Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(26)

Ravyn ripped his hand out of his brother’s grasp. The moment their hands separated, Emory’s magic fled his senses. His eyes returned. Glassy. Filled with tears. “What happened?” he asked, shaking.

It took all of Ravyn’s years of practice to keep his face even. “Nothing, Emory.”

“Did I—did I say something?”

Emory’s magic had never been a gift. To family, it was unnerving. To strangers, terrifying. A single touch, and the boy could read a person’s deepest thoughts—their fears and desires—their shadow-laden secrets—their futures. It didn’t matter how deeply it was buried, there was nothing Emory could not see.

It took the life out of him, using his magic. Whatever life that still remained.

Ravyn wrapped an arm under his brother’s ribs and lifted him from the bench, careful not to graze his skin again. It took hardly any strength to lift him.

Emory’s head slumped forward. His eyelids drooped, his words a raspy whisper. “I’ve forgotten...Where are we going?”

Ravyn clenched his jaw and kicked open the door to his brother’s prison. Had the lantern on the table been lit, he would have smashed it onto the floor and cast the room into flame. “Home, Emory. I’m taking you home.”

The boy weighed no more than a large saddle. But the stairs were long. By the time they met Jespyr in the east corridor, Ravyn was out of breath, a sheen of sweat upon his brow.

Emory was asleep. Jespyr gasped when she took him in her arms. “He’s little more than a reed.”

Ravyn turned away. If he looked too long at the tears in his sister’s eyes, his own might fall. “Take him to Castle Yew. Go now. I’ll be there shortly.”

Jespyr did not linger. She turned west, slipping through a servants’ door. Ravyn listened to her heavy steps until they were gone, then heaved a breath and straightened his cloak. He didn’t look back at the stairs to Emory’s room. It, nor any other part of the King’s castle, had earned a single farewell from him.

Ravyn uttered one nonetheless. “Fuck you.”





Chapter Fifteen

Elm





Shadows in the corridor loomed, only to scurry away. They seemed taller in the witching hour, dawn mere hours away. Elm rubbed his eyes and blinked. He needed sleep—badly. He opened his mouth to ask Ione if the Maiden kept her from feeling tired when footsteps sounded down the corridor.

Ione shoved him into a doorway. Elm’s ribs collided with an iron doorknob, and he let out an abrupt breath. “That,” he seethed, “hurt.”

The echoing footsteps grew softer. Whoever it was, Physician or guard or servant, they were not coming their way. Ione stood rigid, waiting. Torchlight caught the bridge of her nose, the heart-shaped curve of her lips, the soft line of her throat and the shadow where it hollowed.

Elm looked away.

Only when the corridor was quiet again did Ione acknowledge him. “Sorry. I forgot. You’re delicate.”

“Yes I am. I should be abed, resting by delicate body.” He waved his bruised knuckles in front of her face. “Not all of us have a Maiden Card to heal our mortal carcasses into perfection.” He looked at her hands. “That cut. Did you feel pain?”

Every part of Ione’s face was closed to him. “Yes. It takes a moment for the Maiden to heal me. When it does, it feels good, euphoric even, not to be in pain.”

“Sounds nice.”

“You could have a Maiden if you wanted.” She slipped out of the doorway, her steps silent as she continued down the corridor. “You’re a Rowan. Don’t you take whatever you fancy?”

“Clearly not, when all I fancy is a proper night’s sleep.”

“It was your idea to go to the dungeon.”

“And a brilliant one, considering Elspeth has the happy ability to see Providence Cards by color—even at a distance.”

Ione skittered to a halt. “She does?”

“Indeed.” Elm picked at his fingernail. “Rather handy. Especially for you.”

“How so?’

Elm shot her a pointed look. “You asked for free rein of the castle, yet failed on numerous occasions to specify where in Stone your Maiden Card resides. Which has led me to one rather interesting conclusion.” He cocked his head to the side. “You don’t know where your Maiden is, do you, Hawthorn?”

Ione drew in a breath, then continued down the corridor. “How exhausting it must be, wanting everyone to know how clever you are, Prince.”

Elm caught up with her in two strides. “But you’re still using the Maiden’s magic. If anyone else had touched it, your connection would be severed.” He leaned over her, his voice tipped with satisfaction. “Which means you’re the one who misplaced it.”

A frown ghosted over Ione’s brow. She didn’t look at him. Not in the way she normally didn’t look at him—too indifferent to bother. This time, she seemed intent not to meet his eye.

“What happened? Celebrate a little too hard on Equinox? Put your Maiden Card in a flowerpot and waltz away?”

“Something like that.”

Elm chuckled to himself. “No shame in it. Spirit knows I haven’t spent an Equinox sober in”—he counted on his fingers—“some years.”