“No.” Ravyn heaved a breath. “I will return as soon as I can. Be wary, Destriers. Be clever.”
“Be good,” the Nightmare mocked from behind his back.
They left on horseback. The Nightmare chose a black palfrey from the stable. When he mounted, the horse’s nostrils went wide, its skin rippling with noticeable distress. It reared, but the Nightmare kept his seat.
They tore through the bailey and over the drawbridge, first Gorse, then the Nightmare. Ravyn rode last. He allowed himself one final look at Stone.
There were few people in the bailey—no one watched them ride away. No one, save two tall men. One wore a golden cloak that caught the wind, and the other a plain black tunic. The King, and—
Ravyn’s stomach plummeted into his boots. Elm.
The Nightmare slowed his pace. When he looked back at Elm, his voice drifted in the air, oil and honey and poison. “Neither Rowan nor Yew, but somewhere between. A pale tree in winter, neither red, gold, nor green. Black hides the bloodstain, forever his mark. Alone in the castle, Prince of the dark.”
PART TWO
To Barter
Chapter Seventeen
Elspeth
In the water, neither awake nor asleep, I drifted through memories not my own.
I was a boy in richly woven clothes, standing in a wood. There were others with me. We turned through the trees with no path, our voices raised to the treetops, each person uttering their own beseech.
“Grant me health, Spirit.”
“Bless me with good harvest.”
“I will take Beech as my namesake for a blessing, great Spirit of the Wood.”
Salt filled my nose, tickling it. I found a gnarled tree away from the crowd and put my hand on it. Pain touched my arms. When I looked down, my veins were black as ink.
I closed my eyes, magic all around me—in me. A hundred voices filled my ears. Not human voices, but another chorus. One of discord, yet harmony, that spoke almost always in rhyming words. It was my magic, my gift, to hear them. I’d been born with the fever.
I could always talk to the trees.
Your name-tree is cunning, they said, its shadow unknown. It bends without breaking, though only half-grown. The Prince becomes King, and the King takes the throne. Will you come to the wood when Blunder’s your own?
“I will,” I whispered.
What blessing do you ask, young Taxus?
“For the Spirit of the Wood to help me make Blunder a kingdom of abundance—of magic. That she might give me the tools I need to shepherd the land, and its people.”
The tree groaned beneath my hand, branches moving on their own accord until they all pointed west. The next tree did the same, and the one after it. On and on, they pointed me home.
When I reached the cusp of the meadow outside my father’s castle, I waited. Then, near the seedling tree I’d planted on my seventh nameday, something materialized in front of me.
A stone, as tall and wide as a table. Upon it was a sword. It caught the midday light, shining like a beacon. Carved intricately upon the hilt was an image.
A shepherd’s staff.
Chapter Eighteen
Elm
Elm watched the party ride away, Ravyn’s note crumpling in his hand. I’ll see you soon.
He pushed his hair out of his eyes and turned, keeping the gap between himself and his father wide. “Was this your doing?”
The King’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead, his cloak billowing in the chill autumn air. “You’re my son. You belong here.”
“You never cared where I was or what I did before.”
“I had little reason to until now.” The King shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m told you sent the guards away from Ione Hawthorn’s door last night. And that you spoke with her.”
Elm clenched his jaw.
The King’s timbre resembled the bark of one of his hounds. “Her family are vile, treasonous vultures.”
“What Tyrn said at the inquest was true enough,” Elm said, weighing his words. “Kill her, and people will talk. They’ll find out about Hauth. And about who you put him in bed with for a Nightmare Card. Perhaps your court will take a harder look at you, Father. They’ll see, for a man so wholly condemning of the infection, that you sure keep interesting company. Orithe Willow. Ravyn. Infected.”
Displeasure deepened the lines in the King’s face. “What,” he said, wine on his bitter breath, “would you have me do?”
It began to rain. Elm winced against it, shrouding his voice in disinterest. “Keep Ione Hawthorn close. She can give your excuses for Hauth’s absence. A symbol that all is as it ever was. For now.”
In the distance, thunder rolled. The King’s hand was ungloved, swollen and calloused, brutalized with age and years of swordplay. With it, he took the crown from his head. Examined it. “It rattles me to the bone, seeing your brother,” he said in a low voice. “Even with his Black Horse and Scythe, he broke so easily—” He winced against the wind. “Life is fragile. The line of kings, fragile.”
Elm had never spoken to his father speak like this, just the two of them, trading quiet words—not ever. It made his skin crawl. “Is that why Ravyn goes and I must remain? A pretense of strength?”
“Use your brain,” the King snapped. “We may pretend at it, but nothing is as it was. Even should Hauth wake and face the kingdom once more, his spine is in tatters. He will never sire an heir—the Physicians are certain.” He took Elm by the shoulder, his fingers prodding into weary, aching muscle. “I have Blunder to think of. Five hundred years of rule to think of.”
Elm stared into his father’s eyes, the words burning in his throat. “And so you reach deep into your pile of shit and pull the second Prince back into the light.”
The King’s grip tightened. “The throne of Blunder is Rowan. It is under our namesake tree that the Deck will be united. The mist will be lifted, the infection cured. When I die, I will be buried with my father and grandfather and their grandfathers in the rowan grove.” His gaze dropped to the crown in his other hand. “And you, Renelm, will be the one to take my place.”
Elm jerked out of his father’s grasp. His body was screaming—denying. Bile churned, escaping up his throat into his mouth. “I don’t want your throne. Hauth may yet—he may—”
“No. He will not.” The King placed the crown back onto his head. He looked weathered, the wind and rain washing all pretense from him. He was just a drunk old man, grieving.
And somehow, that made it so much worse. Anger, Elm had come to expect. His father had always been a man of wrath and an abrupt, exacting temper. But this resignation—Elm did not know it. Could not stomach it.
He pulled away from the King.
“Where are you going?”
“To see Jespyr.”
“She left with Emory this morning for Castle Yew.”
Ravyn, Jespyr, now Emory, gone. Elm bit the inside of his cheek and kept going, hail pelting him as he crossed back into the bailey.
“I’ll expect you at court tonight,” his father called into the wind.
“I won’t be there.”
“You will, Renelm. You’ll resign as Destrier. And you and Ione Hawthorn will pretend all is as it ever was, until I am ready to announce your succession. And her execution.”