With a few booming commands from Otho, the courtyard cleared—spectators filing into the fort, the dark sockets of their bone masks trained on Ravyn as they went. They dragged Gorse’s body with them, a bloody trail the Destrier’s last mark upon the kingdom he’d served.
Ravyn locked his hands into fists. Even then, they shook.
Opal stood at the post opposite the Nightmare, staring at what used to be her niece, tears in her eyes. Ravyn knew her pain by heart. She’d seen a maiden with black hair and thought it was Elspeth—only to be met by terrifying yellow eyes.
Just as Ione had in the dungeon, Opal placed a hand on the Nightmare’s cheek and lost the color in her own. “What’s happened to you?” she whispered. “You’re—different.”
The Nightmare’s expression was smooth. “I am.”
“You’re—you’re not Elspeth.”
The Nightmare said nothing. Opal’s hand fell. She stepped back from the post and began to weep. Her boys stood next to her, their young eyes wide as they stared at the Nightmare. But when Ravyn moved to approach—to explain—Hesis pulled a rapier from her belt. “Stay back.”
“I don’t understand,” Opal said, scrubbing tears from her cheeks. “Why have they been imprisoned?” Her eyes moved to Jespyr. “She’s the one who warned me the Destriers were coming.”
Otho’s posture stiffened.
Jespyr reached for Opal’s hand. Spoke in a gentle voice. “How did you and your boys end up here?”
“I brought her,” Hesis said through her mask of bone. “The stronghold your Captain spoke of is full. But we have plenty of room here, far beyond the King’s reach. Or so we thought.”
Jespyr explained to Opal, Otho and Hesis leaning in to listen, what had happened to Elspeth that night at Spindle House. That Tyrn and Erik and Ione were at Stone. Why they had journeyed into the wood.
Ravyn withdrew to the post.
“All right, lad?” Petyr grunted.
Ravyn could still feel the pillar of Gorse’s hitching throat in the center of his palm. “Fine.”
Petyr lowered his voice. “The knife they overlooked is in my left boot.”
When the hollows of Otho’s and Hesis’s masks were turned on Jespyr and Opal, Ravyn planted his foot next to Petyr’s—made like he was tying his laces—and slipped his hand into Petyr’s boot. When he withdrew it, his fingers were wrapped around a slender leather sheath.
The blade was small, its hilt a hook. Ravyn stood—rounded the post until he was near the Nightmare. “Don’t move.”
But when he pressed the blade against the rope, his hand shook so hard the rope quivered. He paused. Tried again.
Had they been soldiers under his command, Ravyn would have dismissed Otho and Hesis for their ineptitude—he was making a boar’s ass of cutting a simple tether. But their focus was so tight on Jespyr, lost to her story of the Shepherd King, that they didn’t notice the rope shake for a full minute before it finally cleaved.
The Nightmare held Ravyn in his yellow gaze the entire time. “Messy business, killing.” The corner of his lip twitched. “Elspeth says you look terrible.”
Ravyn’s gaze shot up. “She didn’t say that.”
“No. She didn’t.” He cleared his throat. “It seems I owe you an apology.”
“You mean Elspeth wants you to apologize.”
“Annoyingly, yes.” His mouth grew strained. “Witless though you are, you are not a disappointment.”
Had it been a different day or week or month, Ravyn might have laughed, watching the monster squirm. But he was far too tired for that now. “Does it cost you—showing a fraction of remorse, Shepherd King?”
“Yes. And I require recompense.” Those yellow eyes turned hard. “It’s taking me centuries of restraint not rip your head from your body after that outburst about Elspeth.” A flash of teeth. “About my children.”
“I didn’t mean to say it. That smoke—that magic—”
“Rage and hate. Two things I know well enough.”
Ravyn bit down. “I don’t know what happened to your children. But I know you would not want to see Elspeth harmed. It is perhaps the only thing I understand about you.”
Neither of them had apologized—not really. But an airing of truths, after so much malice, was the best they could do.
The Nightmare’s gaze drifted up the fort walls. “I’ve had enough of this wretched place. Give me the knife.”
“No. I don’t want blood on Elspeth’s hands.”
The Nightmare’s gaze lingered over Ravyn’s nose. It had begun to ache, his nose—a hot, constant agony ever since Hesis had struck it. Broken, he guessed.
When the Nightmare spoke again, the smoothness in his voice was gone. “The knife. Now.”
Ravyn faced those terrible yellow eyes. Looked for Elspeth. Could not see her. “Don’t kill anyone,” he growled.
When Hesis approached, Ravyn’s hands were at his sides. Shaking, but empty.
“Opal Hawthorns is a good woman. Though her wits may have abandoned her, because she’s insisting you and your sister possess honor.” Hesis heaved a sigh, alternating her rapier between her hands. “Even if that were true—we cannot let you leave. You would inevitably return to Stone. I hear the King is fond of his inquests. Sooner or later, the truth of what happened and who you saw on your journey to the Twin Alders Card will out. I cannot allow—”
There was a tearing sound, a flash of movement in Ravyn’s periphery. Hesis had but a moment to shift her blade from Ravyn to the Nightmare.
It wasn’t enough.
The Nightmare sprung off the post. He struck the snout of Hesis’s mask with the heel of his palm, an ugly crack echoing in the yard. She screamed, dropped her rapier.
Otho bolted toward her sister, but Ravyn surged forward—caught her with a broad arm—slammed her onto the dirt. When she tried to reach for her blade, Jespyr pressed a boot onto her arm.
“Pocket,” Ravyn gritted out. “Our Cards. Hurry.”
Jespyr reached into Otho’s jerkin. She pulled out their Cards—Nightmare and Mirror and Maiden, then two Black Horses. Hers, and Gorse’s.
Otho glared up at them through the empty sockets of her mask. “If the King uses a Chalice on you, it will be the death of every soul in this place. Their blood will be on your hands.”
“It won’t come to that,” the Nightmare called, he and Petyr aiming toward their pile of weapons. “I have plans for the Rowans.”
Petyr handed Ravyn his belt of knives—his satchel and sword.
Opal Hawthorn had retreated to the courtyard doors, wide-eyed, with her sons. “Castle Yew,” Ravyn said as he approached. “If this place ever proves unsafe, go to Castle Yew. My family will protect you.”
Opal nodded, but her gaze was lost over his shoulder. There were tears in her eyes once more. “And Elspeth?”
Ravyn’s voice was ragged. “I’m going to get her back. No matter the cost.”
The fort door groaned, and Petyr and Jespyr hurried through. Ravyn offered Opal his hand. He didn’t think her the sort of woman who would mind that his fingers were trembling.