The boy weighed no more than a large saddle. But the stairs were long. By the time they met Jespyr in the east corridor, Ravyn was out of breath, a sheen of sweat upon his brow.
Emory was asleep. Jespyr gasped when she took him in her arms. “He’s little more than a reed.”
Ravyn turned away. If he looked too long at the tears in his sister’s eyes, his own might fall. “Take him to Castle Yew. Go now. I’ll be there shortly.”
Jespyr did not linger. She turned west, slipping through a servants’ door. Ravyn listened to her heavy steps until they were gone, then heaved a breath and straightened his cloak. He didn’t look back at the stairs to Emory’s room. It, nor any other part of the King’s castle, had earned a single farewell from him.
Ravyn uttered one nonetheless. “Fuck you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Elm
Shadows in the corridor loomed, only to scurry away. They seemed taller in the witching hour, dawn mere hours away. Elm rubbed his eyes and blinked. He needed sleep—badly. He opened his mouth to ask Ione if the Maiden kept her from feeling tired when footsteps sounded down the corridor.
Ione shoved him into a doorway. Elm’s ribs collided with an iron doorknob, and he let out an abrupt breath. “That,” he seethed, “hurt.”
The echoing footsteps grew softer. Whoever it was, Physician or guard or servant, they were not coming their way. Ione stood rigid, waiting. Torchlight caught the bridge of her nose, the heart-shaped curve of her lips, the soft line of her throat and the shadow where it hollowed.
Elm looked away.
Only when the corridor was quiet again did Ione acknowledge him. “Sorry. I forgot. You’re delicate.”
“Yes I am. I should be abed, resting by delicate body.” He waved his bruised knuckles in front of her face. “Not all of us have a Maiden Card to heal our mortal carcasses into perfection.” He looked at her hands. “That cut. Did you feel pain?”
Every part of Ione’s face was closed to him. “Yes. It takes a moment for the Maiden to heal me. When it does, it feels good, euphoric even, not to be in pain.”
“Sounds nice.”
“You could have a Maiden if you wanted.” She slipped out of the doorway, her steps silent as she continued down the corridor. “You’re a Rowan. Don’t you take whatever you fancy?”
“Clearly not, when all I fancy is a proper night’s sleep.”
“It was your idea to go to the dungeon.”
“And a brilliant one, considering Elspeth has the happy ability to see Providence Cards by color—even at a distance.”
Ione skittered to a halt. “She does?”
“Indeed.” Elm picked at his fingernail. “Rather handy. Especially for you.”
“How so?’
Elm shot her a pointed look. “You asked for free rein of the castle, yet failed on numerous occasions to specify where in Stone your Maiden Card resides. Which has led me to one rather interesting conclusion.” He cocked his head to the side. “You don’t know where your Maiden is, do you, Hawthorn?”
Ione drew in a breath, then continued down the corridor. “How exhausting it must be, wanting everyone to know how clever you are, Prince.”
Elm caught up with her in two strides. “But you’re still using the Maiden’s magic. If anyone else had touched it, your connection would be severed.” He leaned over her, his voice tipped with satisfaction. “Which means you’re the one who misplaced it.”
A frown ghosted over Ione’s brow. She didn’t look at him. Not in the way she normally didn’t look at him—too indifferent to bother. This time, she seemed intent not to meet his eye.
“What happened? Celebrate a little too hard on Equinox? Put your Maiden Card in a flowerpot and waltz away?”
“Something like that.”
Elm chuckled to himself. “No shame in it. Spirit knows I haven’t spent an Equinox sober in”—he counted on his fingers—“some years.”
Ione kept her eyes forward. “Just get us to the dungeon. After that, you can go back to being the cantankerous, wayward Prince you were born to be. Trees know I’ll be pleased to be rid of you.”
Elm trailed her down the corridor to the stairs. He didn’t have to tell her which turns to make. All they had to do was go down. “Is that what people call me? Wayward?”
“I’ve heard the word prick thrown around.”
“Naturally.”
Ione’s shoulders rose, half the effort of a shrug. “It’s said you like your freedom too well—that you’re an unruly, rotten Prince. Unmatched with the Scythe, but a poor Destrier. That’s what the men say, at least.”
Rotten. Elm shoved the word down and schooled his features to a lazy smirk. “What do the women say about me?”
Ione kept her gaze decidedly upon the stairs. “Nothing of note.”
“But with far less disappointment in their voices, I should think.”
A faint blush rose up her neck into her cheeks. “Perhaps.”
Elm’s smirk budded to a smile. He traced Ione’s blush with a curiosity he decided was purely scientific. It felt like a game of discovery, watching her face, seeing what sliver of emotion the Maiden would allow her to show—noting what had brought it on. Elm loved games. The playing, the cheating, the winning. Mostly, he loved the measuring of his opponent, the unearthing of their limitations.
Only now, he wasn’t sure who his opponent was. Ione Hawthorn—or the Maiden Card.
He quickened his pace, matching Ione’s step as they took the east stairs. “And what do you think of that, Hawthorn? My reputation with women?”
“I don’t think of it.”
He laughed, a low, rumbling timbre, and Ione turned at the sound. Her eyes narrowed. “You said you didn’t have time for women.”
“When?”
“In your chamber. When I was getting dressed.”
He’d been paying attention to other things, in that moment. “I used to have time.” Elm cleared his throat. “I’ve been busy of late.”
Ione’s voice hummed in her chest. “For a Prince who doesn’t mind the King, and a piss-poor Destrier at that, one would think you had all the time in the world. Only, whenever I see you, you look as if you haven’t stopped to catch your breath. Which begs the question—” Her eyes were dark in the dim light. “What, Prince Renelm, have you been doing with all your time?”
Moonlighting as a highwayman. Stealing Providence Cards to unite the Deck without the King knowing. Using the Scythe until it makes me bleed. Worrying about Emory. Arguing with Ravyn. Bickering with my brother’s betrothed on our way to the dungeon to see a monster—
“You should know. You’ve taken up every moment of my time today.” Elm leaned down, his mouth close to Ione’s ear—testing to see if her blush would return. “And I can’t say it hasn’t been...interesting.”
She pulled away, her expression a stone wall. “Don’t.”
There it was again. Even in the dim light of the stairwell—pink in her cheeks. “Don’t what?”
“Pretend to flatter me.”
“Who’s pretending?”
Ione shook her head. A quick, dispassionate dismissal.
“Why, Ione Hawthorn.” Elm scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. “Don’t tell me it makes you feel something when I flatter you.”
“It doesn’t.” Her face was unreadable. Unreachable. “I can’t feel anything anymore.”