Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(35)

Chapter Nineteen

Ravyn





The journey from Stone to Castle Yew was a two-hour ride. They made it in nearly half the time. Better to ride fast and let the wind fill Ravyn’s ears than suffer another word out of the Nightmare’s mouth.

The Yews had always said their home was haunted. That the stone figures in the statuary wandered at night and the images threaded into Castle Yew’s tapestries shifted one day to the next. That the torches flickered with no draft to shake them and the wood floors groaned out the name of whoever tread upon them.

The castle was eerie, though never terrifying. If anything, the spectral estate made Ravyn’s family laugh. They joked that the ghosts had grown so bored by the house’s current occupants that they’d been driven to restlessness.

But if there were ghosts in Castle Yew, they weren’t starved for sport now. The house seemed to freeze, unearthly still, when the creature with yellow eyes stepped through the door.

The Nightmare strolled into the castle ahead of Ravyn and Gorse. He wove his fingers together, pressing them until the joints popped. His yellow eyes drifted toward the great hall, up wood panel walls, to the vaulted ceilings. Then, with an unimpressed sigh, he slipped down a corridor and disappeared.

Gorse grunted and retreated to the east wing, where the Destriers stayed when they came for training.

Ravyn’s parents and their steward, Jon Thistle, hurried out of the great hall. His mother Morette’s gaze was wide. “Was that—”

“Yes.” Ravyn stripped his gloves and threw them onto the floor. “The one and only Shepherd King. Save yourself the agony of speaking with him. He’s remarkably vile.”

“I might be, too, after living five hundred years,” muttered Thistle.

Ravyn glanced to the dark stairwell. “Jes and Emory? They arrived safely?”

“They’re resting upstairs.”

“It’s happening, then.” His father, Fenir, had eyes that were like Jespyr’s—warm, deep brown. They searched Ravyn’s face. “The King has released Emory—for good? He’ll be safe on Solstice?”

Ravyn gave a curt nod.

“Which means King Rowan has decided Elspeth’s blood will unite the Deck.”

Morette’s voice was soft. But the weight of her words slammed into Ravyn so hard he found himself biting down. He turned away from his parents, back out Castle Yew’s doors. “Emory and Elspeth will be safe on Solstice,” he said—to them, to himself. “I’ll see to it.”





The short walk to the armory felt longer, quieter, without Elm at Ravyn’s side.

He found Petyr and Wik Ivy—his trusted highwaymen—arguing over a whetstone. Their eyes lit when he told them he, Jespyr, Gorse, and the Shepherd King were leaving the next morning for the Twin Alders. Wik didn’t wait to be asked, he volunteered straightaway to join. “Gotten fond of pinching ole Providence Cards,” he said, a few gaps in his smile for teeth lost in brawls.

“It won’t be like stalking the forest road and ambushing caravans,” Ravyn warned. “The wood we travel into—no one’s been there for centuries. I don’t know what awaits us.”

“Don’t worry, Captain.” Petyr patted Ravyn’s back hard enough to make him cough. “We’ll hold your hand when you get scared.”

Ravyn spent the remainder of the day in Emory’s room, reading to him, keeping the fire warmer than it needed to be just to see a flush in his brother’s face. Only after dusk had fallen and Jespyr taken his place at their brother’s bedside did Ravyn go looking for the Nightmare.

He was in the meadow, near the ruins tucked away behind Castle Yew’s unkempt gardens, swathed in mist and sunset’s usual grayness. He sat in grass beneath the shadow of a yew tree, his eyes distant.

He cradled something in his lap. “You’ve been digging,” he murmured.

Ravyn glanced at the chamber at the edge of the meadow. “I found your sword.” And your bones.

“So the thief becomes a grave robber.” The Nightmare’s gaze dropped to his lap. “You might have availed yourself of this, too. I imagine it has some value yet.”

Ravyn stepped forward, his brow lowering. He realized the thing cradled with delicate care upon the Nightmare’s lap—

Was a crown.

A golden crown that had long lost its sheen. Caked in soil, its markings were difficult to discern, though it seemed to have the same intricate, woven design as the hilt of the sword Ravyn had pried from the chamber’s earthen floor.

As if reading his thoughts, the Nightmare looked up. “Where is it—my sword?”

“In my room.”

“I’d like it back.”

Ravyn returned to the castle. When he trudged back into the meadow, he threw the Shepherd King’s sword onto the grass. “I’m not a bloody grave robber.”

The Nightmare unfurled a single finger and traced the blade’s hilt. Wind whispered through the yew trees, and Ravyn looked up. If he tapped his Mirror Card and waited, he was certain he’d see Tilly, watching them. Waiting.

“I met your daughter. The one with braids in her hair and eyes like yours. Tilly.”

The Nightmare’s shoulders tightened. He kept his eyes on the sword. “You’d be wise not to use the Mirror Card so recklessly, Ravyn Yew. To see beyond the veil is a perilous thing.”