Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King #2)

The King was five cups deep and fuming.

“I told Filick where I’d be, and when I’d return.” Elm leaned back in Hauth’s chair, tensing as the wood groaned. He kept his face even, his fingers trailing the Scythe’s velvet edge in his pocket. “You weren’t worried about me, were you?”

He knew better than to poke the bear—most of the time. Only now, the bear was too drunk to poke him back. “You missed the first feast,” the King said, his voice a low rumble.

Elm looked out over the great hall. There wasn’t a single thing in the wide, echoing room he regretting missing.

The scene was as it always was. Tables heaped with food, servants carrying trays stacked with silver and crystal goblets, decanters full of wine. Courtiers, laughing and swaying to a string ensemble, jaws slack with laughter. Branches and stems, leaves and seed clusters, tucked into their clothes and hair—

Elm’s gaze narrowed. He dragged it over the great hall once more. “Why on earth is everyone wearing greenery?”

The King muttered into his cup. “Baldwyn’s notion.”

“Don’t tell me these feasts are in costume.” Elm put a hand to his brow and groaned. “What’s the theme? Shrubs?”

“They’re wearing sprigs from their house trees, you imbecile.” The King—who wore no adornment save a permanent scowl—pulled another deep drink. “You would know that had you attended last night’s feast and not scurried away to Castle Yew.”

“You’ve stripped me of my Destrier duties. I was bored.”

“Then pick a bloody wife,” the King spat. When heads turned, he pressed his lips together and lowered his voice. “What do the Yews have to say?”

Elm took a drink. “Not much.”

“Emory?”

“Better now that he’s at home where he should be.”

The King kept his eyes forward on the great hall. Elm had long ago stopped expecting remorse from his father for what he had planned to do with Emory’s blood. That clever, innocent boy. A boy Elm had watched grow up. Get sicker. Slowly die in Stone.

Elm had never caught the infection. But he knew all too well what it felt like to wither away at Stone. So when he had gone to Castle Yew last night, and there had been a thimble’s worth of warmth in Emory’s cheeks, he had all but kissed the boy.

Even without Ravyn and Jespyr present, Castle Yew was Elm’s true home. The bed where he slept best. Where all his favorite books were kept. He spoke freely there, without pretense.

His aunt had wrapped him in her strong arms, and so had his uncle. They hadn’t hugged him that tightly since he was a boy. “It’s all right,” he’d said. “I’m managing.”

He’d told them everything. About what had happened on the forest road. The inquest. Ione and the Maiden Card and the King’s feasts.

About becoming heir.

He’d reached into his satchel and pulled out the marriage contract with the King’s seal. “I need you to put this in a safe place.”

Fenir’s eyes had widened. “This is—”

“Yes.”

Morette had ran her gaze over the parchment. Twice. Elm knew she’d seen what he had. “Well, nephew,” she’d said, the corner of her mouth curling as she looked up at him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I.”

The sharpness in the King’s green eyes was beginning to blur. Perfect. Better he was pliable, because Elm was going to do something he had never done before.

Barter with the King.

“You’re wearing black,” his father barked out of nowhere in a voice that might have belonged to one of his hounds. “Don’t you have any gold?”

“I like black.” Elm kept his eyes on the crowd, watching for the one person who was not yet there. “It suits me.”

The King finished his cup, raising a crude hand to the server, who came rushing back to refill it. Elm folded his hands on the table. “I’ve thought about what you said on the drawbridge. About being heir.” He took a sip of wine. “I’d like it in writing. With your seal.”

“It’s already been drafted. Find Baldwyn to sign.”

“Hold on. I have a price.”

The King coughed. “Trees, Renelm.”

“This issue of these ridiculous feasts. Of a wife.”

“No,” the King said. “I will not bend. The heir will marry.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t marry,” Elm bit back. “But I’d like your word that you will honor any contract I strike.”

“Did you have someone in mind?”

“No one to whom you have not already given your seal of approval.”

The King searched the great hall, as if he were looking for a loophole. But everyone in attendance had come by his invitation—selected for their property and wealth and all the things a sovereign might want for his heir.

