Air fled Ravyn’s lungs, punching its way across his bruised ribs. He reached into his tunic, tearing the spare charm—the viper head—out of his pocket. “Give it this.”
The Nightmare didn’t look at it. “We need a guide.” He spoke now only to Jespyr, his voice eerily gentle. “You remember some weeks ago, when you dropped your charm in the Black Forest? When the mist twisted your mind? What were you running toward?”
Jespyr’s pallor had gone sallow. Her hand was knotted in a fist, a small thread peeking out. Ravyn knew was she was holding. A dog tooth on a string. Her charm. “I can hardly remember,” she managed. “All I know was that there was a voice in the mist. Like a storm, calling out my name.”
“That was the Spirit of the Wood, beckoning you to this place,” the Nightmare whispered. “This is where people come, when they are lost to the mist.” He drew air into his nose. “Can’t you smell them?”
As if stirred by his words, the wind picked up. Salt—
And rot.
Bile rose into Ravyn’s mouth. “No. If Jespyr or Petyr give up their charms, the mist will infect them. Or kill them.”
The Nightmare nodded slowly, unblinking.
“No,” Ravyn said again. “There has to be another way.”
“There is not.”
“But you’ve entered this wood before!”
“I have.”
Ravyn’s mind went dark. He remembered standing near the cellar at Stone the morning their journey began. He hadn’t known what the monster meant then, but now, it was so horribly clear.
We’ll need at least one spare.
His skin went cold, then burning hot. “You knew this would happen.”
The Nightmare’s silence was confirmation enough.
“Nothing to say? No clever little rhyme?” Ravyn shoved the Nightmare against the trees, hands knotting in the collar of his cloak. “You’re the goddamn Shepherd King! Think of another way.”
The Nightmare could have killed him with a single flex of his fingers. For a moment, lips peeling back in a snarl, he looked like he wanted to. “There was another way. The Destrier. He might have been the one to give up his charm. But he is dead. The mist has no sway over you or me.” He pushed Ravyn back with incredible strength, turning his gaze once more to Jespyr and Petyr. “It must be one of them.”
Petyr’s brown eyes were wide, color leaching from his face. “And if we don’t?”
“Then we cannot retrieve the Twin Alders Card. The Deck will not unite on Solstice. And young Emory Yew will surely die.”
Jespyr flinched at her brother’s name. She looked down at her charm. “I’ll do it.”
“Like hell.” Ravyn didn’t know if he was whispering or shouting. “There has to be another—”
“Saying there must be another way does not make it so,” the Nightmare hissed.
Petyr turned to Jespyr. Swallowed laboriously. “I—it should be me, princess. You’re too important.”
“I’m not any more important than you.” Strain pulled at Jespyr’s face. “We’ll toss your lucky coin. That is balance. That is fair.”
With a shaking hand, Petry drew his coin from his pocket. He handed it to Ravyn. Gave him a pointed look. “Heads.”
“Tails,” Jespyr murmured.
The coin was small in Ravyn’s hand. He stared down at it, the edifice of his life crumbling around him. It was only a scrap of copper.
But it might cost a life.
“‘I’m prepared to pay whatever price she asks,’” the Nightmare murmured in his ear. “That is what you said when I spoke to you of retrieving the Twin Alders Card.”
“If you think I meant my own sister—”
“I said it once, too. That I’d pay the Spirit anything she wanted for the Twin Alders. And I did. Once in the chamber, when she robbed me of my ability to use the very Cards I’d lost pieces of myself to forge—and again, here, at the edge of her wood. I paid. We all must.”
Petyr planted his feet. Shut his eyes. “Go on, lad. Toss the coin.”
Ravyn remained statue-still.
“Toss it, Ravyn,” Jespyr said through her teeth.
He didn’t budge. “Jes—”
“Toss. The. Coin.” She looked into his eyes. “For Emory.”
Ravyn’s throat closed. He flicked his wrist—let loose the coin. It caught gray light as it spun in the air.
No one blinked. No one breathed. When the coin dropped back into Ravyn’s palm, it felt heavier. He glanced down, caging his fingers around it before the others could see. “Heads.”
Petyr let out a shaking breath, and so did the Nightmare.
Jespyr didn’t move. Her gaze narrowed, trained on Ravyn’s eyes. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can always tell.” Conviction hardened the lines of her face. She marched toward the wall of trees. “Just this once, I wish you hadn’t. You’re not the only one who would do anything for Emory.” She took her charm, and before Ravyn could reach out and stop her—
Shoved it into the hole in the alder tree.
The wood groaned in response. The wind rose in a torrent, mist gusting through branches. Then the trees began to move, a narrow path opening in the impenetrable line of alders.
Opening for Jespyr.
The mist was so dense that Ravyn could hardly see her. Jespyr sucked in a breath, and mist slipped into her mouth. She coughed on it—looked back at him. “Are you with me, brother?”
Something inside of Ravyn shattered. “I’m right behind you.”
The light in her brown eyes faded. Jespyr turned to the narrow path between the trees—
And ran into the alderwood.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Elm
Elm kept his hand high on Farrah Pine’s back. It was his fifth dance of the evening. Five dances, and Ione had still not arrived in the great hall.
The theme of the night was seasons, and the court was parceled by costumes of Equinoxes and Solstices—summers and winters, springs and autumns. The columns of the great hall were decorated with sprigs of holly, woven with garlands. Blood-red rowan berries hung from every archway. Sconces and chandeliers dripped candle wax. Decorative bells were stripped from the walls by drunken courtiers, their notes clanging through the room, fighting in discord with singing voices and the instrumentations of the King’s orchestra.
It was pageantry Elm might never have endured had he not been waiting for Ione. He’d knocked on her door, but she hadn’t been there. He’d searched for her in the great hall, only to be caught in the tide of courtiers.
When the dance finally ended in a sweeping crescendo, the gong struck nine. Elm dropped Farrah’s hand, thanked her with a bow, then pushed into the crowd.
Hands caught his black doublet, stopping him.
Alyx Laburnum, and the two younger Laburnum brothers Elm hardly knew, shoved a goblet into his hands. They were all wearing autumn leaves in their hair. “Majesty,” Alyx said, his face easy with drunkenness. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
Spending time with a Laburnum was the farthest thing from pleasure Elm could fathom. “Alyx,” he muttered into his cup. “Enjoying yourself?”