And lunged.
He wrapped his fists into the Nightmare’s cloak, looked into those terrible yellow eyes, and slammed him into the mud.
More terrifying than snarl or hiss, the Nightmare laughed. “Your stone veneer is crumbling, Ravyn Yew. Who will be waiting on the other side when the mask slips away? Captain? Highwayman? Or beast yet unknown?”
Ravyn drew a breath, his voice deathly quiet. “If it would not hurt her, I would flay you alive.”
A crooked, malevolent smile was his only answer.
They ate a mile from the water. Ravyn found a stream and cleaned the putrid blood from his hands, his clothes, noting just how sore his muscles were—how much strain it had taken to cross the lake.
The Nightmare shoved aspen bark into their hands to remedy whatever lake water they’d ingested. When Jespyr asked how he knew the bark would aid them, he muttered something about the idiocy of Yews before disappearing behind the tree line.
Ravyn watched him go, Elspeth’s voice ringing through his mind.
Alive.
She was alive.
The relief was like stepping indoors after a winter night’s watch—so warm, it hurt.
Wik built a fire and pulled rations from his satchel, handing them down the line. When Ravyn sat next to Gorse, the Destrier got up and took a seat on the other side of the fire. His eyes slid over Ravyn’s hands—his pockets. Ravyn knew what he was hoping to glimpse.
The Nightmare Card.
Only two burgundy Nightmare Cards had been forged. Both had been missing for decades. Tyrn Hawthorn had brought one forward—traded it to King Rowan at Equinox for a marriage contract between Ione and Hauth. It was no doubt still being used at Stone by the Physicians attempting to revive Hauth.
Gorse wasn’t the smartest Destrier. But the distrust coloring his face meant he had come to one of two conclusions. Either Ravyn had taken the King’s Nightmare Card—
Or he, Captain of the Destriers, possessed the second one. Along with a Mirror Card he’d conveniently failed to mention.
Jespyr mouth was full of food. “If there’s something you want to say,” she managed, watching Gorse as she heated dried venison over the flames, “now’s a perfect time.”
Gorse’s lips welded to a fine line. His eyes dropped back to Ravyn’s pocket. “That’s a rare handful of Cards you’ve got there, Captain.”
Ravyn leaned into the log at his back. “And?”
“Does the King know about them?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
A shrug. “Hauth liked to say the Yews have sticky fingers.”
Not smart at all. Ravyn tapped his Nightmare Card three times, pushing its magic out like a cloud of hungry black smoke. Is that what you think, Destrier? That I am a thief?
Gorse blanched, his eyes widening in the firelight. “Stop.”
Stop what?
“I’m sorry—I—I don’t think you stole it. Just—get out of my head.”
Jespyr’s eyes bounced from Ravyn to Gorse, a smile curling the corners of her mouth. Wik chuckled into his food, and Petyr held up the Maiden Card. “Speaking of Cards,” he said, “this was a damn interesting surprise.”
“You sure it wasn’t your lucky coin that saved you?” Jespyr said with a wink.
Ravyn released Gorse from the Nightmare’s magic, his gaze dropping to Petyr’s leg, its wound distinctly missing. Petyr had stopped using the Maiden Card twenty minutes ago. And while his face had returned to its familiar roguish expression, the scar upon it had not. He was healed. Completely.
“He seemed to know the Maiden would heal you,” Wik said, jerking his head to the wood where the Nightmare had retreated.
Ravyn glanced over his shoulder to the trees. “I imagine there are many things he knows about Providence Cards.”
Jespyr chuckled. “Too bad he’s wholly unwilling to share them.”
They went in separate directions, relieving themselves and changing into clean clothes in the underbrush. Ten minutes later, Ravyn and Jespyr regrouped at the fire. The Ivy brothers joined them. The Nightmare, slow in his steps, came last.
Jespyr kicked dirt over the dying fire. “Where’s Gorse?”
“He fled five minutes ago,” the Nightmare said with unsettling calmness. “Off to report Captain Yew’s Nightmare Card to the King, no doubt.” His lips peeling back, offering Ravyn a sneer. “I suppose he felt rather uninspired, following a liar into the wood.”
Jespyr muttered into her glove, then disguised it as a cough. “He’s not the only one.”
Ravyn turned—searched the trees. The Black Horse could only aid Gorse so long. He didn’t doubt that he could catch the Destrier, silence him with threats. Or worse. But the feeling that he was running out of time was an ever-ticking clock in Ravyn’s mind—and it was getting louder. He would deal with Gorse, and the King, when he got back to Stone. For now—
“We keep going.”
Forward. Always forward.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Elm
You’ll have to forgive an old man.”
Midday light flickered through the library. Elm sat sideways in a satin chair, his legs thrown over its cushioned arm, a sketchbook splayed in his lap. Next to him was a stack of unread tomes. He drank broth from a cup and ran the tip of his stylus over blank pages, listless and irritated.
He was drawing a horse, mid-run—and was deeply dissatisfied with it. “I don’t have to forgive you a thing,” he said to Filick Willow, ripping the paper from the binding and balling it into his fist. “I live off of my grudges.”
The paper hit the Physician square in the jaw. Filick’s gray whiskers twitched, hiding his smile. “I’ll knock louder next time.” He levied a pointed glance. “And that, in no way, should be taken as encouragement.”
Elm started a new drawing. “You disapprove, old man?”
“There are many beautiful women in the castle these days. Your father has seen to that.”
“And?”
Filick returned his gaze to his book of plants, as if he were lecturing one of them, and not the Prince of Blunder. “Why not choose a woman less...less...”
Elm kept his wrist light as he swung his stylus over the paper. “Less like Ione Hawthorn?”
“She’s betrothed to your brother.”
The smooth line of the horse’s midsection wobbled. “I’m aware.”
Filick forfeited with a grunt, sipping his tea. “I suppose, if your brother never wakes, the matter will resolve itself.”
Elm paused. “Will he wake?”
“I don’t know.” Filick’s blue eyes lifted. “Have you gone to see him?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“You should. If only for appearances.”
Appearances. Elm ripped the paper, balled it, and threw it to the ground. He stared at the next blank sheet. His drawing began with a shape, two sweeping arches. “When do you think they’ll get back?” he said quietly. “Ravyn and Jespyr and...him.”