Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(93)

Ravyn pressed his lips together. “I remember. “

“You said to her, ‘Magic sways, like salt water on a tide. I believe the Spirit is the moon, commanding the tide. She pulls us in, but also sets us free. She is neither good nor evil. She is magic—balance. Eternal.’”

The wind in the meadow picked up. The Spirit’s voice grew louder. “I would have all of Blunder believe the same. And so, Ravyn Yew, my second offer to you is the throne.”

When Ravyn did not speak, a snarl touched the edge of her voice. “You have the makings of a great King. Measured, careful. Wary of balance. You need not go back to Stone and bow before your uncle—no more lying or stealing or pretending. Find your own virtue, keep your own rules.” She nodded at the Card in her claws. “Leave the Twin Alders Card with me, and I shall make you Blunder’s King in Quercus Rowan’s stead.”

“You do not have the power to do that.”

She was paces away, then suddenly—too close. Her silver eyes filled Ravyn’s vision, her claws pressing into his chest.

“You stand here, hundreds of years in the past, and speak to me of power?” The smell of salt was everywhere. “The Shepherd King was born with the fever because I deemed it so. His children were gifted magic by me. Brutus Rowan took the throne because I did not intervene. Kings and monsters can be made, and butterflies can be crushed. All that you know, I have created. I am Blunder—her infection, her trees, her mist. I am brimming with magic.”

“And yet you barter with a liar and thief, just to remain so.” Ravyn leaned forward, letting the tips of her claws press harder against his chest. “You are eternal. And you are magic. But I know as well as you that magic is the oldest paradox. The more power it gives you, the weaker you become. The Shepherd King taught me that.”

A low, scraping sound resonated in her throat. She pulled back. “You are determined, then, to overlook my generosity and take back the Twin Alders Card?”

“I have no ambition for the throne.”

Her voice held an edge. “Perhaps you should.”

Ravyn bit down. “Time is precious to me, Spirit. Name your price for the Twin Alders. I would like to go home.”

Her silver eyes narrowed, her dark tongue dragging over the tips of her teeth. “Then answer me this.” She drew in a rasping breath. “The dark bird has three heads. Highwayman, Destrier, and another. One of age, of birthright. Tell me, Ravyn Yew, after your long walk in my wood—do you finally know your name?”

A memory tugged at Ravyn. He’d heard those words before.

Emory had whispered them back at Stone.

“That is my price,” the Spirit continued, a smile snaking over her lips. “My barter—my cost. If you answer correctly, I shall grant you the final Providence Card. If you cannot, it remains with me.” Her claw tightened around the Twin Alders. “Your name, Ravyn Yew. Tell me your name.”

The riddle cantered forward in Ravyn’s mind, leaving behind a sense of dread. He felt like he was sitting down to a game of chess with Elm. That, by simply being there, he had already been utterly outmaneuvered.

“You offered me two things,” he said slowly. “I denied them both. For my restraint—and for the sake of balance—I ask for two clues.”

“I’ll tell you what I told the Shepherd King when he visited long ago.” The wind picked up, and her voice grew louder. “The twelve call for each other when the shadows grow long—when the days are cut short and the Spirit is strong. They call for the Deck, and the Deck calls them back. Unite us, they say, and we’ll cast out the black. At the King’s namesake tree, with the black blood of salt. All twelve shall, together, bring sickness to halt. They’ll lighten the mist from mountain to sea. New beginnings—new ends...”

“But nothing comes free,” Ravyn finished.

“Upon Solstice,” the Spirit said, her silver gaze unrelenting, “the Deck of Cards will unite under the King’s namesake tree. That tree is not a rowan. That is your first clue.”

Her words played in Ravyn’s ears, unharmonious. He tapped his fingers along the ivory hilt on his belt. “And the second?”

“That, I will not tell you.” Her smile was all teeth. “I will show you.”

The world tilted. When it righted, they were still in the meadow—snow all around them. Only now, they stood under the shadow of yew trees.

At the meadow’s cusp was a stone chamber, fixed with one, dark window.

Ravyn whirled, searching the tree line for Castle Yew’s towers. They were not there. A different castle loomed ahead of him.

One he had only ever seen in ruins.

“How far in the past are we now?”

“Five hundred years. We shall be neither seen, nor heard.” The Spirit of the Wood gestured a gnarled claw toward the castle. “Shall we go inside?”

The castle was bustling. Musicians tightened the strings of their instruments. Servants hurried down corridors and up stairs with silver trays stacked with food, children with dark hair weaving between them, snagging pieces of sweet bread and spiced fruits. Holly and mistletoe garnished every door. Red and green and yellow velvet cords were strung between the iron arms of chandeliers.

Solstice, Ravyn realized.

Five long tables parceled the great hall, their benches full of courtiers, laughing and drinking. There was no dais at the end of the hall, but there was a throne. Wooden, fashioned of thick, interlocked branches.