After a stifling pause, Jespyr spoke. Her voice was calm. “Oversights were made, Uncle. We have been tireless in our patrols—keen to manage your kingdom well. We didn’t see what was in front of us. Elspeth was such a quiet, gentle presence beneath our father’s roof.”
“A liar’s ruse.”
The blow to Ravyn’s head had sent his mind wandering. He sat in the King’s overwarm chamber—but a sick part of him would rather have been in the dungeon.
Ten minutes, he said to himself for the hundredth time in four days. It all might have been different had I gotten to Spindle House ten minutes sooner. His eyes lifted to the King. “It’s not us who made a liar out of Elspeth Spindle. The moment the infection touched her blood, she was bound to be a liar. That’s how things are, in Blunder.”
The King’s step caught. He turned, eyes burning into Ravyn. Silence stole the air in the room. Even Filick’s hands stilled. Everyone was watching. Waiting.
“Get out,” the King said. “Everyone. I’d like to speak to my nephew alone.”
Ravyn felt Jespyr’s eyes boring into him. He did not face them. He was locked into the King’s stare. Filick tied the last stitch on his brow and pulled away, following Jespyr wordlessly out the door.
Elm lingered by the hearth.
“Go, Renelm,” the King commanded.
Elm shot Ravyn a pointed glance and turned away, slamming the door behind him.
The King waited for the silence to settle. “Do you value your place here, nephew?”
Ravyn held the King’s gaze. “I don’t know what I value, Uncle.”
“You do not wish to be my Captain?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want.”
The last container that hadn’t been shattered or thrown upon the floor was a silver flagon. “Finally, something we agree on.” The King pulled a long drink. When the flagon dropped from his lips, his eyes were unfocused. “I will let Ione Hawthorn remain in the castle. If only to dissuade rumors of Erik and Tyrn’s treachery at court. Still, people will wonder at Hauth’s absence. There will be gossip and unease. Blunder needs control, not violence and backhanded treachery.”
He stared into the fire a moment longer, then crossed the chamber to his velvet draped bed. The frame creaked beneath his weight. “Let Elspeth Spindle keep her word, then,” he muttered. “Follow her out of the castle into the mist—let her find the Twin Alders Card for me. Then drag her back. If either of you tries your hand at anything clever, I will pluck Emory back from Castle Yew. He won’t have a fine room and fire for comfort this time.” The King yawned. “He’ll have a cell.”
Ravyn’s fury was a swift wave. He felt it in every strained muscle, hot words of malice catching in his craw. But his face remained without expression.
“When you return, I will do as the Old Book says.” The King closed his eyes. “I will spill Elsepth Spindle’s infected blood come Solstice. Unite the Deck. After five hundred years, I will be the Rowan who finally lifts the mist.” His voice began to drift. “That is what people will say, when they speak of my reign.”
“As you say, Uncle. We’ll leave immediately.” Ravyn turned to leave.
“Elm stays here.”
He froze at the door. “He’s my right hand.”
“And my second heir.” The King sank into his bed. “I cannot risk him to the same danger that broke Hauth.”
“The Ni—Elspeth—she wouldn’t hurt him.”
The King barked a laugh. “Even you don’t believe that.”
Ravyn clenched his jaw, combing his mind for a deception that would bend the King’s will. But the words didn’t come. His mind was brimming with fog, lost to exhaustion, so tired it hurt.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Elm won’t like being left behind.”
“He’s a Prince of Blunder. What he likes is of no consequence.”
Ravyn was not about to tread headfirst into the mist—into the unknown—alone with a five-hundred-year-old monster hell-bent on righting the wrongs of the past. He needed someone to watch his back.
Someone who had always watched his back.
“Jespyr,” he said, unyielding. “I’ll need my sister.” It cost him, but Ravyn lowered his head. “Please.”
The King was silent a moment. When he finally consented, it came as a low grunt. “Fine. Take another Destrier as well. Gorse.”
Ravyn brooked no argument. He gave a curt nod and opened the door.
“You’ll get your wish,” the King called after him. “When this is all over, I’m stripping you of command.” His words were coated in spite. “You’ve proven a wretched disappointment, Ravyn.”
Ravyn lowered himself at the door, a final bow. “From you, Uncle, that is praise indeed.”
Chapter Twelve
Elm
Elm caught Filick before the Physician got to the main stairwell. He had to hold the galley railing to keep himself upright, so tired his knees had begun to buckle.
Filick took a deep breath. “The King is in a foul mood.”
“I’ve seen worse.” Elm ran a hand over his face. “Did you see where they put Hawthorn? Don’t tell me those idiots took her to the dungeon.”
The Physician yawned. “She’s on the servants’ floor, I think.”
“Did you send her a Physician?”
“What for?”
“Her hands. Erik tore them open.”
Filick blinked, shook his head. “You’re mistaken.” When Elm’s mouth dropped open, the Physician gave a stiff laugh. “I assure you, her hands were perfectly intact when I saw her.”
“I assure you, there was a wound. A bad one.”
“Likely someone else’s blood.” Filick put a hand on Elm’s shoulder. “Get some sleep, Prince. I promise, Miss Hawthorn is safe and well.”
Elm watched Filick disappear down the stairs into darkness, his thoughts straining against fatigue. He couldn’t have imagined it—not the cold sting of Ione’s iron chains, nor the curling dread he’d felt at the sight of her maimed palms.
The feeling of her hands, pressing into his chest.
Elm’s eyes shot to his doublet. He half expected to see nothing. But when he looked down, they were there. Even in the black fabric, a stain remained.
Two bloody handprints.
The castle guards stationed on either side of the fifth door of the servants’ wing made it easy to discern where the Destriers had stashed Ione. When Elm approached, the guards stepped into shadow and lowered their gazes.
He banged on the door, then swore for the bruises on his knuckles. “Open up, Hawthorn.” When no one answered, he slapped the knotted pine. “Hawthorn!”
“She’s locked in, sire,” said the guard on his left, offering Elm a small brass key.
Elm weighed it in his palm. He’d always told Ravyn he looked like a jailer with his ring of keys. When actually it was Elm’s—the second Prince’s—duty to carry the castle keys. And Ravyn, like in so many other things he did, carried the iron ring so that Elm didn’t have to.
“Off with you,” he said to the guards. He waited for them to hurry away and slid the key into the lock.