When Elm and Ione looked back at the blood-soaked stone in the heart of the chamber, the Deck of Cards was gone. A chasm had opened in their place. In it, a single, unfamiliar Providence Card, remained.
Ione’s voice broke, tears falling down her face. “We did it.”
Moonlight filled the chamber through the rotted-out ceiling. Elm looked up. Felt his heart expand. The night winter sky, bereft of mist, was a color he didn’t know the name of. Moon, stars—all of them so bright it stole the breath from him, the world around them without tarnish.
Ione wrapped her arms around his middle—tilted her head skyward. “It’s beautiful.”
Elm pulled her hand to his mouth. He was sure the Spirit of the Wood didn’t attend to the meager lives of men. But in that moment, when, after five hundred years, the mist did finally lift and he became King of Blunder, Elm looked up into the night sky. Held Ione Hawthorn close. He knew, in all the rotten, broken pieces of himself, that everything in his life had led to that moment, as if written in the lines of the trees. A crooked, wonderful circle, with his name in the heart of it.
He picked up the Card in the center of the stone. Placed it in his pocket—climbed with Ione out of the chamber. When they stepped into the meadow, the pyres had all burned out. Everything was quiet, the world around them gentle and unmarred.
All but for a trail of crimson blood, leading back toward the castle.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Ravyn
Wherever Ravyn was, it was far too loud to be the other side of the veil. Death was supposed to be peaceful, like slipping off to sleep. And this—
This was agony.
He’d dragged himself through snow toward Castle Yew, trailing blood. The pain in his side went white-hot, and for a moment his vision winked and he lost consciousness. When his eyes opened, there were hands on him, harsh voices calling somewhere above his head.
He was lifted—carried.
“Trees, you’re fuckin’ heavy.”
Ravyn’s neck flopped, his head dragging on snow, then stone floor. Hands caught it—yanked it up. Ravyn blinked, shadows dancing across his vision.
Petyr held him below his shoulders and walked backward, leading the others—Jon Thistle and Fenir and Morette—through the castle. “Don’t die on us,” he warned.
Hauth’s dagger was still in Ravyn’s side, jutting out of him like a dead, poisonous branch. His hand trembled over the hilt.
“Leave it,” Morette snapped, carrying the weight of his legs.
Ravyn tried to speak, but his jaw was an iron cage, his teeth gritted against pain. His words came out a muffled groan.
“Put him on the table,” Fenir said, heaving breaths.
Ravyn looked up at a ceiling. Vaulted, with stubborn spiderwebs in the corners. Castle Yew’s great hall.
All he could think was that he was bleeding on the table where his parents ate breakfast.
“Where does Filick keep his medical supplies?” Morette called.
“I’ll get them.” Jon Thistle knocked over chairs as he tumbled out of the great hall.
Ravyn’s siblings appeared at his side. Jespyr gasped when her eyes fell to his wound, her face losing whatever color it still held. “Oh no.”
Emory took a seat at the table—lay his head on Ravyn’s chest. “Not yet, Ravyn.” His breaths were slow, uneven. “Not yet.”
Ravyn closed his eyes, tears slipping out the corners.
Thistle returned, his booming voice echoing through the hall. “I’ve got linens and sutures and balms and—trees know what kind of tincture this is, it smells ripe.” He dropped the supplies on the table, the reverberation sending a shock of pain into Ravyn’s side.
Jespyr swore, her hands trembling as she unwrapped the linen. “What—what do we do? If we pull the knife—”
“He’ll bleed out in moments,” Morette answered, her voice hard.
They argued over how to save him. And while their voices grew louder, more panic-tipped, Ravyn weaved in and out of consciousness. He wanted to ask one of them to light the hearth. He was so terribly cold. But it hurt too much to speak—to breathe—to even blink. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, and with each passing second, the great hall grew colder. Darker.
Shadows closed in around him, calling him by name.
Ravyn Yew.
Ravyn Yew.
“Ravyn Yew!”
Everyone went still. Again, the voice called, louder this time. “Ravyn Yew!”
The door to the great hall crashed open with enough violence to rip the wood off the top hinge. For a moment, Ravyn couldn’t see anything but a dark, menacing shape. The shape stepped forward—pushed Fenir aside—and bent over Ravyn.
Yellow eyes.
“Taxus,” Ravyn managed.
The Nightmare heaved a breath, nostrils flaring. “Still alive, then.”
“Just,” came Morette’s thinning voice.
“He’s lost too much blood,” Petyr whispered.
“He’s cold.” The Nightmare’s gaze flashed across the room. “Light a fire.”
Jespyr put a hand on Ravyn’s chest. “What are you going to do?”
The Nightmare ignored her. He was carrying on a separate conversation—with himself. “I’m aware, Elspeth. Shouting at me won’t help.” His eyes returned to Jespyr. “Did you lose your wits in the alderwood, Jespyr Yew? Light a fire.”
Jespyr dove for the hearth.
“You,” the Nightmare said, snapping his fingers at Jon Thistle. “Cut away his tunic.” He rolled up his sleeves. “I’m going to need the rest of you to help me hold him down.”
“What supplies do you need?”
“The only thing that can save him now is magic.”
Morette and Fenir exchanged a glance. “Ravyn can’t use most Providence Cards.”
“I’m very aware of that.”
“What magic, then?”
The Nightmare slammed his hands on the table, making Ravyn wince. “It’s hardly my fault, Elspeth,” he muttered under his breath, “that I am constantly surrounded by idiots.” He turned to Morette and Fenir. “Magic moves in families. You have two other children with the infection, do you not?”
Their gazes shot to Jespyr at the hearth.
“I don’t—” she stuttered, “I don’t know what magic I got in the alderwood.”
“You’re about to find out,” the Nightmare said.
A light chased away some of the shadows in the room. There was crackling wood, warmth. All the while, Thistle did his best not to touch Ravyn’s wound as he cut away the clothes above his waist.
Somehow, Ravyn’s hand found the Nightmare’s wrist. He looked up, firelight catching those eerie yellow eyes. “The Deck?”
The Nightmare’s face was unreadable. “We’ll know soon enough.”
“The fire is going,” Jespyr called from the hearth. “Now what?”
“Warm your hands. Then come stand by me.”
Jespyr hurried to the side of the table a moment later. “He’s so pale.”
“I’m going to wrench the knife out of him. And you, Tilly—” The Nightmare bit the inside of his cheek. “Jespyr. Put your hands on his open wound. The rest of you, hold him down. If a petty thing like a broken nose can make him thrash, this certainly will.”