His charm was gone. Lost, somewhere in the pond.
“Prince?”
Elm coughed. When he tried to speak, his voice was drowned out by another. It came in the mist, sounding near and far, like a storm. Elm, it called. Rotten, ruined Elm. Neglected, now chosen. I see you, heir of Kings. I’ve always seen you.
Ione was in the grass next to him, her hands on his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
A compulsion as strong as any Scythe’s was digging into Elm, telling him to get up—to run deeper into the mist. He gnashed his teeth against it, his mouth dried out by salt. “Charm,” he managed.
Ione ripped the chain off her neck in a single tug. Elm’s hand was a claw in the grass. Ione pulled it toward her and slapped her own hand against it, her charm fixed between their palms.
The next breath Elm dragged in was bereft of mist. On the next, the rot and brine fled his body. His muscles loosened, and he looked up at Ione.
Yellow hair spilled from its knot, swaying with the rapid pull of her breaths. She searched Elm’s face. “Prince Renelm. It would be terribly unclever to die searching for my Maiden Card.”
Elm tightened his grip on her hand. “Don’t call me that,” he said, shaking. “It’s Elm. Just Elm.”
“Is that the privilege I get after twice saving your life?”
He pushed out of the grass, leaning close enough to see where the freckles on her nose should be. “Thank you.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. “I owe you.”
Ione’s breath quickened. “You’re helping me find my Card. Call it balance.”
He didn’t. He wanted to call it something else entirely.
They held hands, Ione’s charm pressed between them, until they were out of the mist and back through the garden’s gilded doors. Elm had a spare horsehair charm in his room, and he needed new clothes before they continued to search. He was lacing a fresh doublet when his chamber door banged open.
Filick Willow stood at his threshold, eyes wide.
“Oh for the love of—Filick. I thought we talked about knocking.”
There was blood on his white Physician’s tunic. “Highness.” His gaze moved to Ione, seated on Elm’s bed. “Miss Hawthorn. You should both come.”
Elm’s back stiffened. “What’s happened?”
“High Prince Hauth.” Dread. There was so much dread in the Physician’s eyes. “He’s awake.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Elspeth
The Nightmare watched Ravyn and Jespyr as they drifted to sleep.
Will they be safe in there? I asked. In the alderwood?
No.
Then you must keep them safe.
He lowered himself to a crouch, then slowly onto the ground. He hauled his sword onto his lap. I have not done well, guarding those I cherish.
When he slept, I waded through the darkness of his mind, his memories quick to find me.
I sat on the stone in the chamber I had built and looked up. The ceiling I had crafted as a younger man was weathered. Outside, the yew trees swayed, stirred by a chill autumn breeze. No dappled sunlight streamed between their branches.
There was only gray mist.
“Father?”
My gaze wrenched to the window. Ayris was there, standing hand in hand with Tilly. My sister’s usual warmth was guarded, her yellow eyes hard. But when she spoke to my daughter, her voice was gentle. “Go on, Tilly. Ask him.”
Tilly curled a finger at the end of one of her dark plaits. Smiled sheepishly. “Can we swing in the yew tree like you promised?”
I looked at her, indifferent. It was easier, now I had fashioned the Nightmare Card—my soul lost to velvet—telling the children no. “Not now, my darling girl,” I said in a voice smooth as silk. “I have work yet to do.”
Her smile faded. “All right.” She let go of Ayris’s hand, picked up her skirt—heaved a sigh. “I’ll wait in the meadow. In case you change your mind.”
When she looked at me, Ayris, my sunshine sister, was full of frost. “Your work,” she said, “has made a stranger of you.”
She hurried after Tilly.
A moment later, the chorus of tree voices rattled through my mind.
Eleven Cards the Spirit has given you, Taxus. Do you still ask for more?
“This mist,” I said, the word a hiss on my tongue. “It makes my people lose their way. Draws them into the wood. Its magic is not a blessing, but a curse.”
That is the way of magic, the trees whispered.
“I want another Card. One that will lift the mist.”
The Spirit will not give you a Card to undo the very thing she has created to lure people back into her woods.
“Then I want a way to heal the fever and the infection it brings. You told me, after barters were made, a day would come when I could heal it.”
That day has not yet arrived, Shepherd King.
I ground my molars together. “I grow weary of your riddles, trees. If I cannot get answers from you”—my gaze narrowed—“then I would speak to the Spirit herself. Give me a Card to do so.”
Their pause was deafening. Very well, they whispered. But of price, she will not say.
“I don’t care. I’ll pay anything.”
Anything?
“Anything.”
Salt filled the chamber, stronger than I’d ever smelled it. My vision buckled and I fell. My head hit the earth with a brutal thud, eleven Providence Cards falling from my pocket and scattering around me.
When I woke, a twelfth Card was atop the stone. Forest green, with two trees depicted upon it—one pale, the other dark. In script above them was writ The Twin Alders.
I tapped it three times. Waited. Nothing. A curse formed on my lips. I tapped the Maiden Card to heal my head—
But the Card did not work.
My throat tightened. I tapped the Mirror—tried to go invisible. Nothing.
The Well showed me no enemies—the Iron Gate gave no serenity. I screamed myself raw and tapped the Cards until my fingers ached. Still, I could not wield them.
I crumpled to the foot of the stone, surrounded by the Cards’ colorful lights. I’d found a way to speak to the Spirit of the Wood. I’d bled, bartered, and bent for twelve Providence Cards.
And I could not use a single one.
The pages of memory turned faster.
A town crier read a royal decree, warning all of Blunder to stay out of the mist.
Then, a woman, screaming in pain, veins the color of ink. She’d made it past castle guards into my throne room, begging for an audience with my Physicians. My Captain of the Guard, Brutus Rowan, tapped his Scythe three times, forcing her out.
“Blunder is in grave danger,” he said to me in the privacy of my library. “This mist is a blight. And it spreads.”
I was seated at a wide desk surrounded by stacks of inky parchment. I leaned over a notebook, scribbling madly. With my other hand, I twirled the Twin Alders Card between my fingers. “I’ve told you a hundred times already,” I said, not bothering to look up, “I will find a way to lift the mist.”
“People have lost their way in it. Trade routes have been disrupted. People are not asking for the fever any longer—the Spirit is forcing it upon them.” He paused. “I’ve seen mere children with magic powerful enough to give my men pause.”