Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(63)

The door groaned, ancient, heavy. Elm’s father kept many things in Stone’s vaults. The histories of Rowan Kings. Gold.

Providence Cards.

The Shepherd King had said there were three Maiden Cards in the castle. One of which, Elm was certain, was here, in his father’s collection.

Like all the dark, cold places of Stone, the vaults felt dead to Elm. Shadows dogged him, memories and echoes. A shiver ran up his back, the old bruises on his knuckles stinging with new life. “My father’s collection should be near,” he said, the yawning space throwing his voice back at him—a thin, distorted echo.

The floor was cluttered and ill lit. Ione’s foot caught against a wooden chest. She swore, stumbling. When Elm offered her his hand, she glared down at it a moment. It was too dark to tell if there was a flush in her cheeks. But when Elm pulled her toward him, lacing their fingers together, he felt one in his own.

The King kept his Cards in a box as old as the castle itself. Cold, iron-forged—locked. Only three keys existed. His father had one. Aldys Beech, the treasurer, had another. And Elm, the second heir, a reluctant keeper of keys, had the third.

He handed Ione the torch and fumbled through the ring of keys. When he found the correct one, he slid it into the box. The latch ground to a slow, steady open.

Providence Cards waited inside, so seemingly innocent, as if men had not coveted and fought and stolen for them. They weren’t all there. The Scythes were with the Rowans. Hauth’s Scythe was in his chamber, along with the Nightmare Card. The Destriers had the Black Horses.

And of course, the Deck would always be incomplete without the Twin Alders Card.

“If Hauth was smart about hiding your Maiden, he’d have forced you put it somewhere you could not access alone. Does any of this look familiar?”

Ione cast her gaze around the vaults. “No.”

“I’m going to pull out the Prophet.” Elm glanced down at the box full of Cards. “There is a Maiden Card in there, too. If it is yours, and I reach in and touch it—”

“The magic will stop.”

“Is that what you want?”

Ione said nothing. She reached into the box. When she pulled out a pink Maiden Card, Elm heard her suck in a breath. It did something distressing to his chest, watching her shut her eyes as if she were bracing herself for something terrible. Once, twice, thrice, she tapped the Card. Everything went silent.

And Ione Hawthorn looked as she ever did. Unbearably beautiful. Unreachable.

It was the wrong Maiden Card.

Elm’s stomach dropped. Ione said nothing. If she felt disappointment, it didn’t show on her face. She simply handed the Maiden to him and watched, impassive, as he placed it back into the box.

Elm retrieved the Prophet, then the Mirror, and shoved them into his pocket. “It was a long shot.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. “Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m cold,” he ground out, slamming the box shut and locking it. “And I hate it down here.”

“Is there any place in Stone you don’t hate?”

“No.” Then, “The library, maybe.”

This time, Ione offered her hand. “Let me guess,” Elm said. “When you’re free of the Maiden, and all the feelings come back, you worry you won’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t take pity on the trembling, rotten Prince.”

“Trees, you’re annoying.” She gripped his hand tight enough to still Elm’s tremors. “Now tell me how to get to the library.”





Ione’s eyes went wide when they stepped through the double arched doors. Her chin tilted up, her hazel gaze lifting in curiosity to the towering library shelves and limestone pillars and that high, arched ceiling. It struck Elm with a feeling he hadn’t yet worked out, that she’d brought him there to make him feel better.

She shouldn’t be trying to make him feel anything—not with her affections locked away. But what Elm had suspected before, he was growing more certain of.

There were some things not even magic could erase.

The library wasn’t empty. But the long mahogany table in front of the fireplace was. Elm’s stylus and sketchbook were still splayed on the floor from yesterday. He collected them and slid into a chair with his back to the flames. Ione took the seat next to him.

Elm opened his sketchbook. He had nothing to draw. But he needed to keep busy, at least until the tight, oppressive buzzing in his hands—his chest and feet—became more tolerable.

He ran the stylus in long, sweeping strokes over the paper, pressing too hard, indenting several pages. “I’m sorry. I get like this, sometimes,” he said, frowning at his hands. “At Stone.”

Ione’s silhouette was a soft specter in his periphery. She swept her hand over his sketchbook, a finger trailing the frayed ends of all the pages he’d ripped out. “It must be difficult, being here without your cousins. Being forced to take your brother’s place as heir.”

Elm’s eyes shot to her face. “How do you know about that?”

“You stood in Hauth’s place in the throne room. Sat in his chair in the great hall. I should think it obvious.”

“The King hasn’t announced it yet.” Elm pushed hair from his eyes. “He’s waiting.”

“For what?”