“What’s he saying?” Jespyr said, peering over her brother’s shoulder.
Ravyn’s jaw twitched. “He’s deciding whether or not to let me in.”
I felt the Nightmare prickle under Ravyn’s stare. He wanted to deny him. But when I said his name again—Nightmare!—he clicked his jaw three times and sighed. A brief moment, my dear.
The salt returned, washing over me. I yielded to it—desperate for it. Ravyn?
He was still there. He’d been waiting. How many times, when I was alone on that dark shore, had he been there waiting?
Elspeth.
His voice was a caress—so different from the way he spoke to the Nightmare. I bent to it, basking in the soft depths of his tone. I’m sorry.
He flinched, his entire face caught up in the act. No. This isn’t your fault, Elspeth.
I reached for him—reached with no arms, no hands.
Once I’d looked at the Captain of the Destriers and thought, every time I beheld him, I was seeing a different man. Sometimes with a mask, other times without. But I’d never seen him like this—hands shaking, weathered to the bone, a sheen over his gray eyes. Ten minutes. Ravyn’s voice wavered. Ten minutes, and I’d have been up those stairs. And Hauth—you— He glanced away. I’m the one who’s sorry.
Look at me, Ravyn.
When his gaze met mine, I pressed against the window in my dark room. You’re not allowed to blame yourself for a second of those ten minutes. It was magic that made me…disappear. Terrible, inevitable degeneration. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But I’m still sorry it happened. I would have liked— My voice quieted. I would have liked a little more time. With you.
The lines in Ravyn’s face strained, his voice deepening with insistence. We’ll get that time. I swear it, Elspeth. He blinked too fast, then dropped my gaze. Because it wasn’t my eyes he was looking into—not anymore. There wasn’t a dark, endless shore between Ravyn Yew and me any longer.
Just a King, five hundred years dead.
The Nightmare’s slippery tone entered our reverie. That’s enough for now. Put away your Nightmare Card, Captain.
No. Ravyn’s voice was hard once more. I need her.
Let him stay, I said. Please.
A flash of teeth. No.
Why?
I didn’t hear his answer. A loud fluttering sound blotted it out.
All of our heads snapped up. “Arrows!” Jespyr shouted, pushing Ravyn off the path into the grass.
Ravyn landed in a crouch, three arrows buried in the ground where he’d stood, each tipped by a small glass vial that shattered upon impact.
A sweet-smelling smoke filled the air, shooting up the Nightmare’s nose and deep into his lungs. He coughed, a vicious snarl emptying out of his mouth. My vision blurred and then the world tilted.
The Nightmare fell into the grass. I couldn’t see Ravyn and Jespyr anymore. But I did see the Ivy brothers.
Petyr was in the grass, eyes rolling shut. Wik was next to him, unmoving—
An arrow lodged in his skull.
I screamed.
This, my dear, the Nightmare hissed, is the sort of thing we might have seen coming, had Ravyn Yew not been poking about in our mind.
The last things I saw before the Nightmare lost consciousness were two pairs of leather boots, stepping toward us through the grass.
“Well, well,” came a voice from above. “Two more Destriers.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elm
The King was five cups deep and fuming.
“I told Filick where I’d be, and when I’d return.” Elm leaned back in Hauth’s chair, tensing as the wood groaned. He kept his face even, his fingers trailing the Scythe’s velvet edge in his pocket. “You weren’t worried about me, were you?”
He knew better than to poke the bear—most of the time. Only now, the bear was too drunk to poke him back. “You missed the first feast,” the King said, his voice a low rumble.
Elm looked out over the great hall. There wasn’t a single thing in the wide, echoing room he regretting missing.
The scene was as it always was. Tables heaped with food, servants carrying trays stacked with silver and crystal goblets, decanters full of wine. Courtiers, laughing and swaying to a string ensemble, jaws slack with laughter. Branches and stems, leaves and seed clusters, tucked into their clothes and hair—
Elm’s gaze narrowed. He dragged it over the great hall once more. “Why on earth is everyone wearing greenery?”
The King muttered into his cup. “Baldwyn’s notion.”
“Don’t tell me these feasts are in costume.” Elm put a hand to his brow and groaned. “What’s the theme? Shrubs?”
“They’re wearing sprigs from their house trees, you imbecile.” The King—who wore no adornment save a permanent scowl—pulled another deep drink. “You would know that had you attended last night’s feast and not scurried away to Castle Yew.”
“You’ve stripped me of my Destrier duties. I was bored.”
“Then pick a bloody wife,” the King spat. When heads turned, he pressed his lips together and lowered his voice. “What do the Yews have to say?”
Elm took a drink. “Not much.”
“Emory?”
“Better now that he’s at home where he should be.”
The King kept his eyes forward on the great hall. Elm had long ago stopped expecting remorse from his father for what he had planned to do with Emory’s blood. That clever, innocent boy. A boy Elm had watched grow up. Get sicker. Slowly die in Stone.
Elm had never caught the infection. But he knew all too well what it felt like to wither away at Stone. So when he had gone to Castle Yew last night, and there had been a thimble’s worth of warmth in Emory’s cheeks, he had all but kissed the boy.
Even without Ravyn and Jespyr present, Castle Yew was Elm’s true home. The bed where he slept best. Where all his favorite books were kept. He spoke freely there, without pretense.
His aunt had wrapped him in her strong arms, and so had his uncle. They hadn’t hugged him that tightly since he was a boy. “It’s all right,” he’d said. “I’m managing.”
He’d told them everything. About what had happened on the forest road. The inquest. Ione and the Maiden Card and the King’s feasts.
About becoming heir.
He’d reached into his satchel and pulled out the marriage contract with the King’s seal. “I need you to put this in a safe place.”
Fenir’s eyes had widened. “This is—”
“Yes.”
Morette had ran her gaze over the parchment. Twice. Elm knew she’d seen what he had. “Well, nephew,” she’d said, the corner of her mouth curling as she looked up at him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I.”
The sharpness in the King’s green eyes was beginning to blur. Perfect. Better he was pliable, because Elm was going to do something he had never done before.
Barter with the King.
“You’re wearing black,” his father barked out of nowhere in a voice that might have belonged to one of his hounds. “Don’t you have any gold?”
“I like black.” Elm kept his eyes on the crowd, watching for the one person who was not yet there. “It suits me.”