The Spirit held Ravyn in her unblinking silver gaze, then lunged forward, her claw catching his hand. With incredible strength, she pulled him off the shore into the frigid sea. Ravyn was afforded only a brief glance back at the Nightmare and Jespyr before the Sprint plunged him beneath water, the salty tide slipping over his head.
When Ravyn opened his eyes, he wasn’t underwater—he wasn’t even wet. He was standing in a field of snow. Jespyr and the Nightmare were gone. It was just him, alone, with the Spirit of the Wood.
Birds called overhead. Not the caw of ravens or crows, but songbirds. The sweet tune of larks. Wings fluttered above a meadow coated in snow. When Ravyn looked up, his breath caught.
It was clearly winter. But he’d never seen the sky so blue, the light so strong—entirely unencumbered by mist. It stole the breath from him, the beauty of it.
“Where are we?”
“Eight hundred years in the past,” came the Spirit’s dissonant reply.
“Why?
She let go of his hand and stalked through the snow. “Magic has little use for time. I walk through centuries like they were my own garden.” Her eyes fixed on Ravyn over her shoulder. “Human life is short. You are not as a tree, stoic and unyielding, but a butterfly. Delicate, fleeting. Inconsequential.”
Ravyn shook his head. Lamb, butterfly. The Shepherd King had described the Spirit of the Wood in The Old Book of Alders as neither kin, foe, nor friend. He might have saved ink and called her what she truly was. A proper asshole.
Her tail flicked, as if she knew his thoughts. She opened her claws. Beside the Twin Alders, eleven other Providence Cards appeared in her palm. They floated in front of Ravyn, suspended in air, turning with the slow flourishes of the Spirit’s finger. “The Cards. The mist. The blood,” she said. “They are all woven together, their balance delicate, like a silken web.”
“Which makes you the spider.”
She smiled at that. “The Shepherd King was clever, imaginative. No ordinary soul could have made such a varying, intricate Deck. He knew neither virtue, nor love, greater than his want for these Cards.” She snapped her fingers, and the Cards came rushing back into her claws. “Are you the same, Ravyn Yew?”
Measure your words carefully with her. They may be your last.
Ravyn took a deep breath. “I’m a thief. A liar. Most would find my virtue lacking.”
“And your love?”
Ravyn’s chest tightened. If he were to close his eyes, he knew what he would see. His parents’ faces, bent as they read books in silence by the library fire. Elm and Jespyr and Emory, riding on horseback down the forest road. Elspeth, sitting across from him at Castle Yew’s table, pink in her cheeks as she smiled at him from behind a teacup. “I have something of love in me.”
With another snap of the Spirit’s fingers, the Deck was gone, leaving only the Twin Alders in her claws. “Then I will make you an offer. Leave this Card with me, and I will save the people you love. Your siblings shall be free of the infection. Elspeth Spindle will be released from the Shepherd King, body and mind.” She drew a claw through snow. “And the Rowan Prince shall be saved from his almost certain, ruinous fate.”
Birds were still chirping—the sun still on Ravyn’s face. But he was cold all over, the only sound to reach him the thrum of his unsteady pulse. “What fate should Elm need saving from?”
The Spirit did nothing but watch him through unblinking silver eyes.
“I should know what I’m agreeing to.”
Silence was her only reply.
The ever-present tremor in Ravyn’s hands quickened. When he spoke, his words clung to the back of his neck. “Then I have no choice but to save them myself come Solstice. With the Twin Alders Card.”
Dark fur and wide, unyielding eyes made it difficult to discern emotion upon the Spirit of the Wood’s face. But by the momentary twitch of her ears—the flick of her tail—Ravyn was certain she was displeased with his answer.
“You spoke of me, once,” she murmured. “You were walking through the Black Forest on your way to steal Wayland Pine’s Iron Gate Card. You led the party, but your gaze was cast back. To Elspeth Spindle.”
Ravyn pressed his lips together. “I remember. “
“You said to her, ‘Magic sways, like salt water on a tide. I believe the Spirit is the moon, commanding the tide. She pulls us in, but also sets us free. She is neither good nor evil. She is magic—balance. Eternal.’”
The wind in the meadow picked up. The Spirit’s voice grew louder. “I would have all of Blunder believe the same. And so, Ravyn Yew, my second offer to you is the throne.”
When Ravyn did not speak, a snarl touched the edge of her voice. “You have the makings of a great King. Measured, careful. Wary of balance. You need not go back to Stone and bow before your uncle—no more lying or stealing or pretending. Find your own virtue, keep your own rules.” She nodded at the Card in her claws. “Leave the Twin Alders Card with me, and I shall make you Blunder’s King in Quercus Rowan’s stead.”
“You do not have the power to do that.”
She was paces away, then suddenly—too close. Her silver eyes filled Ravyn’s vision, her claws pressing into his chest.
“You stand here, hundreds of years in the past, and speak to me of power?” The smell of salt was everywhere. “The Shepherd King was born with the fever because I deemed it so. His children were gifted magic by me. Brutus Rowan took the throne because I did not intervene. Kings and monsters can be made, and butterflies can be crushed. All that you know, I have created. I am Blunder—her infection, her trees, her mist. I am brimming with magic.”
“And yet you barter with a liar and thief, just to remain so.” Ravyn leaned forward, letting the tips of her claws press harder against his chest. “You are eternal. And you are magic. But I know as well as you that magic is the oldest paradox. The more power it gives you, the weaker you become. The Shepherd King taught me that.”
A low, scraping sound resonated in her throat. She pulled back. “You are determined, then, to overlook my generosity and take back the Twin Alders Card?”
“I have no ambition for the throne.”
Her voice held an edge. “Perhaps you should.”
Ravyn bit down. “Time is precious to me, Spirit. Name your price for the Twin Alders. I would like to go home.”
Her silver eyes narrowed, her dark tongue dragging over the tips of her teeth. “Then answer me this.” She drew in a rasping breath. “The dark bird has three heads. Highwayman, Destrier, and another. One of age, of birthright. Tell me, Ravyn Yew, after your long walk in my wood—do you finally know your name?”
A memory tugged at Ravyn. He’d heard those words before.
Emory had whispered them back at Stone.
“That is my price,” the Spirit continued, a smile snaking over her lips. “My barter—my cost. If you answer correctly, I shall grant you the final Providence Card. If you cannot, it remains with me.” Her claw tightened around the Twin Alders. “Your name, Ravyn Yew. Tell me your name.”
The riddle cantered forward in Ravyn’s mind, leaving behind a sense of dread. He felt like he was sitting down to a game of chess with Elm. That, by simply being there, he had already been utterly outmaneuvered.