The Nightmare swung his sword in low, circular patterns, and the aspens followed in accordance. When the trees were finished rearranging themselves, they stood in a circle around the party.
The Nightmare clicked his blade thrice more, and the trees went still, so close together a child couldn’t slip through the gaps in their trunks.
“We should be safe from any manner of beast in here,” the Nightmare said. He turned—aimed the tip of his sword at Ravyn’s face. “Sit down, Ravyn Yew. I’m going to fix your broken beak.”
Ravyn’s broad back pressed against an aspen trunk. He didn’t like it. It felt too much like the pole he’d been tethered to in that fort, where he’d forfeited all his composure.
Where he’d killed Gorse.
Petyr lowered himself next to him with a grunt. “Wik—” He exhaled, voice uneven. “He broke my nose when we were kids. Hurt like hell.”
“I’m fine.”
The Nightmare’s chuckle sounded from a few paces away. He poured water from Petyr’s canteen over his hands, washing away grime.
Jespyr crouched on the farthest side of the aspen circle, all of them looking away while she relieved herself behind a shrub. When she finished she stood—ran a hand over her cheek. Winced. “I’ve not sure those bitches didn’t break something in my face, too.”
It was too dark to see much of her. The moon was but a pale smudge in the night sky, swathed in mist. Still, the swell of Jespyr’s left cheek was unmistakable.
Ravyn hadn’t noticed it during their fight in the courtyard. Otho’s magic—that terrible smoke—had limned his vision in red. He hadn’t known anything but rage and hate.
Guilt clutched him by the throat. He dug in his pocket—squinting in the dim light to discern which Card was pink. “Here,” he said, holding out the Maiden Card to the Nightmare. “Hand this to her.”
The Nightmare’s nostrils flared, his gaze passing over the Maiden. “I can’t touch it.”
Ravyn raised his brows.
“Believe me, I wish I could. I’d have saved myself the aggravation of traveling with you were I capable of taking back the Twin Alders myself. But this is still Elspeth’s body. Any Card I touch—she will absorb the object I paid to forge it.”
Jespyr rounded him, plucking the Maiden out of Ravyn’s hands. “What did you pay for this one, Shepherd King?”
“His hair, shorn off with a blade,” Petyr answered. There was a pause. “What? It’s not like I haven’t read The Old Book.”
Ravyn touched his nose. Winced. “Didn’t know you could read at all.”
Petyr’s elbow met his bruised ribs. “Laugh while you can. We all know that pretty pink Card won’t do a thing to heal you.”
Jespyr tapped the Maiden. Closed her eyes. Let out a long breath. “Trees,” she said, her voice reverent. “It feels so good not to be in pain.” She pressed a hand to her healed cheek, then tapped the Maiden thrice more. “Say Elspeth touched this Card instead of the Nightmare all those years ago. She would have absorbed…your hair?”
“Yes,” the Nightmare replied. “I had long hair. Dark.” His eyes raised over Ravyn’s head. “Like yours. Perhaps it would have clogged her throat. Strung itself around her heart. Made a nest in her lungs.”
Jespyr took her seat next to Ravyn. “Just when I think you’re getting tolerable, you go and open your mouth.”
The Nightmare approached on silent step. He loomed above them. Clicked his teeth—then gripped Ravyn’s nose.
There was a terrible grinding sound, pain biting over the mask of Ravyn’s face. “Fucking trees.”
“As I suspected,” the Nightmare said, indifferent. “Decidedly broken.”
Ravyn jerked his head back. “You’re hardly a Physician.”
“No. But I’ve mended my share of noses—my own in particular.”
“I hope whoever broke it enjoyed the feeling.”
“I’m sure he did.” His voice caught in the mist. “He had an exacting hand, Brutus Rowan, when it came to pain.”
They all went still.
Slowly, Jespyr leaned forward. “Did you know him well? The first Rowan King?”
“Piss on that,” Petyr said. “Tell us what everyone’s spent five hundred years guessing. Was he the one who killed you?”
The Nightmare didn’t answer. His mouth was a tight line, and his eyes were on the trees. He had that faraway look he got when he was talking to Elspeth.
Ravyn rolled his jaw. “Well?”
Yellow eyes snapped onto him. “Yes. I knew him well.” He leaned over Ravyn. “This is going to hurt. You may wish to distract yourself.”
“How do you propose I do that?”
“Reach into your pocket.”
Ravyn’s brow knit, and the Nightmare blew out a breath. “Not stupid indeed,” he muttered. “The Nightmare Card, Ravyn Yew. That’s as good as an invitation to enter my mind as you’ll ever get.”
Seams groaning, Ravyn shoved his hand into his pocket—wrenched out the Mirror, then Gorse’s Black Horse.
His stomach turned. When he pulled out the Nightmare Card, his hands were shaking.
Three taps. Salt. Then—Ravyn.
He shut his eyes. Elspeth.
Are you—A sharp, angry sound fluttered through Ravyn’s mind. I keep trying to reach for your hand.
A knot corded in Ravyn’s throat. I wish you could.
They’re shaking. Your hands.
I know. They’ve been shaking since—
The Nightmare reached forward. Gripped Ravyn’s nose between both hands. There was another terrible grinding sound, cartilage and bone, and then Ravyn was reeling. Petyr and Jespyr pressed his arms down on both sides.
“Stay still, you bucking horse,” Jespyr grunted.
Hold still, Ravyn.
Pain painted him. His face twisted, and he screwed his eyes shut tighter still, trying to hide it. But he couldn’t—not this time. Don’t look at me, Elspeth.
Ravyn.
He jerked his head—spoke to Elspeth—to himself—in a ragged voice. “I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
Jespyr caught his left hand, then Petyr his right. And Elspeth—her voice was everywhere. A thousand rose petals falling over him. You are in no danger of losing me—your sister—your friends. There is no weakness in pain, Ravyn.
Pressure built behind his eyes. “What I did in that courtyard—what I said—”
Jespyr’s held his arm, bracing it against tremors. “I know. It was terrible. What I said was terrible, too. I’m sorry.”
There was one more flash of white-hot pain, and then the Nightmare let go of Ravyn’s nose. “Keep it elevated.”
Ravyn pressed the back of his head against the aspen tree. The Nightmare bent over him. “Don’t you understand?” he whispered. “There can be no stony facade—no pretending—after this. Death demands to be felt. It wasn’t just Gorse who died in that courtyard today.” His yellow gaze reached into the darkest parts of Ravyn. “But the Captain of the Destriers as well.”
It was late. Ravyn and Jespyr and the Nightmare were still awake—barely. Petyr was snoring, curled around himself.