“Come,” the Spirit of the Wood said, taking his hand in her claws. “It’s almost finished.”
She led him outside. It was night now. The sky was black, the crescent moon masked by smoke. Orange flames licked up the castle towers, the last of the screaming courtiers fleeing into the night.
Ravyn’s entire body tensed as the Spirit of the Wood brought him through the meadow. He knew where they were going. He’d walked these steps a thousand times. The Shepherd King’s chamber.
And his grave.
“I don’t know if I can stomach this.”
Her tail flicked through smoky air. “Would you like it to stop?”
Figures darted past them, hurrying through the snow. The Shepherd King—followed by four boys. Tilly was in his arms. Ravyn could tell by the way her neck and limbs flopped—her eyes open and unseeing—that she was dead.
They left a trail of blood in the snow as they ran toward the stone chamber.
Ravyn’s hands shook. “They’re all going to die, aren’t they?”
The Spirit of the Wood’s voice held no love, no hate—no pity. “Yes.”
When the Shepherd King and his children reached the stone chamber, disappearing into its window, the Spirit urged Ravyn forward. “Go inside.”
The chamber was dark. But the flames from the burning castle flickered in through the window, revealing a shape in the corner of the room. A man.
Brutus Rowan. Waiting.
He’d donned a cloak. Gold, with the rowan insignia embroidered upon it. With a swift, brutal blow, he knocked the Shepherd King’s sword from his grasp—kicked it away.
“The trees can’t help you now.”
The Shepherd King planted himself between Brutus and the children. “I didn’t know the Spirit would take Ayris. I didn’t mean for her to die.”
“I don’t believe you. You are a liar, my old friend. Magic has made a soulless wretch of you—twisted you beyond all recognition.” He pointed his sword at the Shepherd King’s chest. “You are no longer fit to rule.”
“So you would take my throne? Kill my children?”
Brutus’s jaw set. “It will pain me. Losing your friendship pained me. Losing Ayris pained me. But what was it you once said to me?” His grip tightened upon his hilt. “To command the Scythe is to command pain. What is commanding a kingdom to that?”
Men spilled into the chamber. Eleven of them—each gripping a Black Horse.
“Tell me where to find the Twin Alders Card,” Brutus said, his voice louder now with the men at his back. “I will do what you could not and lift this vile mist.”
The Shepherd King put his hand to where he’d been stabbed. When he pulled it back, it was covered in blood. He swayed, a laugh slithering out of his mouth. “No.”
Like a hunter, Brutus stalked forward. When the Shepherd King did not acquiesce, Brutus took him by the throat—slammed him upon the stone.
And buried his sword in his chest.
The children cried out, but the Shepherd King made not a sound, save a long, low hiss. He fell from the stone to the earth beneath it, his crown slipping from his head. He held out a bloodied hand to his children.
“I will find you on the other side of the veil,” he murmured. His gaze turned back to Brutus. Yellow, wicked—
Infinite.
“For even dead, I will not die. I am the shepherd of shadow. The phantom of the fright. The demon in the daydream. The nightmare in the night.”
He lay upon soil at the foot of the stone. Bled his life’s blood. Did not stir.
Brutus looked down upon him, teeth bared, tears dropping from his eyes. When he wiped them away, his gaze was cold. He tapped his Scythe three times. “Kill them,” he said to the men at his back.
Ravyn lunged at him. Fell right through him.
“Wait,” came the Spirit’s stormy voice. “Watch.”
When the screams filled the air, Brutus threw himself out of the chamber. The burning castle was set before him, an inferno of orange and black.
A boy stood in the meadow, framed by fire and smoke.
He looked like his father. Dark hair, tall, angular. A distinct, beak-like nose. The only difference was his eyes. They were not yellow—
They were gray.
“Traitor,” came his snarling voice. He pulled a sword from his belt. “I’ll kill you for what you’ve done.”
“You won’t,” Brutus said, holding the red Card out between them. “You’re going to walk toward me, Bennett. And, just like your father, you’re going to feel my blade in your gut.”
The boy paled. But he did not move.
Brutus’s voice grew louder. “Come here.”
Bennett tilted his head to the side. His eyes fell to the Scythe. “No.”
Brutus began to shout. He came closer. They parried, and in three blows, the much larger man knocked the sword from the boy’s hand. He lifted his blade for a final strike.
Bennett closed the distance between them and ripped the Scythe from Brutus’s hand. Then, as if it were truly no more than paper and velvet, he took the indomitable red Card, smiled up at Brutus—
And tore the Scythe in half.
Brutus’s eyes went wide. He took a faltering step back, then lifted his sword once more. But before the blade could find Bennett, the boy reached into his pocket. Extracted a Mirror Card—
Disappeared.
The world shifted.
Ravyn and the Spirit were on a dirty street in town. They watched Bennett, hood up, begging for food. Watched him on the forest road band together with a party of highwaymen to rob a caravan. Watched as Destriers hunted the streets, posters with crude portraits of Bennett’s face decorating hitching posts throughout Blunder.
Bennett, now a man of middle age, wrapped his arms around a woman with wavy black hair and brown eyes. Stood with her under tall, twisting trees. Said marriage vows.
The vision ended where it began—in the meadow.
The yew trees surrounding the Shepherd King’s stone chamber were tall. They, along with the chamber they guarded, were the only things left unscathed by the fire. Bennett walked, now stooped with age, through the ruins. He climbed into the chamber—bled into the stone.
The chasm opened up, and he dropped his Nightmare and Mirror Cards into it. “Be wary, Father,” he whispered. “Be clever. Be good.”
Then he was gone.
Ravyn and the Spirit of the Wood were alone in the meadow once more, snow at their feet.
For the first time since the Shepherd King had taken command of Elspeth’s body, Ravyn’s hands did not shake. He stood perfectly still, five hundred years washing over him.
“That boy,” he murmured. “Bennett. The Scythe. He destroyed it?”
“Four Scythe Cards were made,” the Spirit replied. “Yet no one has seen the Rowans use more than three.”
“But Providence Cards are ageless. Their magic does not fade. They do not decay with time. They cannot be destroyed. The Shepherd King declared it so.”
“And he, like you, is certainly a liar.” The wind whispered through branches. “Your time is up, Ravyn Yew,” the Spirit said. “I will have your answer now. Tell me—what is your name?”
His throat tightened. His eyes rushed over the meadow, the tips of trees. Trees he and Jespyr and Emory had swung from as children.