Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King #2)

The journey from Stone to Castle Yew was a two-hour ride. They made it in nearly half the time. Better to ride fast and let the wind fill Ravyn’s ears than suffer another word out of the Nightmare’s mouth.

The Yews had always said their home was haunted. That the stone figures in the statuary wandered at night and the images threaded into Castle Yew’s tapestries shifted one day to the next. That the torches flickered with no draft to shake them and the wood floors groaned out the name of whoever tread upon them.

The castle was eerie, though never terrifying. If anything, the spectral estate made Ravyn’s family laugh. They joked that the ghosts had grown so bored by the house’s current occupants that they’d been driven to restlessness.

But if there were ghosts in Castle Yew, they weren’t starved for sport now. The house seemed to freeze, unearthly still, when the creature with yellow eyes stepped through the door.

The Nightmare strolled into the castle ahead of Ravyn and Gorse. He wove his fingers together, pressing them until the joints popped. His yellow eyes drifted toward the great hall, up wood panel walls, to the vaulted ceilings. Then, with an unimpressed sigh, he slipped down a corridor and disappeared.

Gorse grunted and retreated to the east wing, where the Destriers stayed when they came for training.

Ravyn’s parents and their steward, Jon Thistle, hurried out of the great hall. His mother Morette’s gaze was wide. “Was that—”

“Yes.” Ravyn stripped his gloves and threw them onto the floor. “The one and only Shepherd King. Save yourself the agony of speaking with him. He’s remarkably vile.”

“I might be, too, after living five hundred years,” muttered Thistle.

Ravyn glanced to the dark stairwell. “Jes and Emory? They arrived safely?”

“They’re resting upstairs.”

“It’s happening, then.” His father, Fenir, had eyes that were like Jespyr’s—warm, deep brown. They searched Ravyn’s face. “The King has released Emory—for good? He’ll be safe on Solstice?”

Ravyn gave a curt nod.

“Which means King Rowan has decided Elspeth’s blood will unite the Deck.”

Morette’s voice was soft. But the weight of her words slammed into Ravyn so hard he found himself biting down. He turned away from his parents, back out Castle Yew’s doors. “Emory and Elspeth will be safe on Solstice,” he said—to them, to himself. “I’ll see to it.”

The short walk to the armory felt longer, quieter, without Elm at Ravyn’s side.

He found Petyr and Wik Ivy—his trusted highwaymen—arguing over a whetstone. Their eyes lit when he told them he, Jespyr, Gorse, and the Shepherd King were leaving the next morning for the Twin Alders. Wik didn’t wait to be asked, he volunteered straightaway to join. “Gotten fond of pinching ole Providence Cards,” he said, a few gaps in his smile for teeth lost in brawls.

“It won’t be like stalking the forest road and ambushing caravans,” Ravyn warned. “The wood we travel into—no one’s been there for centuries. I don’t know what awaits us.”

“Don’t worry, Captain.” Petyr patted Ravyn’s back hard enough to make him cough. “We’ll hold your hand when you get scared.”

Ravyn spent the remainder of the day in Emory’s room, reading to him, keeping the fire warmer than it needed to be just to see a flush in his brother’s face. Only after dusk had fallen and Jespyr taken his place at their brother’s bedside did Ravyn go looking for the Nightmare.

He was in the meadow, near the ruins tucked away behind Castle Yew’s unkempt gardens, swathed in mist and sunset’s usual grayness. He sat in grass beneath the shadow of a yew tree, his eyes distant.

He cradled something in his lap. “You’ve been digging,” he murmured.

Ravyn glanced at the chamber at the edge of the meadow. “I found your sword.” And your bones.

“So the thief becomes a grave robber.” The Nightmare’s gaze dropped to his lap. “You might have availed yourself of this, too. I imagine it has some value yet.”

Ravyn stepped forward, his brow lowering. He realized the thing cradled with delicate care upon the Nightmare’s lap—

Was a crown.

A golden crown that had long lost its sheen. Caked in soil, its markings were difficult to discern, though it seemed to have the same intricate, woven design as the hilt of the sword Ravyn had pried from the chamber’s earthen floor.

As if reading his thoughts, the Nightmare looked up. “Where is it—my sword?”

“In my room.”

“I’d like it back.”

Ravyn returned to the castle. When he trudged back into the meadow, he threw the Shepherd King’s sword onto the grass. “I’m not a bloody grave robber.”

