, her hands were perfectly intact when I saw her.”

“I assure you, there was a wound. A bad one.”

“Likely someone else’s blood.” Filick put a hand on Elm’s shoulder. “Get some sleep, Prince. I promise, Miss Hawthorn is safe and well.”

Elm watched Filick disappear down the stairs into darkness, his thoughts straining against fatigue. He couldn’t have imagined it—not the cold sting of Ione’s iron chains, nor the curling dread he’d felt at the sight of her maimed palms.

The feeling of her hands, pressing into his chest.

Elm’s eyes shot to his doublet. He half expected to see nothing. But when he looked down, they were there. Even in the black fabric, a stain remained.

Two bloody handprints.





The castle guards stationed on either side of the fifth door of the servants’ wing made it easy to discern where the Destriers had stashed Ione. When Elm approached, the guards stepped into shadow and lowered their gazes.

He banged on the door, then swore for the bruises on his knuckles. “Open up, Hawthorn.” When no one answered, he slapped the knotted pine. “Hawthorn!”

“She’s locked in, sire,” said the guard on his left, offering Elm a small brass key.

Elm weighed it in his palm. He’d always told Ravyn he looked like a jailer with his ring of keys. When actually it was Elm’s—the second Prince’s—duty to carry the castle keys. And Ravyn, like in so many other things he did, carried the iron ring so that Elm didn’t have to.

“Off with you,” he said to the guards. He waited for them to hurry away and slid the key into the lock.

The door creaked open, the room lit by a single glass lantern. The smell of wool and fresh kindling filled Elm’s nose. He shut the door, something shifting in his periphery.

“Trees,” he said, whirling, “what are you—”

Ione Hawthorn stepped out of shadow, coming so close to Elm his spine crashed against the door. She held out a finger and poked it with impressive force into his chest, emphasizing each word. “What. Was. That?”

The intensity in her eyes startled Elm. She was no taller than his shoulder—his clavicle, really—but that didn’t make her any less frightening. There was a quiet fury in Ione Hawthorn. The Maiden did a good job of masking it, or tempering it, but it was still there.

Perhaps there were some things not even magic could erase.

“Careful with that finger, Hawthorn. I told you, I’m delicate.”

“What you are is a damn idiot.” She stepped back. “My father—what he said during the inquest. That was you, wasn’t it? You and your Scythe.”

Hair fell into Elm’s face. He blew it back with a hot breath. “Not my finest work, I’ll admit,” he said, a touch defensive. “Then again, I usually don’t have to fight against a Chalice to get people to do what I want.”