The King nodded at a Destrier, who came forward and backhanded Tyrn across the face.
Tyrn groaned, blood sliding out the corners of his mouth. Still, he tried to best the Chalice and lie. “N-n-n-n-n...”
The Destrier slapped him again. When the truth seemed to strangle him entirely, Tyrn took a swelling breath, defeated. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The King’s gaze turned hateful when it landed on Erik. Of all the betrayals he’d endured thus far, it was clear he felt this one the keenest. His former Captain of the Destriers—hiding an infected daughter. “Did you know of her magic, Erik? This ability she has regarding Providence Cards?”
Erik stood like a soldier, shoulders square, legs firm. He did not try to lie. “No, sire.”
The King’s eyes jerked down the line. “And you, Miss Hawthorn? Did you know of her magic?”
Ione stared up at the throne. “No.”
“No, Your Majesty,” Linden echoed, sounding too much like Hauth.
“Asshole,” Elm muttered, loud enough to earn him a sharp look from Ravyn and a familiar murderous glare from his father.
The King returned his attention to Erik Spindle. “Hauth carried a Scythe and a Black Horse nearly everywhere he went. And Orithe Willow was no feeble-bodied fool. Did you train your daughter in combat?”
“No, sire.”
“Then how—” A line of white spit formed along the King’s bottom lip. “How was a girl of her stature able to best them?”
“Whatever skills Elspeth possessed,” Erik said, “I was never witness to them. I saw little of her.” He turned to the side, his blue eyes burning into Tyrn. “She lived with her uncle.”
The King’s wrath returned to Tyrn. “I understand your wife and sons were conveniently absent from both Spindle and Hawthorn House when my Destriers came to collect them. Where are they?”
Tyrn’s shoulders began to shake. “I don’t know, Your Grace.”
The King leaned back into his throne. “You don’t know,” he repeated. “Perhaps I do not need them. After all, your daughter is here, within my clutches.” He peered down at Ione. “You are terribly brazen, Miss Hawthorn, to continue to use the Maiden Card I gifted you.”
Ione said nothing.
The King folded his hands over his lap. “Where are your mother and brothers—your aunt and cousins?”
Ione kept her eyes forward, unflinching. “I don’t know, sire.”
“But you knew Elspeth Spindle caught the fever. You knew it when my son pledged to marry you.”
“Yes.” Linden opened his mouth, but Ione cut him off. “Yes, Majesty.”
The King’s eyes blazed. “You agreed to marry Hauth, knowing you’d be tethering him to a family that carried sickness? You disgust me.”
“The disgust,” Ione said, her tone idle, “is mutual.”
Silence pierced the room. Even the hounds held still. Linden reached out, his hand an open palm, and slapped Ione across the face.
Elm went rigid, hands curled into fists so tight the fresh scabs along his knuckles split. Salt shot up his nose, into his mind. Don’t move, Ravyn warned. Stay right there.
The King drained his goblet. “Try again, Miss Hawthorn.”
Ione’s cheek was red only a moment where Linden had struck her. Then, slowly, the red blanched away, her skin perfect once more. “I never lied to Hauth about Elspeth. He did not ask me about my family. He did not ask me much of anything.”
The throne groaned under the King’s shifting weight. “Were you there when she attacked him?”
“No.”
“How did she come to be in a room alone with him?”
Someone shuddered down the line, drawing the King’s gaze. Tyrn.
“Well?” the King barked.
Tyrn covered his eyes, wiping away tears. Or maybe he was simply trying to hide his face from Erik Spindle. “I—Prince Hauth, he wanted to speak—” He took a weak breath. “I brought Elspeth to the Prince, Highness.”
Up until that moment, Erik Spidle had been as good as glass—smooth, still. Now his entire body was directed at his brother-in-law, his blue eyes filling with fire.
Elm’s pulse pounded in his ears. The hair on his arms prickled, the tension in the room so taut it might snap him. He dug his hand into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the Scythe and its familiar velvet comfort.
But his debt gnawed at him. I saved your life. Now it’s your turn to save mine.
It had to be now—now that she was under the Chalice—when the King would believe her. But Ione Hawthorn hadn’t given him exact instructions, only that she wanted enough freedom to roam the castle uninhibited.
In Elm’s vast experience, there was very little the Scythe could not make someone do. Despite the Chalice, he could make Ione tell a lie to save herself.
But there would be a cost. A lie was still a lie, and the Chalice repaid lying tenfold. It wasn’t long ago that he’d watched Elspeth Spindle vomit blood thick as mud, trying to lie under a Chalice.
No, he couldn’t make Ione lie, it was too risky. He would have to absolve her by proxy. The falsehood would have to come from someone else. Someone he could stomach sacrificing to the Chalice’s poison.
You, he said to himself, his gaze falling to Tyrn Hawthorn, his face still hidden in his hands. He tapped the Scythe in his pocket three times. You’ll do nicely.
When Elm felt the salt sting his nose, he pushed it outward, his green eyes narrowed, focused entirely on Tyrn Hawthorn. On what Tyrn wanted.
And Tyrn, so keen to hide his miserable face, kept the Scythe’s glassy deadness hidden behind his hands. Tyrn wanted to keep his daughter safe. Wanted to absolve her.
Tyrn’s voice was loud, even behind the muffle of his hands. “My loyalty is to you and your family, my King,” he said. “Prince Hauth—I would never plot his injury.”
He choked on his words a moment. Elm kept his focus tight. Tell them what happened, he murmured into the salt.
“I delivered Elspeth to him because Prince Hauth promised he would handle her infection swiftly, without family dishonor. He said it was the only way to save Ione’s reputation.”
Now for the tricky part. Not an outright lie, but a mixing of truths. Something to keep Ione away from the hangman. Something that would slip into the King’s cracks and give him pause.
Lucky for Ione, Elm had years of practice learning the King’s cracks.
Tyrn coughed. When he spoke the words Elm compelled him to say, his voice was tight. “Please, sire. If you harm my daughter, everyone will know. She is beautiful, she is beloved. My family is gone—people will gossip. But if you let my Ione remain here, she will placate your court. Stop tongues from wagging. Keep people from knowing the truth of what happened to Prince Hauth.”
The King’s voice was ice. “And why should I wish to hide what happened to my son?”