“You offered me two things,” he said slowly. “I denied them both. For my restraint—and for the sake of balance—I ask for two clues.”
“I’ll tell you what I told the Shepherd King when he visited long ago.” The wind picked up, and her voice grew louder. “The twelve call for each other when the shadows grow long—when the days are cut short and the Spirit is strong. They call for the Deck, and the Deck calls them back. Unite us, they say, and we’ll cast out the black. At the King’s namesake tree, with the black blood of salt. All twelve shall, together, bring sickness to halt. They’ll lighten the mist from mountain to sea. New beginnings—new ends…”
“But nothing comes free,” Ravyn finished.
“Upon Solstice,” the Spirit said, her silver gaze unrelenting, “the Deck of Cards will unite under the King’s namesake tree. That tree is not a rowan. That is your first clue.”
Her words played in Ravyn’s ears, unharmonious. He tapped his fingers along the ivory hilt on his belt. “And the second?”
“That, I will not tell you.” Her smile was all teeth. “I will show you.”
The world tilted. When it righted, they were still in the meadow—snow all around them. Only now, they stood under the shadow of yew trees.
At the meadow’s cusp was a stone chamber, fixed with one, dark window.
Ravyn whirled, searching the tree line for Castle Yew’s towers. They were not there. A different castle loomed ahead of him.
One he had only ever seen in ruins.
“How far in the past are we now?”
“Five hundred years. We shall be neither seen, nor heard.” The Spirit of the Wood gestured a gnarled claw toward the castle. “Shall we go inside?”
The castle was bustling. Musicians tightened the strings of their instruments. Servants hurried down corridors and up stairs with silver trays stacked with food, children with dark hair weaving between them, snagging pieces of sweet bread and spiced fruits. Holly and mistletoe garnished every door. Red and green and yellow velvet cords were strung between the iron arms of chandeliers.
Solstice, Ravyn realized.
Five long tables parceled the great hall, their benches full of courtiers, laughing and drinking. There was no dais at the end of the hall, but there was a throne. Wooden, fashioned of thick, interlocked branches.
Upon it sat a man.
He was not caught up in the revelry around him. He spoke to no one, his face downturned over a book splayed open in his lap. The Old Book of Alders.
There were lines in his copper skin, his face angular—mouth drawn. He had a long, hooked nose. When he lifted his gaze, Ravyn caught a glimpse of his eyes.
Yellow.
“Is that—”
“The Shepherd King, in the flesh,” the Spirit whispered.
A crown rested upon his head, tangling in his dark, wavy hair. A gilt circle of gnarled, twisting branches and greenery.
Ravyn had seen that crown before. It waited in the stone chamber at the edge of the meadow, five hundred years in the future.
He kept his eyes on the Shepherd King. It seemed like a dream, seeing the face behind the voice. The slippery whispers, the grating snarls and hisses. Those were the embellishments of a monster. But this—this was undoubtably a man.
There was something strangely familiar about his face. But before Ravyn could put his finger on what it was—
Smoke filled the air.
It came from every doorway, dark and oppressive. Courtiers bolted from their seats, cries filling the great hall as they trampled over one another to get out. Castle guards peeled themselves off walls, guiding frantic men and women and children out of the castle. The Old Book of Alders fell from the Shepherd King’s lap. He stood—
But a gloved hand held him back.
A man came from behind the throne. His body was broad and his face sharp with angles, frown lines carved deep into his brow. In his other hand, he held two Providence Cards. The Black Horse, and the Scythe.
There was blood on his upper lip, dripping slowly from his left nostril. But Ravyn was focused only on his eyes. Green, like his uncle’s. Like Hauth’s and Elm’s.
Brutus Rowan.
He put his Cards into his pocket, leaned over the throne, and spoke words Ravyn could not hear to his King. He reached for his belt, withdrew a dagger—
And drove it in the Shepherd King’s ribs.
Men in black cloaks stepped into the smoke, their eyes unfocused, fixed on Brutus Rowan. “Find his daughter,” he commanded them. “Don’t let her heal him. Then bring me the other children.”
The Shepherd King reared. The back of his head collided with Brutus’s jaw, and loud, ugly shouts filled the room.
Ravyn coughed for the smoke—rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, the Shepherd King and Brutus Rowan were gone.
“Come,” the Spirit of the Wood said, taking his hand in her claws. “It’s almost finished.”
She led him outside. It was night now. The sky was black, the crescent moon masked by smoke. Orange flames licked up the castle towers, the last of the screaming courtiers fleeing into the night.
Ravyn’s entire body tensed as the Spirit of the Wood brought him through the meadow. He knew where they were going. He’d walked these steps a thousand times. The Shepherd King’s chamber.
And his grave.
“I don’t know if I can stomach this.”
Her tail flicked through smoky air. “Would you like it to stop?”
Figures darted past them, hurrying through the snow. The Shepherd King—followed by four boys. Tilly was in his arms. Ravyn could tell by the way her neck and limbs flopped—her eyes open and unseeing—that she was dead.
They left a trail of blood in the snow as they ran toward the stone chamber.
Ravyn’s hands shook. “They’re all going to die, aren’t they?”
The Spirit of the Wood’s voice held no love, no hate—no pity. “Yes.”
When the Shepherd King and his children reached the stone chamber, disappearing into its window, the Spirit urged Ravyn forward. “Go inside.”
The chamber was dark. But the flames from the burning castle flickered in through the window, revealing a shape in the corner of the room. A man.
Brutus Rowan. Waiting.
He’d donned a cloak. Gold, with the rowan insignia embroidered upon it. With a swift, brutal blow, he knocked the Shepherd King’s sword from his grasp—kicked it away.
“The trees can’t help you now.”
The Shepherd King planted himself between Brutus and the children. “I didn’t know the Spirit would take Ayris. I didn’t mean for her to die.”
“I don’t believe you. You are a liar, my old friend. Magic has made a soulless wretch of you—twisted you beyond all recognition.” He pointed his sword at the Shepherd King’s chest. “You are no longer fit to rule.”
“So you would take my throne? Kill my children?”
Brutus’s jaw set. “It will pain me. Losing your friendship pained me. Losing Ayris pained me. But what was it you once said to me?” His grip tightened upon his hilt. “To command the Scythe is to command pain. What is commanding a kingdom to that?”
Men spilled into the chamber. Eleven of them—each gripping a Black Horse.