Hauth looked down at Emory. There was nothing in his green eyes.
“Movement, Highness,” a Destrier called, pointing his sword to trees on the other side of the meadow. “There—just ahead.”
Hauth’s gaze wrenched forward. The line went still, prisoners and Destriers alike all holding their breaths as they watched the wood.
There was nothing at first, just the whisper of wind. Then, so silent and ethereal she might have been the Spirit of the Wood herself—
Ione Hawthorn stepped into the meadow.
She wore the same gray dress she’d worn when she’d fled Stone, only now it was filthy, wet. Her face was red from the cold, her hair roped into a thick braid down her back. Elm drank in the sight of her, elation spoiling to dread as his gaze dropped to Ione’s hand.
Three Providence Cards lay in her open palm. The Maiden, the Scythe, and a third. It was forest green, depicting two trees—one pale, one dark—interwoven at their branches and roots.
The Twin Alders Card.
Ione’s hazel eyes shifted over the crowd—over Hauth and his horde of Destriers, then the Yew household and her uncle and father. When her gaze collided with Elm’s, her chest heaved, her brow going soft.
Then she took in his face. The damage they’d done to it. Ione stiffened, the red in her cheeks going wan. When her gaze returned to Hauth, those hazel eyes burned.
Hauth stepped into the meadow and offered her a curt, mocking bow. “You’ve always had a knack for unpleasantly surprising me, Ione.” He nodded to the Twin Alders in her hand. “Where did you get that? Did Ravyn give it to you?”
She said nothing.
Hauth took another step. “Where is he?”
Elm needed her to look at him. Needed her to know that it couldn’t end like this. “Ione,” he said, his voice in tatters. “Go. Please—go.”
She didn’t budge an inch, save to plant her feet deeper into the snow.
Hauth kept stalking forward, eying her like she were an injured animal in the wood. “Are you going to use that Scythe on me, betrothed? On all my men?” He sucked his teeth. “Go ahead. But be warned—you better be skilled enough to compel all of us at once. Because if you’re not, well. You remember what happened in my brother’s chamber.”
Behind Elm, Linden laughed.
“If you tell me where Ravyn is, I’ll make it painless. But if you fight me—” Hauth took his own Scythe from his pocket. “Then I will take my time killing you. So by all means, Ione, fight me. You’ve always tried to.”
Tyrn Hawthorn heaved a terrible sob. “Go, Ione!”
She didn’t listen. She was staring down the man she might have married, her face an open book of loathing. “You want to watch me die, Hauth?”
He raised a finger over his Scythe. “It’d be the only enjoyment you could offer me.”
Ione’s finger was faster. She tapped the Maiden once—twice—thrice. “Then kill me. If you can.”
A knife sang though the air.
Hauth doubled over, cursing. Blood dripped from his hand, the knife buried in his palm. His Scythe slid out of his grasp, catching the wind and fluttering onto snow.
Elm tasted salt. Not the sweat or tears or blood that had slipped down his face into his mouth, but a different sort of brine. An older sort.
Then he heard it. The thing he’d waited for around every corner, listened for in every pause.
Ravyn’s voice.
Elm.
He appeared out of nothingness and stood in front of Ione, a dark, vengeful bird of prey. Hauth’s eyes went wide and he took a step back, the only man he’d ever feared standing in front of him—marking him.
And Ravyn Yew, the stony Captain of the Destriers, grinned. He drew his sword, his eyes moving from Hauth to Elm. You look terrible.
It hurt too much to smile back. I’m still better looking than you. Elm’s breath shook. Hauth took the Cards from the chamber. They’re in his pocket.
I’m going to get them back. Ravyn lifted his sword, pointing it down the line of Destriers. “I am your Captain no longer,” he said. “My business is with your new King, and the Deck of Cards. If you wish to live, leave this place. Now.”
Hauth stood straighter. Ripped the knife out of his palm. Wherever he kept the Maiden Card he was using, it was already healing him. “A bold claim from one man—and a whore—against the King’s guard.” He jerked his head, scanning the tree line. “I assume you killed Gorse. Where are the highwaymen and Jespyr and that thing you left with?”
“Close,” Ravyn replied. “Very close. They’re waiting. Watching.”
“Traitor,” a Destrier called.
“Infected bastard,” another spat.
With a clamor, they drew their swords—pointed them at Ravyn.
Hauth looked down the line, arrogance lighting his words. “Seems they’ve made their choice. Surrender the Twin Alders to me, cousin. Or watch your family die.”
Ravyn looked at his parents—at Emory in the snow—muscles bunching in his jaw.
Don’t yield, Elm shouted into his mind. Don’t. Fucking. Yield.
Ravyn’s gray eyes found him. Follow Ione into the wood, he said. Get to her—then meet me in the stone chamber. We’re going to end this, Elm. All of it.
Salt fled Elm’s senses. Ravyn touched Ione’s shoulder, then rushed forward, went invisible.
Ione turned on her heel and ran back into the wood.
“Kill the prisoners,” Hauth commanded the Destriers. He lunged into the snow, searching for his fallen Scythe. “And bring me the Twin Alders.”
Blades lowered over the Yew family’s necks. Elm felt a knife near his jaw, its bite just below his ear. He shut his eyes. There was a deep, wrenching groan—
And the earth began to roll.
Snow shook from treetops, the world a flurry of white. The terrible groan was coming from the wood. Something was coming from the wood.
The trees, Elm realized. The trees were moving.
Roots tore from the earth, boughs whipping though the air. Twisting, the yew trees rushed into the meadow from all sides, swiping—grasping—at the Destriers.
The first tree that made contact burst through the ruins, knocking ancient sandstone pillars to the ground. It caught two Destriers in its branches—wrenched them back from Emory and his parents. With a sickening snap, the yew ground the men beneath it roots.
When the earth rolled again, Elm lost his footing. He crashed into Erik and Tyrn, the three of them a tangle of limbs. When he looked up, the meadow was a chaos of trees and snow, lit by the menacing light of the pyres. The Destriers were a whir of darkness, several of them running through the bedlam.
Running after Ione.
Chapter Forty-Six
Ravyn
Ravyn and Jespyr were practiced. Twisted and intrepid, like the branches of their namesake tree, they’d learned by now how to keep steady when the Shepherd King commanded the wood.
When the earth began to roll and the Destriers near their parents stumbled, Jespyr lunged from the shadows. She was still too weak to use her sword, even with Petyr and a Black Horse for aid. But her knives—she was strong enough for those. Two Destriers fell at the edge of her blades. When a third got to his feet and lunged at her, she dodged him, his sword grazing just beneath her chin.