Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(62)

Petyr handed Ravyn his belt of knives—his satchel and sword.

Opal Hawthorn had retreated to the courtyard doors, wide-eyed, with her sons. “Castle Yew,” Ravyn said as he approached. “If this place ever proves unsafe, go to Castle Yew. My family will protect you.”

Opal nodded, but her gaze was lost over his shoulder. There were tears in her eyes once more. “And Elspeth?”

Ravyn’s voice was ragged. “I’m going to get her back. No matter the cost.”

The fort door groaned, and Petyr and Jespyr hurried through. Ravyn offered Opal his hand. He didn’t think her the sort of woman who would mind that his fingers were trembling.

She shook his hand. Squeezed it tightly. “Good luck.”

When Ravyn cast his eyes back into the courtyard, Otho was hurrying toward her sister. Hesis lay in the dirt, unmoving. Her mask was broken, shards of bone scattered around her. Blood trickled down her face.

“Nightmare,” he said through his teeth.

The monster laughed as he slipped out of the fort. “She’ll live. All I did was pay her back for breaking your nose.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“No. But Elspeth did.”





Chapter Thirty

Elm





Elm had not visited the catacombs beneath the castle since boyhood. Knuckles white, he held a torch in one hand and his ring of keys in the other, every bend along their journey begging him to flinch.

Not like Ione. Nothing seemed to frighten her—an interesting testament to the Maiden’s effects. No shadow was large enough, no room cold enough to shift her unsmiling expression.

Her latest dress must have been another loan. It was pale gray, with sleeves that billowed down to her wrists and a collar that choked just below her jaw. Shapeless vile drapery. Twice, she caught Elm looking at it. Twice, she reprimanded him with a scowl.

The third time she caught him, they were near the King’s private vaults. “Trees.” Her voice echoed against stone walls. “What?”

Elm cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

Ione’s eyes dropped to the bust of her dress. “Go on. Tell me how much you hate it. I know you’re dying to.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck and pinned his gaze on the path ahead. “You look good.”

“Good?”

“Good, Hawthorn.” He bit at a fingernail. “You always look good.”

A pause. Then a sharp, “What’s the matter with you?”

Elm’s eyes shot to her face. He thought he’d been hiding it well—all the discomfort of being in that cold, awful castle. The places Hauth had led him at the edge of a Scythe to toughen him as a boy. But before he could say anything, Ione added, “You’re being strangely nice.”

Ahead, Elm could see the yellow torches. The fortified doors. They were almost at the vaults. “I imagine there is an Ione,” he said, “buried somewhere in there, who might appreciate a little niceness from a Rowan.”

“Niceness.” She said the word slowly, as if to taste it. “I have no idea what that feels like anymore.”

“What did you use to feel? Before the Maiden.”

“Everything. In terrible, wonderful excess. Joy, anger, compassion, revulsion—” Her voice chilled on the word. “Love. I knew them all so well. When the Maiden began to dull them, it frightened me—but it was also a reprieve. After a lifetime of feeling things so keenly, the numbness felt good.” She heaved a sigh. “But even that went away. And nothing felt good, or bad, anymore.”

She looked out onto the path ahead. “But I think about who I was before the Maiden. I try to make the same choices I used to make. I need to be able to live with myself when this facade”—she gestured to her face—“comes crashing down.”

“What about killing those highwaymen? I doubt that’s a choice the old Ione would make.”

A muscled feathered in her jaw. “If you believe that you understand who I was before the Maiden, just because you once saw me ride through the wood with mud on my ankles, then you are not as clever as you think you are.”

Elm cleared his throat. “And what happened the other night in the cellar? Is that something you’ll be able to live with?”

Ione’s chest swelled, a beautiful breath—an up-and-down sweep not even that horrid dress could confound. “That depends on you, Prince. Are you truly nothing like your brother? Or are you simply a gifted liar?”

He frowned. “I haven’t lied to you.”

“No?” She glanced up at him. “Then answer again. Did you know Elspeth was infected before she was arrested?”

The lie slammed into Elm’s teeth. I knew nothing of that. Only this time, he swallowed it. He looked into those brilliant hazel eyes and did not flinch. “I’ve known since Equinox.”

Ione stilled. “You didn’t turn her in.”

Elm gave a sweeping bow. “As you’ve noted, Miss Hawthorn—I’m a rotten Prince and a piss-poor Destrier. Must have slipped my mind.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the vault. Two guards stood watch, stiffening at their posts, heads dipping in rushed deference. Elm flicked his wrist at the door. “Open it.”