All while he talked, Ione stayed silent, her grip on him tightening. When he finished, she put a hand over his heart. “So that’s what you’ve been doing with all your time.”
“I’d be liar if I said I wasn’t damn tired from it all.”
“Thinking you could collect the entire Deck under the King’s nose, including a Card that has been lost five hundred years, is the most arrogant—most Elm—thing I’ve ever heard.”
He chuckled, curling a strand of her hair around his finger. “I wasn’t the only mastermind.”
“What about my mother and brothers? The Spindle girls? I thought you’d know where they’d gone. But when I asked, with the Chalice—”
“It was important I didn’t know. That way, not even a Chalice could make me share their whereabouts.”
Her eyes widened. “You got them out?”
The Scythe was never far. Elm found it in his cloak pocket and moved it between his fingers, flipping it until the edges blurred. “Jespyr warned your mother and brothers, and I compelled the Spindles to flee. I tried to get you out, too. I had no idea you weren’t in Spindle House. No idea what Hauth had done.”
Twin tears fell from Ione’s eyes. “Why?’
Elm sat up, took her face in his hands. “Because I don’t believe in it, Ione. Any of it. Five hundred years of Rowan law—it doesn’t mean a thing to me. Better we all dropped our charms and let the Spirit consume us than live in a place that punished people for magic not of their own doing. I’d rather Stone burned before I saw a woman and her children punished for hiding an infected niece.” He brushed her tears away. “Your family will be safe someday. I’m going to change things. I’m going to be the worst Rowan King in five hundred years.” The tips of his lips curled. “I might even enjoy it.”
Ione’s tears stopped. She was looking at him the same way she had when she’d called him beautiful. She pushed into him, arms wrapping around his neck. “Then let me enjoy it with you,” she murmured into his mouth.
The Scythe fluttered to the ground, utterly forgotten.
They decided to announce the marriage contract that night—to put a stake in the heart of pageantry and end the feasts a day early.
It was well after midday when they returned to Stone. Somewhere deep within the castle, a bell was tolling. Ione looked up at the tall, looming towers. “What’s that?”
Elm handed the groom the reins and took her hand. “I’m not sure.”
Baldwyn wasn’t there to ask. Neither was Filick. A string pulled in Elm’s chest. He thought maybe Ravyn had returned early.
Fingers laced with Ione’s, Elm took the stairs to the royal corridor and stepped into his chamber. A shadow rose in the corner of the room. It wasn’t Ravyn waiting for him.
It was Hauth.
PART THREE
To Bend
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Elspeth
The Spirit of the Wood’s shore was much like the one I’d occupied in the Nightmare’s mind. A listless, infinite space. Only this beach was pale. The sky, the rolling waves, the fine sand—all a wan, lifeless gray.
Ravyn sat in the sand, Jespyr in his arms. He could not reach her, not with his Nightmare Card, not with his voice. Not matter how he shook her—called out her name—she would not wake.
I don’t know how long we sat on that beach, waiting for the Spirit of the Wood. The Nightmare gnawed at a fingernail, watching the Yew siblings from the corner of his eye.
Ravyn’s voice was ragged. “How long do we wait?”
“The Spirit keeps her own time.”
Dozens of cuts from branches and thorns marred Ravyn’s face. He looked so tired. When he pressed a calloused finger to his sister’s neck, a pained sound came out of his mouth. “Her pulse is slowing. The fever is killing her.”
Do something, I pleaded in my dark chamber. Don’t let him lose hope.
“Your family is steeped in magic,” the Nightmare replied, harsher than he should. “She will live.”
Ravyn clamped his eyes shut and said nothing.
“You did not come all this way to yield to despair.”
Ravyn didn’t answer. But another voice did.
It came from the sea, deep and vast. It filled my dark room, echoing near and far. “The King of Blunder,” it called, “come to barter once more.”
When the water parted, a creature with claws and pointed ears and silver eyes slipped out of it. And I knew, deep within the inky blackness in my veins, who she was.
The Spirit of the Wood.
“Welcome back, Shepherd King. Welcome, Ravyn and Jespyr Yew.” Her unearthly eyes met my window. She smiled. “Welcome, Elspeth Spindle.”
Chapter Forty
Elm
A flash of red. “Don’t move,” came Hauth’s voice. “Don’t even speak.”
Salt stung Elm’s senses. His mind skittered to a halt, locking his muscles along with it. He was frozen, one hand in his pocket, the other laced with Ione’s.
Hauth stood before them. Tall, menacing, and entirely flawless. The scars—bruises and claw marks—were gone, his skin unblemished. He wore a gold tunic and a deep crimson doublet, his chest wide as he squared off with Elm. A pair of daggers was fastened to his belt.
He looked younger. But that was only because the deeply embedded frown lines in his brow had been smoothed over. Hauth glanced down, his green eyes tracing Elm and Ione’s clasped hands. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said, his tone idle. “You’ve always been a cocky little runt.”
The last time Elm had seen his brother, Hauth had been lying in a puddle of his own drool. There was no poultice, no medicine—no magic—in the world that could have healed him so well.
Save one.
Hauth lowered himself to a seat atop Elm’s chest of clothes. “I see you thinking, Renelm. Trying to work it all out in that weaselly little mind.” His eyes flickered to Ione. “Did she tell you? About that night at Spindle House? About what I did to her?”
Rage coated Elm’s throat. He tried to open his mouth, but his jaw was locked.
Hauth’s eyes raked over Ione’s body. “How different you look, my dear, from the bloody shell of a woman lying beneath my window at Spindle House. When I opened my eyes two nights ago and saw you, so perfectly whole, I knew. Even when I understood nothing else, I knew.” The words slid between his teeth. “The Maiden Card healed you, Ione.”
Ione’s hand was cold in Elm’s, slick with sweat.
“When Father tapped the Nightmare Card and entered my mind, I tried to tell him. But the fool was too drunk, too unfocused. He didn’t hear me.” A touch of satisfaction crossed Hauth’s face. “But a night later, Linden did.”
The door opened behind him. And then Linden was there. Only now, his face was clear, his skin unblemished—his scars gone.
“Take his Scythe,” Hauth said, nodding at Elm.
Brutish hands pushed into Elm’s pockets. Linden looked up at him with a sneer. He ripped Elm’s Scythe free. Then, for good measure, rammed a fist into his stomach.
Breath rushed out of him and nausea rolled. But he couldn’t even double over. The Scythe’s leash, holding him in place, was too tight.