Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(51)

The Junipers bowed to Elm, the daughter taking an extended glance, and went down the stairs.

“I need to look at the King’s contracts,” he said to Baldwyn, keeping his voice low. “His marriage contracts in the last month.”

“Any particular reason, sire?”

Elm fixed his mouth with a false smile. “If I’m expected to wed, I’d like to understand the business end of things.”

Baldwyn opened his mouth to respond, but another family came up behind Elm. “Announcing Sir Chestnut and his son, Harold.”

The Chestnuts bowed. Elm greeted them with a flick of his wrist and kept his eyes on Baldwyn. “Well, little man? Where can I find the contracts?”

“I keep them in the record chamber off the library, sire.”

“Brilliant.” Elm turned to leave—

“It’s locked, Prince Renelm.”

Elm heaved a sigh. “As to that. What did Ravyn do with the keys when he left?”

“You mean your keys, Highness?”

“Yes. My bloody keys.”

Baldwyn cleared his throat as another family came up. “Announcing—”

Elm put a finger in his face. “The keys.”

Baldwyn blinked down at his finger, momentarily cross-eyed. “I—the Captain left them with Physician Willow. But that’s not a Physician’s job, and Captain Yew had no business—”

“You’re testing me, steward.”

Baldwyn reached for his belt, brass clanging. Elm held out his hand, clamping his fingers around the iron ring that housed dozens of keys. “Much obliged.”

He pushed through the families crowding the landing, never minding that they were all watching him. But the glee of embarrassing Baldwyn dissipated the moment Elm got to the record chamber. He hadn’t thought to ask which key opened it.

Ten minutes later, he was still locked out. “Clever indeed,” he muttered though his teeth. Ravyn would have known which key was right. Well, bloody good for Ravyn. Must be nice, having all that control, never shouldering a father’s disappointment, never making a complete ass of yourself with a woman in the cellar—

A small brass key slid into place, and the lock clicked open. Elm kissed the key and immediately regretted it, remembering too late the ring had been fastened to Baldwyn’s belt.

He crept into the chamber. There were cabinets—stacks of drawers—filled with parchment bearing the King’s seal. He discovered property deeds and knighthoods. Detailed histories of Providence Cards and who owned them.

Then, finally, marriage contracts. Something Elm hadn’t spent five minutes of his entire life considering.

There were so many of them. Hundreds. Which shouldn’t have been a surprise. People got married all the time. But a Prince—a High Prince—wasn’t people.

And neither was Hauth. It took Elm all of two minutes to spot the King’s seal in the pile. He dug with hurried fingers, the smell of parchment filling his nose. He pulled the contract free, his eyes stilling on a name. Ione Hawthorn.

He read the contract, his gaze running over repeated words. Providence Card, Hawthorn, marriage, heir.

He froze and read it again. Then again. For every time he read it, the corners of Elm’s mouth lifted until a smile unfurled.

He didn’t put the contract back with the others. He slipped it under his tunic and left the room, keys jingling. And because he was a rotten Prince, and a piss-poor Destrier at that, Elm didn’t lock the door behind him.





Chapter Twenty-Six

Elspeth





You vile, traitorous SNAKE.

Tether yourself, dear one, the Nightmare said, unaffected. It’s only hair.

I was in a new darkness. Not the long, empty shore, but a room—trapped inside it. I couldn’t feel my body, my hands and legs somewhere far away, numb to me. I was but a presence, my voice the only thing it seemed I could control.

Much like the chamber at the edge of the meadow, my room had no door, only a window—a hole in the darkness. But it was enough. I could see what the Nightmare saw now.

And what he saw was Ravyn.

He was walking with Jespyr ahead of the Nightmare, following a deer path through a wide glen. Light caught his black hair, lightening it like the sheen on a wing. His posture was tight but not entirely rigid. He kept one hand on the hilt of his sword while the other, ungloved, ghosted over the glen, brushing over foxtails and barley grass.

He was alive. Beautiful and alive.

And I could not touch him.

The Nightmare had not let Ravyn back into our shared mind since yesterday, upon that muddy lakeshore. It was midday now, and the party walked at a languid pace. The sun hid behind the oppressive gray of the mist. But to me, against the desolation of that lone, dark beach, the world seemed full of color. Even the mist, pale and unfriendly, glistened anew, the wood welcoming me back with greens and blues and yellows and reds.

So this is what it was like for you, I said to the Nightmare, half marvel, half horror. Trapped. Forced to see and hear everything I showed you.

He made a low hum. Ravyn turned at the noise, shooting the Nightmare a look that could freeze a hot spring. I couldn’t see the face the Nightmare made in response, but I felt the satisfaction that stole over his thoughts. He liked to stoke Ravyn’s ire. Of that I had no doubt.