The dungeon stairs had always been deadly. Now that it was autumn, frost already making its home across Blunder’s fields, the steps were nigh unnavigable, slick with ice. Twice, Elm had to brace himself against the wall. When Ione slipped and crashed into him, her fingers flexed like cat claws, digging into the muscles along his abdomen. Elm wrapped an arm around her shoulders, steadying her.
“How far down does this go?” she said into his chest.
He gripped her tighter. “Far.”
By the time they got to the bottom, Elm was stiff all over. Given the tension in her shoulders, the fine line of her mouth, Ione was no better. She released him with a breath, stepping into the antechamber. Only then did Elm realize, with a bitter curse, that he’d forgotten the dungeon keys.
It didn’t matter. The door was already open.
A giant mouth of darkness greeted them, a bitter wind from deep within the dungeon snapping at their faces. “Where are my father and uncle kept?”
“On the south side. Your cousin is on the north.”
Ione’s back straightened, as if she was trying to force the shivers that racked up her spine into submission. She pushed into the dungeon on silent step, darkness swallowing her whole. Elm groaned and hurried after her, catching her at the shoulder and spinning her toward the first of many passages north.
They walked in silence down rows of empty cells.
A chill sank into Elm. This wretched castle. He hated it to its last scrap of mortar, of stone, of wood and iron. He kept his eyes forward the way Ravyn always did, determined not to look into the cells, knowing they were empty—and had not always been so.
He didn’t realize Ione had spoken until her hand grazed his arm.
He jumped. “Trees—what?”
“Anxious, are we?”
“Just cold.”
“I might have thought you didn’t mind the cold. What with you freezing us all into statues with your Scythe, back in the throne room.”
“What’s the matter, Hawthorn? Disheartened I cut the violence short?”
She ignored the quip. “Ending violence isn’t exactly a Rowan thing to do, is it?”
Elm didn’t bother masking his annoyance at being compared to his father and brother. “I try not to use the Scythe for violence.”
“Why not?”
“To disappoint the hell out of them.”
Ione, who often seemed to give her attention only by half, was watching him. She searched his face like she had in his chamber, still looking for something she couldn’t seem to find.
A noise, like the snapping of teeth, echoed down the corridor. Elm jerked to a halt, catching Ione’s arm, stopping her. They were near the end of the corridor. Ahead was the last cell. Elspeth Spindle’s cell.
Or what used to be Elspeth Spindle.
“Listen,” he said. “I should tell you—”
The noise echoed again, this time with the low, oily notes of a laugh. Elm swallowed. “Your cousin. She’s not the same.”
Ione said nothing. Her brows lowered. She pulled away from Elm, marching toward the cell. “Because of Hauth?”
“Not Hauth. Not this time.”
When Ione reached the iron bars, Elm stepped behind her, close enough that he could pull her back. There was just enough light to see a shadow shift, and then the Shepherd King was there, fingers curling around the iron bars, his yellow eyes wide and his jaw clicking a chilling rhythm.
Click. Click. Click.
Elspeth. Shepherd King. Nightmare.
He did not shiver, seemingly untouched by the oppressive chill of his cell. His spine stooped, black hair falling like curtains over his face. He jerked his chin to the side and looked up, his gaze catching Ione.
For a moment, all was silent. Ione stared at what had once been her cousin. They looked like mirrors of each other—if one of the two had been dipped in ink.
Ione’s voice drifted away from her. “Elspeth?”
“Sweet Ione.”
Ione reached a hand through the bars. Elm tensed. “Don’t,” he warned.
She didn’t listen. Her fingers grazed the skin along what had once been Elspeth’s cheek, and she drew in a gasp.
A smile crept across the Shepherd King’s face. “Do you finally see me, yellow girl?”
For the first time since he’d come upon her at Hawthorn House, Elm discerned unmistakable emotion on Ione’s face. Her pallor turned gray. Her eyes widened, and her lips drew into a fine line. Her fingers trembled as they traced the Shepherd King’s cheek. When she spoke, her voice was so thin it threatened to snap. “You’re not Elspeth.”
The Shepherd King’s smile widened. “Nor am I a stranger. I was the shadow that moved just beyond the corner of your eye. I spoke in murmurs, hummed songs you did not know. The hounds brayed, warning you of the intruder in your midst. The horses shied away and the birds grew quiet. But your parents did not heed them. And you, yellow girl, were afraid to look too closely.” His eyes dragged over her face. “But you’re not afraid anymore, are you?”
Ione pressed against the bars. “You—Elspeth—she kept so many secrets from me.”
The Shepherd King reached out, cupping her chin with a dirty, bloodstained hand. “She was wary. Clever. Good.” He rubbed his thumb along Ione’s cheek. “You and I are all that is left of her.”
“Who are you?”
“Blunder’s reckoning.” The Shepherd King’s grin was worse than any snarl. “I am the root and the tree. I am balance.”
Ione reached out in a flash, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I want to speak to Elspeth.”
“You cannot have her. She is with me. And I am letting her rest.”
“I don’t care. Give her back to me.”
The Shepherd King’s teeth scraped over his lip. For a moment, Elm thought he might tear into Ione’s soft, unblemished cheek. But his grip on her face loosened, his brow easing. “She will be free. But not until my work is finished.” His eyes flashed to Elm. “And old debts settled.”
It was the first time he’d looked at Elm directly, those strange eyes so piercing, so monstrous, so knowing.
“Elm,” the Shepherd King murmured. “A pleasure to see you again.”
Elm. Not Renelm or Prince, like every other stranger called him. Elm. As if this man, this thing, already knew him.
And, of course, he did. For every conversation Elm had had with Elspeth Spindle—every treason she’d committed alongside him—every secret she’d heard—so, too, had the monster in her mind. Waiting, just behind her eyes. Listening. Learning.
Elm felt sick.
“You look pale, Princeling.”
“It hasn’t been easy, cleaning up after you.”
“Yes. Your cousin intimated as much.”