“But you knew Elspeth Spindle caught the fever. You knew it when my son pledged to marry you.”
“Yes.” Linden opened his mouth, but Ione cut him off. “Yes, Majesty.”
The King’s eyes blazed. “You agreed to marry Hauth, knowing you’d be tethering him to a family that carried sickness? You disgust me.”
“The disgust,” Ione said, her tone idle, “is mutual.”
Silence pierced the room. Even the hounds held still. Linden reached out, his hand an open palm, and slapped Ione across the face.
Elm went rigid, hands curled into fists so tight the fresh scabs along his knuckles split. Salt shot up his nose, into his mind. Don’t move, Ravyn warned. Stay right there.
The King drained his goblet. “Try again, Miss Hawthorn.”
Ione’s cheek was red only a moment where Linden had struck her. Then, slowly, the red blanched away, her skin perfect once more. “I never lied to Hauth about Elspeth. He did not ask me about my family. He did not ask me much of anything.”
The throne groaned under the King’s shifting weight. “Were you there when she attacked him?”
“No.”
“How did she come to be in a room alone with him?”
Someone shuddered down the line, drawing the King’s gaze. Tyrn.
“Well?” the King barked.
Tyrn covered his eyes, wiping away tears. Or maybe he was simply trying to hide his face from Erik Spindle. “I—Prince Hauth, he wanted to speak—” He took a weak breath. “I brought Elspeth to the Prince, Highness.”
Up until that moment, Erik Spidle had been as good as glass—smooth, still. Now his entire body was directed at his brother-in-law, his blue eyes filling with fire.
Elm’s pulse pounded in his ears. The hair on his arms prickled, the tension in the room so taut it might snap him. He dug his hand into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the Scythe and its familiar velvet comfort.
But his debt gnawed at him. I saved your life. Now it’s your turn to save mine.
It had to be now—now that she was under the Chalice—when the King would believe her. But Ione Hawthorn hadn’t given him exact instructions, only that she wanted enough freedom to roam the castle uninhibited.
In Elm’s vast experience, there was very little the Scythe could not make someone do. Despite the Chalice, he could make Ione tell a lie to save herself.
But there would be a cost. A lie was still a lie, and the Chalice repaid lying tenfold. It wasn’t long ago that he’d watched Elspeth Spindle vomit blood thick as mud, trying to lie under a Chalice.
No, he couldn’t make Ione lie, it was too risky. He would have to absolve her by proxy. The falsehood would have to come from someone else. Someone he could stomach sacrificing to the Chalice’s poison.
You, he said to himself, his gaze falling to Tyrn Hawthorn, his face still hidden in his hands. He tapped the Scythe in his pocket three times. You’ll do nicely.
When Elm felt the salt sting his nose, he pushed it outward, his green eyes narrowed, focused entirely on Tyrn Hawthorn. On what Tyrn wanted.
And Tyrn, so keen to hide his miserable face, kept the Scythe’s glassy deadness hidden behind his hands. Tyrn wanted to keep his daughter safe. Wanted to absolve her.
Tyrn’s voice was loud, even behind the muffle of his hands. “My loyalty is to you and your family, my King,” he said. “Prince Hauth—I would never plot his injury.”
He choked on his words a moment. Elm kept his focus tight. Tell them what happened, he murmured into the salt.
“I delivered Elspeth to him because Prince Hauth promised he would handle her infection swiftly, without family dishonor. He said it was the only way to save Ione’s reputation.”
Now for the tricky part. Not an outright lie, but a mixing of truths. Something to keep Ione away from the hangman. Something that would slip into the King’s cracks and give him pause.
Lucky for Ione, Elm had years of practice learning the King’s cracks.
Tyrn coughed. When he spoke the words Elm compelled him to say, his voice was tight. “Please, sire. If you harm my daughter, everyone will know. She is beautiful, she is beloved. My family is gone—people will gossip. But if you let my Ione remain here, she will placate your court. Stop tongues from wagging. Keep people from knowing the truth of what happened to Prince Hauth.”
The King’s voice was ice. “And why should I wish to hide what happened to my son?”
Tyrn dropped his hands, revealing blurry eyes. “Because it was your fault. It was you who forged the marriage contract with a family that carried the infection. You who valued a Nightmare Card above all else.” His voice went eerily quiet. “You are just as much to blame for what happened to Hauth as my daughter is.”
The air in the cavernous room stilled. The King’s mouth was open, tiny red lines shooting across the whites of his eyes. On his other side, Ravyn was staring into Tyrn Hawthorn’s face, searching it. The Destriers shifted as they cast sidelong glances, their shadows dancing on the floor.
Ione stared at her father, slack-jawed.
The telltale agony—the one Elm knew far too well—of using the Scythe too long began. A shooting pain, needle-thin, slid through Elm’s head, starting near his temple, prodding deeper with each passing second. He blinked away the pain, but there would be no hiding it if his nose began to bleed.
He prayed this was enough to keep Ione alive—that the King was fearful enough of rumor and dissent to stay his hand, at least until Elm could come up with a better plan. He tapped the Scythe three times and let out a long, ragged exhale.
Everyone was still focused on Tyrn. No one noticed Erik Spindle shift until the former Captain of the Destriers had shoved Linden and Ione aside and wrapped his chains around his brother-in-law’s throat.
The visage of the indefatigable spindle tree shattered into a thousand splinters. “You did this?” Erik said, voice breaking. “You gave Elspeth up?”
Tyrn’s face was turning red. “No more than you did.”
Linden drew a dagger. “Get back, Spindle.” When he stepped closer, Erik pivoted, far quicker than a man his age ought to be. He caught Linden’s wrist—twisted—and ripped the dagger from his hand.
“Where is she?” he demanded, the tip of the blade aimed at Linden’s throat. “Where is my daughter?”
There was a mad dash for the heart of the room. Elm launched himself off the dais the same second as Ravyn. Destriers swarmed, smothering the light from the hearths as they hurried past, plunging the throne room into shadow.
Jespyr got to Erik first. She dug her fists into his tunic, yanking him backward. Erik let loose a wordless cry and swung the dagger wildly through the air. Its blade found no purchase in a Destrier.
It caught Ione instead.
So sharp it made no sound, the dagger cut across Ione’s hands, cleaving the flesh of her palms.
The King barked orders, but Elm did not hear them. He was shoving Destriers—bashing against the sea of black cloaks—forcing his way into the tumult.
The throne room floor was marked in red. Ione slipped, caught between Tyrn and the two Destriers fighting to keep him still. They were crushing her. Elm shouted her name, then again, louder, panic-tipped. “Hawthorn!”