He, apparently, was none of the three.
A tonic and blanket passed between the bars. “Hold strong,” Filick Willow whispered. “Ravyn will come for you.”
Elm danced at the edge of consciousness. “Not this time.”
On the ninth—tenth, perhaps—day of captivity, echoes sounded down the corridor. Erik cocked his head to the side, his voice rusty with disuse. “They’re coming, Prince. Do not falter.”
The Destriers were not gentle. When the beating finished, someone shoved a crude cup into Elm’s hands. The wine was bitter, settling in all the dry places in his mouth.
Linden stood in front of him—tapped the Chalice Card. “Where did Ravyn and Jespyr go to retrieve the Twin Alders?”
Elm had no answer. “I don’t know.”
Hours later, after the beating was done, Linden returned with more wine, and tapped the Chalice thrice more. “Where is Ione Hawthorn?”
Elm shut his eyes. “I don’t know.”
Another Card had joined the Chalice. Elm immediately recognized the feel of a Scythe. A cold hand cupped his jaw. Elm looked into green eyes.
Hauth’s face, carved by the Maiden’s magic, was beautifully unholy. “You had your chance to flee with her, yet you didn’t. Why?”
Elm’s head rolled. Blood dripped out his mouth onto the dungeon floor. “You never cared for her. If you wish to barter with Ravyn, I am hostage enough.” He laughed, then coughed. “And I wanted to stay and kill you.”
Any other time, his brother would have answered with his own laugh, then a fist. But Hauth was inexpressive, fringing on disinterested, the Maiden’s ill effects masking him in chill. “You are right,” he said. “I never cared for her. Still, I will hunt her. Take back the Scythe she holds. This time, there will be no Maiden to save her. All you’ve done is buy her time—and made even more of a traitor of yourself.”
Elm spat blood on the floor. “I’ve been betraying you for years,” he ground out. “I was there on the forest road the day your face was cleaved. I was a highwayman, there to steal Wayland Pine’s Iron Gate. I helped collect the Deck right under your nose.” He took in a slow, rasping breath. “I’d do it all again, just to watch you flinch.”
Hauth’s hand tightened over Elm’s throat. “I’m not flinching now. And as for killing me, brother—” His green eyes were cold. “You cannot. Nothing can.”
He dropped Elm to the floor and quit the cell, Destriers on his heels.
Darkness took Elm away.
“You were on the forest road when Wayland Pine’s Iron Gate was stolen?”
Elm jumped. He didn’t recall dozing off—or how long he’d slept. There were food trays upon his floor. Three of them, untouched.
Erik Spindle watched him through the bars between their cells.
“I—” Elm winced. It hurt even to speak. “I was there. You nearly ran me through, actually.” He traced a finger over the split in his bottom lip. “Your daughter was there, too.”
Steam plumed in his periphery. Erik Spindle’s voice was ragged. “Elspeth? Why?”
“She was helping us collect the Deck. She wanted to heal Emory’s degeneration—her own as well. She saved me from your sword.” He let out a weak breath. “And I returned her favor with distrust and contempt.”
Someone coughed in the adjacent cell. A weak, trembling sound. Tyrn. “M-my Ione. She escaped? She’s safe?”
“I don’t know.” Elm put his face in his hands. “Pray she forgives you for trading that Nightmare Card for a marriage to Hauth. Because I never will.”
Wakeless, Elm dreamed in yellow.
Summer grass and a muslin dress caught between his fingers. Hair swept over his face, a sigh, like a rush of wings, in his ear. There was no mist, no salt, no Rowan red. Everything was slow, soft. Delicate.
But he couldn’t escape the cold. He woke to the sound of his own teeth chattering, shivers racking his body raw.
“You shouldn’t sleep so long,” came Erik’s voice. “Get up. Move your limbs.”
A crazed half laugh crawled out of Elm. He looked down at his frostbitten fingers that had all gone black. Some to the knuckle. “Sorry, Captain—I don’t think I’m up for a training session.”
Erik crouched on his side of their shared bars, finally close enough to be more than a vague outline. His face was pale—his skin ragged with frostbite and mottled with old bruising. His beard had grown long and his clothes were ragged, bloodstained. When he spoke, his voice was solemn.
“Elspeth’s mother was infected,” he said. “She tried to hide it from me. She degenerated, suffered terribly, in silence. All because I was the Captain of the Destriers. Iris knew if a Chalice was levied against me, her secret would be my death. So she said nothing. And I”—he ran his hand over his face—“I did nothing. She died. And when Elspeth caught the infection as well—”
The great tree of a man splintered, his steadfast expression finally giving way to sorrow. “I began to hate myself. To hate my Destriers and the laws we upheld. In my heart, I was a traitor.” He sucked in a quivering breath. “When the Yew boy took my place and I was free of my charge, I thought my hate might dissipate. It didn’t. And Ravyn Yew—he was just as strong as me. Just as cold and unrelenting as I’d been. I knew, so long as men like him and I were Captain, Blunder would never change.”
His voice softened. “But then I saw him on Market Day. Holding my daughter. Wrapping her in his arms the way I’d once held Iris in mine. He was not the same man who’d taken my place as Captain.” Erik shook his head. “Because that Captain of the Destriers is not a man, only a mask. A show of Rowan might. And there will always be stronger things in this world than Rowan might.”
Elm shut his eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’ve never said any of it out loud. I wanted to see what it tasted like, being honest.”
“And?”
“Bitter.”
The corner of Elm’s bruised mouth lifted. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll take your confessions to my grave soon enough.”
The sound of coughing came from the next cell. “I can’t stomach this rot they feed us,” Tyrn Hawthorn wailed.
Erik paced, kicking his boots together every so often to keep his toes alive. “So starve.”
Tyrn’s platter of food ricocheted off the bars, an ugly knell that echoed through the dungeon. “You think I’m weak.”
“I know you are,” Erik answered.
“Would it surprise you that I’ve killed a man?”
Elm raised his brows. He’d tried to pace as well, but after an hour, he’d gotten sleepy. “A little.”
Tyrn’s voice went thin. “He was a highwayman. It was by chance that he and I traveled the forest road at the same time. When I saw the Nightmare Card’s burgundy velvet, peeking out from his sleeve, I didn’t think—I just ran him through and stole it.”
He rasped another cough. “I thought of him while I plotted a way for the Card to earn my family favor. But even when it did and Ione was engaged to the High Prince, I felt no joy, only fear of losing everything I’d gained. I betrayed Elspeth, because I was afraid that—” His voice began to wobble. “That if Ione didn’t become Queen, I’d be a murderer for nothing.”