Elm’s cheeks went bloodless.
“Captain,” a voice called from the open doorway.
Royce Linden was a shadow in the hall, the light from Elm’s hearth reaching only the edge of his browbone and nose. “The King has requested I wield the Chalice at his inquest.”
Elm crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s Jespyr’s job.”
“She’s gone to the dungeon to put the bitch back in her cell.”
Ravyn bit down. Hard.
Linden shifted under his gaze, eyes dropping to his boots. “I saw the Prince and Miss Hawthorn arrive some moments ago and volunteered to summon them. I did not know you had already come to do so, Captain.”
Elm’s voice went low. “Did the King summon Miss Hawthorn specifically? Or were you just feeling terribly eager?”
Linden opened his mouth, but Ravyn cut him off. “She’s the kin of an infected.” He pushed ice into his voice. “Miss Hawthorn will submit to the Chalice, same as her father and uncle.”
He could feel Elm’s gaze burning into his back. Ravyn ignored it. Elm wasn’t the only one who got to be angry. Ione Hawthorn was supposed to be gone—disappeared into the night alongside her mother and brothers and cousins.
But Ravyn was out of options. If he was going to convince the King to keep trusting him, despite his flagrant attachment to Elspeth Spindle, he needed to be beyond reproach. He would have to wear the mask of the Captain of the Destriers—the cold, unfeeling leader of Blunder’s ruthless soldiers—just a little while longer.
“Lead the way,” Ravyn said to Linden.
No one spoke, Stone’s tall, shadowy corridors echoing with their footfall. The torches were lit, illuminating ancient tapestries that lined the castle walls.
Linden took the lead. Ione followed behind him, her steps silent beneath her wool socks. Ravyn wondered where her shoes had gone.
Elm walked beside him. When Ravyn tapped the Nightmare Card once more and called his cousin’s name, Elm jumped.
What? he snapped.
Why didn’t Ione Hawthorn disappear with the others?
I don’t know. Elm kept his gaze forward. She must not have been in Spindle House when I compelled the others to flee.
Then why not use your Scythe on her today?
I couldn’t with Gorse and Wicker there, could I?
Ravyn’s left knee popped as they took the stairwell. What happened on the road?
I told you. Highwaymen.
Ravyn was four years older than his cousin, but the difference had always felt slight. Mostly because Elm had been taller than Ravyn since he’d turned seventeen. Like the fox carved above his chamber door, Elm was cunning, and slow to trust. With only a few glances, he could map body language—hear the shift of breath just before a lie—sense a person’s energy without having to speak to them.
But Ravyn had ignored his cousin’s talents, his warnings. Elm had all but begged him to keep his guard up against Elspeth Spindle. Ravyn hadn’t listened. If he had, he might have sensed what Elm had all along, hidden behind two charcoal eyes that flashed yellow.
Danger.
Perhaps, had Ravyn heeded Elm’s warnings, they might not be on their way to an inquest. Hauth might never have had the chance to get Elspeth alone.
And Shepherd King might have been kept at bay.
Ione cast a backward glance. Elm shifted, his shoulders tensing, something strained and unspoken passing between them.
They reached the second landing. But before they could descend to the throne room, Ravyn caught his cousin’s arm, holding him back.
What’s going on, Elm?
She saved my bloody life, all right? Elm ripped his arm out of Ravyn’s grasp. I didn’t have time to reach for my Scythe. She took it from my pocket. His stared down the stairs and ran a hand through his tangled auburn hair. The rest happened…swiftly.
Ravyn stared at his cousin. SHE killed them?
“The King is waiting for us, Captain,” Linden called from below, his fingers now wrapped around Ione’s arm.
Ravyn held up a menacing finger to Linden and kept his gaze on Elm. “There’s nothing you can do for her now,” he said under his breath. “She made her bed when she said yes to Hauth.”
Elm’s expression went cold. “Do you really think she knew what she was saying yes to?”
“She knew Elspeth was infected. And I—” Ravyn dragged a hand over his jaw. “If I’m to leave for the Twin Alders Card, I can’t afford any more of your father’s distrust. I can’t lie for Ione Hawthorn.”
Something flashed in those brilliant green eyes. “Then I will.”
Ravyn shook his head. “No, Elm.”
“I owe her.”
“She hasn’t earned your kindness.”
“It’s not kindness,” he bit back. “It’s balance.”
Ravyn took a deep, steadying breath. She will never leave this place, Elm. Either by the dungeon’s frost or the King’s command, she will die. He put at hand on his cousin’s shoulder. Don’t be turned by her beauty. We’ve enough on our plate already.
Elm’s smile did not touch his eyes. He rolled his shoulder, and Ravyn’s hand fell. Because you’ve never been turned by a beautiful woman, have you, Captain?
Chapter Nine
Elm
The great hall was full of light, drenched in the aroma of herbs and butter-glazed foods—perfumes and wine. Laughter bounced against its ancient walls and music tangled in tapestries, pirouetting around pillars and knotting itself in skirts. But just a wall away, past great iron doors, another hall waited. One devoid of color, of smell, of sound, its only adornment a looming chair made from the hardy wood of rowan trees. Besides the dungeon, it was Elm’s least favorite part of the castle.
The throne room.
“Open it,” Ravyn said to the sentries guarding the door.
The hinges groaned like waking beasts. Elm kept his eyes forward, gritting his teeth, their steps echoing in the cavernous room.
There were twin hearths, one on each side of the throne room. Both were lit, roaring with smoldering logs, their flames casting long, jumping shadows across the stone floor. Between the hearths was a dais. Upon it, King Rowan sat on his throne, his face shadowed by a heavyset brow. He wore his crown—gold, forged to look like twisting rowan branches—and a matching gold cloak with fox fur at its collar. There were no seats beside the throne on the dais—no one equal to the King. King Rowan’s only companions were three enormous hounds, whose dark, unblinking eyes traced the room.
The King watched them approach. In his right hand was a silver goblet. In his left, a Scythe.
Destriers lined the walls, lost in shadow. Wicker and Gorse were among them.
Ten paces from the dais, Linden let go of Ione’s arm. She stood in the heart of the throne room, shoulders even, her hair catching fingers of firelight.
Ravyn and Elm stood behind her.
The King leaned into his throne. “Come,” he growled, ushering Ravyn forward to his usual place on the left side of the throne. Ravyn stepped onto the dais, his hands folded tightly behind his back. The King watched through narrow eyes, then turned his gaze on Elm. “And you.”
Elm blinked and didn’t move. He wasn’t the High Prince. His place had always been on the perimeter—lost in the shadow of the hearth with the rest of the Destriers. “What?”