Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(70)

He eyed the pond narrowly. “Do you remember swimming on Equinox?”

“No. But my dress was ruined enough that I might have.”

“If I wanted to put a Maiden Card out of reach,” Elm said, gesturing at the statue, “I might compel someone to take a little swim to hide it.”

Her brows perked. “There?”

Elm was already taking off his boots. “No stone left unturned, Hawthorn.” He shrugged out of his doublet and lifted his tunic over his head. When he caught Ione tracing the bare skin along his back, he smiled. “Sorry.” He nodded at his discarded clothes. “I should have asked if you wanted to help with that.”

He dove into the pond. The water was cold and slippery with algae. Elm kept his eyes shut and kicked, reaching the island in ten strokes.

There was no room to stand, the island hardly larger than the base of the statue. Elm braced himself on Brutus Rowan’s marble arm and hauled himself out of the water, mist lingering all around him.

“Well?” Ione called.

He searched the statue’s cracks. Some were fine, others jagged. The was a fissure in Brutus Rowan’s chest, deep and wide enough for Elm to slip a finger into. But there was nothing in the gap—just cold stone. Not a single hint of a Providence Card’s velvet edge. “Nothing.”

He pulled his finger out, closed his fist, and hit Brutus Rowan over his stupid marble chest.

The statue groaned. The fissure in Brutus’s chest widened, spreading down his legs until one large crack became hundreds.

“Shit.”

Brutus Rowan’s marble legs snapped at the ankles and the statue toppled into the pond, taking Elm with it. He hit the water, pushed under by the weight of the marble, held his breath, and swam. When his back collided with the grassy embankment, he flung himself upon it, hauled in a breath—

Mist rushed into him.

It tasted of brine and rot. It filled Elm’s lungs, his body, his mind. He went rigid on the ground, his eyes wide as he fumbled for his wrist, for the familiar feel of horsehair—

His charm was gone. Lost, somewhere in the pond.

“Prince?”

Elm coughed. When he tried to speak, his voice was drowned out by another. It came in the mist, sounding near and far, like a storm. Elm, it called. Rotten, ruined Elm. Neglected, now chosen. I see you, heir of Kings. I’ve always seen you.

Ione was in the grass next to him, her hands on his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

A compulsion as strong as any Scythe’s was digging into Elm, telling him to get up—to run deeper into the mist. He gnashed his teeth against it, his mouth dried out by salt. “Charm,” he managed.

Ione ripped the chain off her neck in a single tug. Elm’s hand was a claw in the grass. Ione pulled it toward her and slapped her own hand against it, her charm fixed between their palms.

The next breath Elm dragged in was bereft of mist. On the next, the rot and brine fled his body. His muscles loosened, and he looked up at Ione.

Yellow hair spilled from its knot, swaying with the rapid pull of her breaths. She searched Elm’s face. “Prince Renelm. It would be terribly unclever to die searching for my Maiden Card.”

Elm tightened his grip on her hand. “Don’t call me that,” he said, shaking. “It’s Elm. Just Elm.”

“Is that the privilege I get after twice saving your life?”

He pushed out of the grass, leaning close enough to see where the freckles on her nose should be. “Thank you.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. “I owe you.”

Ione’s breath quickened. “You’re helping me find my Card. Call it balance.”

He didn’t. He wanted to call it something else entirely.

They held hands, Ione’s charm pressed between them, until they were out of the mist and back through the garden’s gilded doors. Elm had a spare horsehair charm in his room, and he needed new clothes before they continued to search. He was lacing a fresh doublet when his chamber door banged open.

Filick Willow stood at his threshold, eyes wide.

“Oh for the love of—Filick. I thought we talked about knocking.”

There was blood on his white Physician’s tunic. “Highness.” His gaze moved to Ione, seated on Elm’s bed. “Miss Hawthorn. You should both come.”

Elm’s back stiffened. “What’s happened?”

“High Prince Hauth.” Dread. There was so much dread in the Physician’s eyes. “He’s awake.”





Chapter Thirty-Three

Elspeth





The Nightmare watched Ravyn and Jespyr as they drifted to sleep.

Will they be safe in there? I asked. In the alderwood?

No.

Then you must keep them safe.

He lowered himself to a crouch, then slowly onto the ground. He hauled his sword onto his lap. I have not done well, guarding those I cherish.

When he slept, I waded through the darkness of his mind, his memories quick to find me.





I sat on the stone in the chamber I had built and looked up. The ceiling I had crafted as a younger man was weathered. Outside, the yew trees swayed, stirred by a chill autumn breeze. No dappled sunlight streamed between their branches.

There was only gray mist.

“Father?”