Brutus turned the Scythe through lithe fingers. “It is you who should be wary, my clever friend. With Cards such as these, people will come to you, not the Spirit of the Wood, for magic. She will not thank you for it.”
“You sound like Ayris.”
“She’s rubbed off on me. Despite my best intentions.”
I shot him the same practiced smile I tended my children. Only lately, I wore it when the subject of Providence Cards came up with my sister. “It is the Spirit who gave me the means to forge Providence Cards.” I patted the stone. “She knows I use them for good.”
“Even so, be wary, Taxus. Be wary, clever, and good.”
“So says a Rowan, who is none of the three.”
Brutus shot me a grin. “Which is precisely why your sister married me.”
We traded false punches. When the chamber faded, it was to the sound of our laughter.
On a brisk autumn day, grass brown and dying, I walked through the wood I so often tarried in as a boy with Blunder’s reverent—where we had asked the Spirit of the Wood for her blessings. The wood was empty now. No prayers echoed, the air stagnant, bereft of salt, as if starved.
Behind me, I could hear the castle bells. My children were being called to dinner, where they’d sit at the table in my hall, waiting for me.
But I was not hungry for food or company, only for velvet. For more.
I crept into the chamber. Spoke to the trees. Asked for an eleventh Providence Card.
What power do you ask this time, Shepherd King?
I ran a hand over my face. “I am not a stately ruler. It is a thorn in my side, sitting at court—listening to woe or flattery. I would rather know the truth of someone’s thoughts outright and save myself aggravation. Grant me a Card for entering a person’s mind.” I cleared my throat. “Besides. My Captain has been distant of late. I would like to know his thoughts.”
Have you considered asking Brutus Rowan what draws him away from you?
“I am his King. He is not as blunt with me, nor as nettlesome, as you, trees.”
The wind stirred their branches. To enter a mind is a treacherous walk. There are doors that are meant to remain behind lock. If you wish for that nightmare, give yourself to her, whole. For an eleventh Providence Card—
The Spirit demands your soul.
I left the chamber, two burgundy Cards nestled in my palm, my fingers curling like claws around them. The castle bells were quieter—muffled. When I looked up, evening light was smothered behind grayness. It cloistered around the chamber like a wool blanket, seeping into the meadow, reeking of salt.
Mist.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ravyn
Ravyn’s pulse was a barbarous rhythm, each beat hammering inside his head like a pike.
He’d had hangovers and head injuries. Twice, before his magic had made him immune to it, he’d been poisoned trying to lie against a Chalice Card. But this—coming out from the fog of the sweet, sudden smoke that had rendered him unconscious—was worse than all three.
He’d lost consciousness near midday. And now the light in the sky was new, the dawn pale. They’d lost half a day—and an entire night.
Wincing, Ravyn took in his surroundings. He was in a dirt courtyard. Around it was a crude wall of earth and wood that stood twenty hands high. When he tried to turn and see how far the wall went, his body didn’t heed him. Pain cut into his wrists, and he felt a stiff surface press into back.
He realized he was tethered to a wide wooden post. Arms, torso, legs—all bound.
Panic flooded Ravyn’s throat like bile. He’d never been restrained. It was always him that had done the restraining. He called his sister’s name and immediately regretted it, his headache responding with a punch.
A low groan sounded somewhere behind him. “I’m here,” came Jespyr’s voice.
She was tied to the post next to him. Ravyn couldn’t see her, but his left wrist was tethered to her right. On his other side, the Nightmare was talking to himself in slow, slippery whispers.
Ravyn pressed his eyes shut and slowed his breathing. “Everyone all right?”
“I’m tied to a post with a grating headache and the dimmest Yews in five centuries,” the Nightmare muttered. “Never been better.”
The next voice was Petyr’s. It was lifeless. “Wik’s dead.”
Ravyn’s stomach dropped. He shut his eyes—let out a shaking breath—searched his mind for the right thing to say. Came up with nothing.
Jespyr said it for him, her voice coated with pain. “I’m so sorry, Petyr.”
They remained quiet a long time.
“Elspeth,” Ravyn finally managed. “Is she well?”
The Nightmare made a familiar clicking sound with his teeth. “Yes. But the more she talks,” he said pointedly, “the less I can focus. Which is exactly how we got into this mess in the first place.”
Elspeth’s voice, that sharp, feminine timbre, untouched by the Nightmare’s oil or spite—Ravyn had wanted to drown in it. She’d sounded so real. Real enough to make him think they might be together again after they dragged themselves out of hell.
But first, he had to discern where hell was, and who had tethered them there.
“I thought you said we’d have safe passage to the next barter if we made it across that bloody lake,” Jespyr gritted out.
“The Spirit of the Wood has no need for crude walls or rope restraints, you little twit. Our captors are decidedly human.”
Ravyn craned his neck, scanning as much of the courtyard as he could glimpse. “Did anyone get a look at them?”
“All I saw were their boots,” Jespyr answered. “Two pairs, worn laces and soles. Hunting boots.”
“Women,” said the Nightmare. “They were women.”
It hurt to think. But Ravyn knew for certain they were miles from Blunder. And those miles had been hard-earned. A stronghold this far from town would be of little use to the King. And as Captain, he knew Blunder’s strongholds like the back of his hand.
So who the hell had built this one?
“I can see our weapons,” Petyr said from the other side of the post. “They’re in a heap against the wall.” He shifted. Laughed. “They missed the knife in my boot.” Then, as if it had injured him to laugh without his brother, the temper of his voice leached away. “I can’t get to it.”
“Someone is coming,” the Nightmare hissed. “Bright with color.” He clicked his teeth. “They’ve availed themselves of your Cards, Captain.”
A figure appeared out of nothingness, Ravyn’s Mirror Card held in a dirty hand. “Finally awake,” came a woman’s voice.
She was tall, adorned in clothes similar to what Ravyn might wear guised as a highwayman. Leather and wool and trousers that tucked into tall, worn-in boots. Her cloak was the color of peat moss. She wore the hood up, covering her hair save a few brown plaits that dangled near her ears.
Her face was obscured entirely by a mask. Not a highwayman’s mask, but one of bone. A ram’s skull.
“You have some quality Cards, Destriers,” she said, twirling the Mirror between her fingers. “This one, plus the Black Horse and Nightmare, will come in handy. Though I doubt we’ll have much use for a Maiden out here.” Her head tilted as she surveyed Ravyn through the ram’s empty eye sockets. “How’s your head? I hear the smoke causes a brutal headache.”