The Nightmare unfurled a single finger and traced the blade’s hilt. Wind whispered through the yew trees, and Ravyn looked up. If he tapped his Mirror Card and waited, he was certain he’d see Tilly, watching them. Waiting.

“I met your daughter. The one with braids in her hair and eyes like yours. Tilly.”

The Nightmare’s shoulders tightened. He kept his eyes on the sword. “You’d be wise not to use the Mirror Card so recklessly, Ravyn Yew. To see beyond the veil is a perilous thing.”

“She told me you’re seeking revenge for what the first Rowan King did to you.”

A smile crept over his lips.

Ravyn hated the sight of it. “Your daughter’s spirit has waited five hundred years in that tree for you. All your children wait.”

When the Nightmare turned, his smile was gone. “I, too, have waited.”

“To kill the Rowans?”

“My aim is vast. There are many truths to unveil in the wood. Circles that began centuries ago will finally loop.” He let out a sigh. “Though I fear, with so many idiots around me, that I must do everything myself.”

Ravyn’s tongue tripped over a flood of curses. He took a steadying breath. “What is your plan for when we return with the Twin Alders Card?”

The Nightmare wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. He cocked his head to the side, surveying Ravyn like a wolf might a sick, mewling fawn. “I told your uncle he would have my blood to unite the Deck on Solstice, did I not?”

“You did. But you are certainly a liar. Even under a Chalice, you lie.”

“We have that in common.”

“I’m nothing like you, parasite.”

“But you are.” The Nightmare’s laugh echoed through the meadow. “More than you know.” His gaze flickered over Ravyn’s face. “Though undoubtably I am better rested. When was the last time you slept a night through?”

Ravyn braced himself with his arms, coating his words with spite. “When I was with Elspeth.” He turned. “We meet here at dawn.”

The Nightmare’s voice held him back. “Bring the Maiden Card from your collection. We’ll need it for the journey.”

“The Maiden?”

“The pink Providence Card with a rose upon it. You know the one. Or maybe you don’t. Your observational skills have proven abysmal—”

“I know which Card—” Ravyn pulled in a breath and counted to three. “Why the hell would we need a Maiden?”

The Nightmare tapped his fingernails over the crown in his lap. “Pray that we don’t.”

Ravyn’s eyes lifted to the chamber. And because every conversation with the Shepherd King seemed to drag up the past, he said, “On the subject of Providence Cards—” He nodded at the dark window. “I found two in there when I was a boy. I bled onto the stone, and it opened for me.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his Mirror and the Nightmare Cards. “These were inside.”

Those yellow eyes grew distant. “And?”

“Did you put them there?”

“No.”

“Who did?” He paused. “Was it one of your children?”

The Nightmare did not speak. He had gone still. Unmoving, unblinking—staring into nothingness.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Ravyn drew a finger over his Nightmare Card. When the monster remained unfocused, he tapped the Card three times. There was a bite of salt, then Ravyn pushed the magic outward. Not to speak to the Nightmare—but to search the dark chamber of his mind.

Elspeth. Where are you?

The Nightmare’s stillness broke, his gaze snapping into focus. He rose to his feet and, with impressive might, shoved Ravyn to the ground.

Salt fled Ravyn’s senses as his head slammed onto grass. The cold, blunt tip of the Nightmare’s sword scraped over his throat.

“I told you once before, stupid bird. You must come invited into her mind.”

“And I told you I would find her when we were out of Stone.” Ravyn’s hands were fists in the grass. “It is injustice enough that the spirits of your children keep wait while you, monstrous, remain. But Elspeth is not a spirit you can ignore. She is not dead. Let. Her. Out.”

Even in the darkening meadow, those yellow eyes flared. They were the only part of the Nightmare not consumed by the shadow of the yew tree, as if he were the tree itself—and the shadow. “Do you never think beyond your own selfish wants, Ravyn Yew?” he snarled. “If I called her out of darkness into my terrible mind, it would pain her. You cannot imagine the rage that comes with having no control over your own thoughts—your own body. You, traitorous thing, who have never truly ceded authority. Liar, thief—immune to the Chalice and Scythe—you know nothing of losing control.” His lips twisted, snarl letting to a smile. “But you will. You will learn, just as I did, what it feels like to lose yourself in the wood.”