“I have one here,” Jespyr said, a sea-green Providence Card in her hand.
“Let’s see the bitch try to lie about the Twin Alders now.”
When the King wrenched his chamber door open, the Nightmare was perched like a gargoyle in an ornate high-back chair. They stared at one another, two Kings with murder behind their eyes. Rowan green, Nightmare yellow—and five hundred years of imbalance between them.
The Nightmare opened his clawlike hand in greeting. In the other, he held a silver goblet already filled with wine. “Well, then,” he said. “Let the inquest begin.”
Jespyr eyed the shackles around his wrist skeptically. She exhaled, then tapped the Chalice Card three times.
King Rowan kept the distance between him and the Nightmare’s chair wide enough a carriage could drive through. He might have been drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d seen in horrid detail exactly what this monster was capable of doing when provoked. “Tell me, Elspeth Spindle, how is it you know where the Twin Alders Card is hidden?”
The Nightmare twisted a finger in the ends of Elspeth’s black hair. Ravyn watched, scorched by memory. He’d had his own hands in that hair. Run his fingers through it—sighed into it.
He jerked his eyes to the wall.
“Simple,” the Nightmare murmured. “I was there when the Card disappeared.”
The King’s gaze ripped to the Chalice in Jespyr’s hands, then back to the Nightmare, as if he could not decide which—his eyes or his ears—to distrust more. “That’s impossible.”
The Nightmare merely grinned. “Is it? Magic is a strange, fickle thing.”
“So it is magic that gives you this—this—” The King’s tongue tripped over his words. “Old knowledge of the Twin Alders?”
The corners of the Nightmare’s mouth tipped. “You could say that.”
“Where exactly is the Card hidden?” Jespyr cut in, shoulders bunching with tension.
The Nightmare gave her an indifferent glance. “Deep within a wood. A wood with no road. But to those who smell the salt—” A flash of teeth. “It beckons.”
The King regained himself with a deep, unsteady breath. His gaze flickered to Ravyn. “Was my nephew aware of your infection?”
Ravyn went cold, a thousand alarm bells ringing in his ears.
The Nightmare’s oily timbre cut through them. “Your Captain is not the all-seeing bird you imagine him to be. He knew nothing of my magic until it was too late.”
It was the truth—only slightly twisted.
A furrow broke the stone mask of Ravyn’s expression. The Nightmare noticed it and smiled, as if he knew what Ravyn had only just realized.
Providence Cards did not affect the Shepherd King. It was written in The Old Book of Alders.
For our price it was final, our bartering done. I created twelve Cards…but I cannot use one.
But they did affect Elspeth. Hauth had used a Chalice against her. Ravyn had spoken into her mind with the Nightmare Card.
And the monster in front of him was both Elspeth and the Shepherd King. The Nightmare could succumb to the Cards—and also void their magic.
It was not so different from Ravyn’s own magic. He, who could use only the Mirror, the Nightmare, and presumably the Twin Alders Providence Cards. The other nine Cards, he could not use—but neither could they be used against him. He could deny the Scythe’s compulsion, lie against Chalice.
Just as the Nightmare was doing now.
“Who knew of your infection?” the King snapped when the silence drew out too long.
“My magic was always a secret.”
“Even from your father?”
The Nightmare rolled his jaw. “That is a question for him. I do not own anything that Erik Spindle, with his callous indifference, has ever done.”
“Can you truly see Providence Cards with your magic?”
“I can.”
“And you will use it to find the final Card for me?”
The Nightmare’s expression remained unreadable. “I will. So long as you honor your side of our bargain, Rowan. Have you released Emory Yew to his parents?”
The King’s hands knotted at his sides. “Tell me where the Twin Alders is, and I will release him tonight.”
The Nightmare perked a brow. “Very well.” He drew air into his nose. “Listen closely. The journey to the twelfth Card will three barters take. The first comes at water—a dark, mirrored lake. The second begins at the neck of a wood, where you cannot turn back, though truly, you should.”
The Nightmare’s gaze shifted to Ravyn. His words came out sharp, as if to draw blood. “The last barter waits in a place with no time. A place of great sorrow and bloodshed and crime. No sword there can save you, no mask hide your face. You’ll return with the Twin Alders…
“But you’ll never leave that place.”
Chapter Five
Elm
The forest road was dark, the wood swollen with water. When lightning cracked the sky, Elm pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and narrowed his eyes against the sting of rainfall.
Ione had not donned a cloak. Or shoes. Her feet and ankles peeked out from beneath her white dress, the fine fabric speckled by mud. She must have been cold, but she didn’t complain.
Her voice vibrated through her back, a delicate hum against Elm’s chest. He couldn’t make out her words over the noise of his horse. “What?”
“Is she all right?” Ione asked, louder this time. “Elspeth.”
Even saying Elspeth Spindle was alive felt less than true. “I don’t know.” Elm gritted his teeth. “Does it bother you that she tore your betrothed limb from limb?”
Ione kept her eyes ahead. “As much as it bothers you, I imagine.”
Hauth. Blood on the floor, blood on his clothes, blood all over his face. Yes, it bothered Elm. For all the wrong reasons. “Count yourself lucky you didn’t have to see what was left of him when she was through.”
They came to the crossroads, the forest road diverging. Elm veered the horse east, to the place he hated most in the world. Stone.
“When does the inquest begin?” Ione asked.
“Anxious for the Chalice, are we?”
“I’m not afraid of the truth.”’
Elm bent, putting his mouth near her ear. “You should be.”
“Yes. I imagine I should.”
He glanced down. He’d hadn’t spoken much to Ione Hawthorn. Most of what he knew about her, Elm had gathered in glances—many of which had been stolen.
Her face had always been easy to read, even from across the great hall at Stone. Her expressions were genuine, her smiles so unrestrained that Elm had almost felt sorry for her. That kind of naked authenticity had no place in the King’s court.
He’d always thought she was beautiful. But the Maiden—that useless pink Card—had curated her beauty until it reached unearthly perfection. Her hair and skin were without blemish. The gap in her front teeth was gone. Her nose was smaller. The Maiden hadn’t made her taller, hadn’t—thank the bloody trees—diminished any of her remarkable curves. But she was different than the yellow-haired maiden he’d watched smile at Stone. More controlled.
Colder.