The King ran a gnarled hand over his brow. “Very well.”

Elm hid his smile in his wine cup. “You look relieved. I imagine you expected I’d give you more trouble.”

“You always have.”

Elm opened his mouth, a drop of venom on his tongue, but the gong rang, and he snapped it shut. Nine tolls. Nine—and still no Ione. It dawned on him that maybe she would not come. He should have told her he’d be absent at Castle Yew—that he hadn’t resigned their search for her Maiden Card just because she’d left him panting in the cellar.

He stood, his bow to the King barely a nod, and was out of the great hall in less than a minute. He took the stairs two at a time. When he got to the fourth landing, he heard a man’s voice, echoing from above. It almost sounded like Hauth’s.

Linden.

He quickened his pace and reached the fifth landing—the royal corridor. Royce Linden had Ione’s arm in his fist and was pulling her down the hallway. Ione said something Elm could not hear, and Linden’s shoulders went taut. His reached over and gripped her cheeks, fingers digging into her skin—shouted into her face. “Traitor.”

Elm’s finger was on his Scythe in less than a breath. “Stand still, Destrier.”

Linden went rigid. When he saw Elm coming, a flinch crossed his face.

It made Elm feel powerful, watching the brute cower. It made him feel like Ravyn.

“She should not be wandering the castle without a guard,” Linden gritted out. “Had I not caught her creeping toward the gardens, she might have easily gone outside and disappeared into the mist.” His jaw was rigid. “Though I suppose it is no wonder, with you as her watchman, that she was able to slip away.”

“Take your hand off of her.”

Linden’s fingers on Ione’s face went white with strain. Play strength—the worst kind of pageantry—for there was no disobeying a Scythe. His hand went limp, and Ione pulled away, her gaze unreadable.

Flames licked up Elm’s middle. But his voice remained calm. “You’re not to go near her again.”

“I take my orders from—”

“One more word, Destrier, and I’ll finish what began on Market Day and rip your face so far open not even the Spirit will recognize you. If you touch Miss Hawthorn again, by the fucking trees, I’ll end you.” He ran his gaze over Linden’s scars. “Do you understand?”

Hate boiled behind Linden’s eyes. It greeted Elm like a brother. “Yes,” he said through tight lips.

“Yes, Highness.”

“Yes, Highness.”

Elm’s anger wasn’t spent. Not by a fraction. But, with a lazy wave of his hand, he released the Scythe. Linden stepped away, quickly disappearing down the stairs.

Only then did Elm dare to glance at Ione. “Hey, Hawthorn.”

She was watching him, her face without expression. “That was excessive.”

“Sorry.” He rocked back on his heels, feeling wide open beneath her stare. “Why were you headed for the garden?”

“Why do you think, clever Prince?”

The pinprick of her voice found Elm’s chest. She was angry, though the Maiden masked it well. It felt strange to Elm, liking that she was angry at him. Anger was better than nothing at all. “I’m sorry I haven’t helped you search. I was away. Heir business.”

As quickly as it came, the prick in Ione’s voice was gone, her tone flattening. “I assumed you were avoiding me.”

“Not at all. I spent the night at Castle Yew.”

“And that had nothing to do with me?”

To say no would be a lie. It had been about her. Just not for the reason she thought. “You think very highly of yourself, Hawthorn, if you imagine all my comings and goings concern you.”

A noise hummed in her throat. “Maybe not your goings.”

Elm smiled—ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “That wicked mouth is going to get you into trouble.”

Ione turned away, her gray dress spilling behind her as she headed down the corridor. “If you say so.”

Elm followed her to a door with a hare carved into the frame. “I’m not inviting you in,” she said at the threshold.

“I didn’t expect you to. I merely wished to note,” he said, tapping a finger over the hare, “what door to knock on in the morning.”

“What for?”

“We keep up the search.” Their eyes caught. Elm shoved his hands into his pockets, strangling the desire to touch her. “The Chalice didn’t work. But there are other Cards that may help us find your Maiden.”