She was paces away, then suddenly—too close. Her silver eyes filled Ravyn’s vision, her claws pressing into his chest.
“You stand here, hundreds of years in the past, and speak to me of power?” The smell of salt was everywhere. “The Shepherd King was born with the fever because I deemed it so. His children were gifted magic by me. Brutus Rowan took the throne because I did not intervene. Kings and monsters can be made, and butterflies can be crushed. All that you know, I have created. I am Blunder—her infection, her trees, her mist. I am brimming with magic.”
“And yet you barter with a liar and thief, just to remain so.” Ravyn leaned forward, letting the tips of her claws press harder against his chest. “You are eternal. And you are magic. But I know as well as you that magic is the oldest paradox. The more power it gives you, the weaker you become. The Shepherd King taught me that.”
A low, scraping sound resonated in her throat. She pulled back. “You are determined, then, to overlook my generosity and take back the Twin Alders Card?”
“I have no ambition for the throne.”
Her voice held an edge. “Perhaps you should.”
Ravyn bit down. “Time is precious to me, Spirit. Name your price for the Twin Alders. I would like to go home.”
Her silver eyes narrowed, her dark tongue dragging over the tips of her teeth. “Then answer me this.” She drew in a rasping breath. “The dark bird has three heads. Highwayman, Destrier, and another. One of age, of birthright. Tell me, Ravyn Yew, after your long walk in my wood—do you finally know your name?”
A memory tugged at Ravyn. He’d heard those words before.
Emory had whispered them back at Stone.
“That is my price,” the Spirit continued, a smile snaking over her lips. “My barter—my cost. If you answer correctly, I shall grant you the final Providence Card. If you cannot, it remains with me.” Her claw tightened around the Twin Alders. “Your name, Ravyn Yew. Tell me your name.”
The riddle cantered forward in Ravyn’s mind, leaving behind a sense of dread. He felt like he was sitting down to a game of chess with Elm. That, by simply being there, he had already been utterly outmaneuvered.
“You offered me two things,” he said slowly. “I denied them both. For my restraint—and for the sake of balance—I ask for two clues.”
“I’ll tell you what I told the Shepherd King when he visited long ago.” The wind picked up, and her voice grew louder. “The twelve call for each other when the shadows grow long—when the days are cut short and the Spirit is strong. They call for the Deck, and the Deck calls them back. Unite us, they say, and we’ll cast out the black. At the King’s namesake tree, with the black blood of salt. All twelve shall, together, bring sickness to halt. They’ll lighten the mist from mountain to sea. New beginnings—new ends...”
“But nothing comes free,” Ravyn finished.
“Upon Solstice,” the Spirit said, her silver gaze unrelenting, “the Deck of Cards will unite under the King’s namesake tree. That tree is not a rowan. That is your first clue.”
Her words played in Ravyn’s ears, unharmonious. He tapped his fingers along the ivory hilt on his belt. “And the second?”
“That, I will not tell you.” Her smile was all teeth. “I will show you.”
The world tilted. When it righted, they were still in the meadow—snow all around them. Only now, they stood under the shadow of yew trees.
At the meadow’s cusp was a stone chamber, fixed with one, dark window.
Ravyn whirled, searching the tree line for Castle Yew’s towers. They were not there. A different castle loomed ahead of him.
One he had only ever seen in ruins.
“How far in the past are we now?”
“Five hundred years. We shall be neither seen, nor heard.” The Spirit of the Wood gestured a gnarled claw toward the castle. “Shall we go inside?”
The castle was bustling. Musicians tightened the strings of their instruments. Servants hurried down corridors and up stairs with silver trays stacked with food, children with dark hair weaving between them, snagging pieces of sweet bread and spiced fruits. Holly and mistletoe garnished every door. Red and green and yellow velvet cords were strung between the iron arms of chandeliers.
Solstice, Ravyn realized.
Five long tables parceled the great hall, their benches full of courtiers, laughing and drinking. There was no dais at the end of the hall, but there was a throne. Wooden, fashioned of thick, interlocked branches.
Upon it sat a man.
He was not caught up in the revelry around him. He spoke to no one, his face downturned over a book splayed open in his lap. The Old Book of Alders.
There were lines in his copper skin, his face angular—mouth drawn. He had a long, hooked nose. When he lifted his gaze, Ravyn caught a glimpse of his eyes.
Yellow.
“Is that—”
“The Shepherd King, in the flesh,” the Spirit whispered.
A crown rested upon his head, tangling in his dark, wavy hair. A gilt circle of gnarled, twisting branches and greenery.
Ravyn had seen that crown before. It waited in the stone chamber at the edge of the meadow, five hundred years in the future.
He kept his eyes on the Shepherd King. It seemed like a dream, seeing the face behind the voice. The slippery whispers, the grating snarls and hisses. Those were the embellishments of a monster. But this—this was undoubtably a man.
There was something strangely familiar about his face. But before Ravyn could put his finger on what it was—
Smoke filled the air.
It came from every doorway, dark and oppressive. Courtiers bolted from their seats, cries filling the great hall as they trampled over one another to get out. Castle guards peeled themselves off walls, guiding frantic men and women and children out of the castle. The Old Book of Alders fell from the Shepherd King’s lap. He stood—
But a gloved hand held him back.
A man came from behind the throne. His body was broad and his face sharp with angles, frown lines carved deep into his brow. In his other hand, he held two Providence Cards. The Black Horse, and the Scythe.
There was blood on his upper lip, dripping slowly from his left nostril. But Ravyn was focused only on his eyes. Green, like his uncle’s. Like Hauth’s and Elm’s.
Brutus Rowan.
He put his Cards into his pocket, leaned over the throne, and spoke words Ravyn could not hear to his King. He reached for his belt, withdrew a dagger—
And drove it in the Shepherd King’s ribs.
Men in black cloaks stepped into the smoke, their eyes unfocused, fixed on Brutus Rowan. “Find his daughter,” he commanded them. “Don’t let her heal him. Then bring me the other children.”
The Shepherd King reared. The back of his head collided with Brutus’s jaw, and loud, ugly shouts filled the room.
Ravyn coughed for the smoke—rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, the Shepherd King and Brutus Rowan were gone.