Erik stopped pacing.
“So you’re right,” Tyrn said. “I am weak. My wife and children know it. Everyone knows it. I’m weak, and entirely bloodstained.”
Elm was drifting, near and far. “Welcome to the club.”
The clanging of a sword against the cell bars ripped Elm’s dream away. The cell door wrenched open. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was dragged along with Erik Spindle and Tyrn Hawthorne out of the dungeon up the long, winding stairs in a sea of black cloaks. He vaguely recognized the men whose fingers dug into his skin. Destriers. Not only the ones he’d trained with, but older ones, too.
The way their fists slammed into Erik’s stomach confirmed it. “Traitor,” they spat at him.
Erik said nothing. Unmoved, unwavering. Even Tyrn had the decency not to cry out when a Destrier shoved his face into the castle door.
Gray morning light made Elm wince, his eyes slow to focus. When they did, he saw that there was snow upon the ground.
Destriers, old and new, sat upon their mounts in the bailey, waiting.
At their lead, tall and broad and beautiful, Hauth wore their father’s crown and a deep blue doublet with a gold rowan tree embroidered across its chest. He spun his Scythe between his fingers and surveyed the prisoners down his nose. When his green eyes landed on Elm, he nodded. “Your misery is almost at an end, brother. The highwayman meets the hangman. But first—how about a ride into town?”
They strapped him to a horse like a newly slaughtered deer. Elm could only see the ground—the path directly beneath the animal’s legs.
Nearly all of it was covered in snow.
He felt every break, every bruise upon his skin expand on the journey into town. When the dirt road ended and the clacking knell of hooves against cobblestone met his ears, he knew they were on Market Street.
He strained against his tethers—tried to look up. There were red and gold ribbons, strewn over doorframes and lantern posts. “What day is it?”
Linden rode next to hm. He reached down—hit Elm over the back of his head with a club. His voice was a sneer. “Solstice.”
Elm’s vision tunneled, a sticky warmth sliding through his hair.
When he came to, the horses had stopped. Rough hands untied him—yanked him out of the saddle and set him on weak legs and screaming, frostbitten feet.
Castle Yew’s reaching towers loomed over him.
The castle door was open—not latched how Jon Thistle usually kept it. When the Destriers dragged Elm and Erik and Tyrn inside, the air was cold. Stale.
The knot in Elm’s stomach shot up into his throat. Something was horribly wrong.
Castle Yew was abandoned—its hearths left untended, the estate empty of laypeople, doors and windows left open despite the chill air.
“Take one last look, Renelm,” Hauth said. “At midnight, this creepy old place will make a proper Solstice pyre.”
They passed through the house and out the eastern doors into the gardens, stomping over shrubs and brambles until they were in the meadow near the ruins.
There were Destriers—six more of them, waiting. Morette and Fenir and Jon Thistle were with them. So was Emory. When they saw Elm, their chests heaved, tears turning Morette’s green eyes glassy.
Elm’s relief to see them lasted only as long as it took to take in their appearances. They were bruised, pale—shivering. They wore no cloaks against the chill. Emory was swaying on his feet, held up by his mother and father’s arms.
There was a cut in his left hand. Long—deep, dripping red into the snow.
Elm choked on his breath. “What have you done?”
Hauth walked down the line of Destriers. “Our aunt and uncle, with a little persuasion from my men, my Scythe, and a Chalice, of course, have informed me that this is where Ravyn and Jespyr and their friend Elspeth Spindle entered the wood in search of the Twin Alders Card.” An unfeeling smile touched his mouth. “They told me a fascinating story about a stone, hidden in a chamber behind the castle.”
He reached into his pocket—pulled out six Providence Cards. A Prophet. A Well. An Iron Gate. A Golden Egg. A White Eagle. A Chalice.
Elm’s gaze shot back to the cut in Emory’s palm.
Hauth sucked his teeth. “I told you, Renelm. I have no desire to unite the Deck. The mist, the infection, keeps Blunder small. Terrified. And terrified people are easy to control. Ravyn’s little collection—all his lying and thieving—was merely to adorn the vaults at Stone with more Providence Cards.”
Erik Spindle cursed, spitting blood into the snow.
Hauth ignored him. His eyes were on the tree line, fixed near the stone chamber. “He’s taken his time, Ravyn. My men have been watching these woods for weeks. Still, he may yet come. He has until midnight to make that Twin Alders Card count for anything.”
Elm had wondered, down in the frosted dungeon, why his brother hadn’t come for him or Erik or Tyrn yet. Now, he knew. “We’re your bait.” He was shaking. He’d spent a month being cold. But now—there was an inferno in his chest, clawing up into his throat. “You’d trade us for the Twin Alders?”
“Of course not. You’re all traitors. You’ll all die tonight.” Hauth picked under his fingernail, his tone bored. “But Ravyn won’t know that, will he?”
Daylight bled away into night.
Elm counted fifteen Destriers in total, including Hauth—which meant not all of them carried Black Horses. He watched their movements, noting the ones that had been conscripted during his stint in the dungeon. They moved on silent step through the snow, collecting shrubbery and bramble and wood, spreading it into four pyres around the meadow.
When it was fully dark, they lit the pyres, the snow reflecting yellow and orange flames. No one said anything, all of their gazes tight on the tree line, watching for Ravyn.
Then, quiet as a bird, Emory’s voice broke the stillness. “You won’t win.”
Hauth stopped pacing. He came to stand in front of Morette and Fenir, who were trying to shield Emory behind their backs. “What’s that?” Hauth put a mocking hand to his ear. “I couldn’t hear you under the grating sound of your dying breaths, Emory.”
Elm yanked against his restraints—tasted blood on his tongue.
Emory swayed. Then, quicker than a dying boy should, he lunged forward. Grasped Hauth’s wrist. His eyes rolled back in his head, and when he spoke, his voice was strange, smooth—as if slick with oil. “You won’t win,” he said again. “For nothing is safe, and nothing is free. Debt follows all men, no matter their plea. When the Shepherd returns, a new day shall ring. Death to the Rowans.” His gray eyes focused, homing in on Elm. “Long live the King.”
Hauth ripped himself out of Emory’s grip. Expressionless though it was, his face had gone the color of paper. He raised a hand—hit Emory across the face with a closed fist.
The boy fell into snow and did not get up.
Morette screamed. Fenir reached for his son, but the Destrier on his left twisted his arm behind his back. Elm surged against his restraints, only to feel the ropes cut tighter into his wrists. “Hauth,” he said, half curse—half plea. “Don’t do this. He’s just a boy.”