“The Scythe I created has been used for unspeakable crimes. Infected children have been hunted—killed. Physicians have turned to murderers. The Old Book of Alders has been defiled by Rowans to justify their every whim. Pain is Blunder’s legacy. It has perforated the kingdom for centuries, and would continue to do so if your family—my rightful heirs—were to forcibly take it back. There would be terrible unrest. You and I are Blunder’s reckoning, Ravyn Yew. Not its peace.”
His voice softened, as if he were easing a child to rest with a story. “I had five hundred years to imagine my revenge. Hauth Rowan tasted it, that night at Spindle House. But poetry is as judicious as violence. And wouldn’t it be poetic to undo the Rowans from within? To take that legacy of pain, and watch one of their own grind it under his heel? To carve the way for a Prince who never used the Scythe for violence? Your cousin Elm has done more than Brutus Rowan or I ever could. He has looked pain in the eye—and refused to let it make a monster of him.”
The air thinned. Before Ravyn or I could speak, thunder rolled.
The sky went an inky black, and the Spirit of the Wood returned. She walked upon the water to the shore, her lips peeled back in a sneer. “You are clever, Shepherd King.” Her silver gaze turned on Ravyn. “As are you. But if you wish to rewrite history and unite the Deck—to strip Blunder of my fever, my mist—you must be quick about it.” When her eyes dropped to the Twin Alders Card in Ravyn’s hand, her sneer curled into a smile. “You’ve been using that Providence Card for a long time.”
The corners of my dark room seized. Ravyn’s face drained of color. He fumbled—tapped the Twin Alders.
The world tugged at the seams, the pale shore quaking, then leaching away to darkness. The Nightmare lunged for Jespyr, caught her in his arms.
Then he was falling.
His head hit something hard. When the world came back into focus, I looked up through the Nightmare’s gaze, the branches of two trees tangling above him. One pale, the other dark.
We were back in the alderwood. Only now—
There was snow on the ground.
Chapter Forty-Four
Ravyn
The knobs of Ravyn’s spine collided with tree roots. He wheezed and spat out a curse, his vision blurring. When it focused, the twin alders loomed above him. He turned on bruised ribs, scanning the hilltop for Jespyr.
She lay several feet away, caged in the Nightmare’s arms.
“Are you all right?”
The Nightmare didn’t reply. He was dragging the tip of his boot over the ground—over a fresh layer of white, powdery snow. Only then did Ravyn note how cold it was. Far colder than it had been when they’d entered the alderwood.
The Nightmare set Jespyr on the ground—drew his sword. He slid his palm over the edge of the blade. When the cut bled, he swiped it over both alder trees. “What day is it?”
The day of the long night, came their horrid, dissonant reply.
The Nightmare’s yellow gaze crashed into Ravyn. “How long were you using the Twin Alders Card?”
“I don’t know.” Ravyn looked up at the sky, snowflakes brushing his face. It was night. But the hour, he could not tell. He rose to his feet, panic thinning his voice. “It’s not—it can’t be Solstice.”
More than it has ever been, said the pale alder.
Less with every passing moment, said the other.
Ravyn felt sick. “How long were we on that shore?”
Twenty-four turns of the sun. Hurry back to your chamber, Taxus, said the dark alder. You have until midnight to unite the Deck.
The Nightmare gnashed his teeth. On a crashing rumble, he reached for Jespyr—flung her over his shoulder—and fled the hill.
Ravyn tore after them.
His descent was reckless. Twice he tripped on the rocky hillside and caught himself with bruising effort. When he got to the bottom and the valley that waited, the mist bloomed with bones and corpses.
Forward, always forward.
Out of the rotting valley, into the ravenous wood. Trees swung at them and thorns hungered for a bite, the song of the wood a discordant call of wind, screeching through branches. Animals stalked and lunged. They clambered over roots—swung their swords at beasts of prey. The Nightmare kept Jespyr in his arms and Ravyn shielded them, taking the brunt of the branches that managed to land their blows.
Ravyn had not eaten for what felt like an age, but he was not hungry. He’d been afforded centuries—walked with the Spirit of the Wood through time. And now that he was back, he knew only one urge.
To outrun the clock.
The wood hunted them through the night. Then, like a candle in the darkest room, a pale light shone ahead. The Nightmare saw it, too, and his pace quickened. The light came from a small gap in the trees. It beckoned Ravyn just as strongly as the mist had beckoned Jespyr into the alderwood.
Dawn.
Nothing is free, the trees called after them. Nothing is safe. Magic is love, but also it’s hate. It comes at a cost. You’re found and you’re lost. Magic is love, but also—
“For mercy’s sake.” The Nightmare spat phlegm onto roots. “Shut the fuck up.”
They shot out of the alderwood into pale gray light. When Ravyn looked back, the gap in the trees had closed. He took in a full breath, the air bereft of rot. It washed down his lungs, so pure it made him cough. They stood in the aspen grove they’d slept in last night. Only, it hadn’t been last night. It had been nearly a month ago.
Then Ravyn remembered Petyr.
His gaze darted left, then right. He called his friend’s name. “Petyr. Petyr!”
“He wouldn’t have waited this long.” The Nightmare panted, his arms still wrapped firmly around Jespyr. “A clever man—which is giving him a deal too much credit—would have returned to Castle Yew.” He hurried west. “As must we. And fast.”
Ravyn’s stomach plummeted into his boots. “The Cards,” he gasped. “Even if we get to Castle Yew before midnight, we can’t unite the Deck. I—I don’t have all the Cards.”
The Nightmare stopped so abruptly Jespyr fell from his shoulder. He caught her before her head could hit soil. She groaned, eyelids flickering.
Ravyn staggered forward, put his hand on his sister’s overwarm forehead. “Jes?”
Bleary brown eyes opened. Jespyr reached for Ravyn, her fingers grazing over his face, his swollen nose. “What happened?”
It hurt, the place her fingers trailed. A sharp, consuming pain touched Ravyn’s face. He drew back. “I’ll explain everything soon. But we’ve got to get home.”
“Home,” Jespyr said, eyelids dropping once more. She rested her head against the Nightmare’s chest. “Tell the Shepherd King...he needs a bath.”
She slipped unconscious, and the Nightmare pressed her over his shoulder once more. When he glanced back at Ravyn’s face, his yellow eyes widened.
By instinct, Ravyn touched where the Nightmare was looking. His nose.
“What do you mean you don’t have all the Cards?” the Nightmare demanded.
Ravyn kept running his hand over his face, looking for injury. He felt nothing—no swelling, no pain, just a lingering tingle where Jespyr’s fingers had grazed his skin. “The Deck is divided between the Cards hidden in the stone in your chamber and those I have in my pocket. We have all but the Scythe, which is with—”