They put Jespyr on Elm’s horse and waded into the water. It was so much colder than when they swam last. The Nightmare pushed ahead, and Ione held the horse’s face—spoke into its ear—and led it through the water, breath pluming out of her mouth. Petyr was pale as death, muttering to himself about never leaving home again.
Ravyn swam last. Not even his burning fury for what had happened to Elm could keep him warm against the water’s bite.
No lake monster came to claim him. The only things that fought Ravyn now were his own straining muscles. Somewhere near the middle of the lake, his left leg cramped. He compensated with his right and kept going. But just as he neared the shore, his right leg seized as well. Ravyn dipped into darkness, a path of bubbles fleeing his mouth.
No. He’d gone to hell and back. Found a Providence Card five hundred years lost. Destroyed parts of himself to get it. He wasn’t going to drown on Solstice, mere miles from home.
He’d pretended so long to be strong—but he wasn’t pretending now. On powerful arms, Ravyn breached the water’s surface and sucked in a breath. His legs met slippery mud and he hauled himself onto the shore, heaving heavy breaths until the war drum in his chest quieted to a rhythmic march.
It was night. There was no light to see their way home. But Ravyn had entered the wood a Destrier, a highwayman. He was used to traveling in the dark. On trembling foot, he stepped with the others into the forest.
The wood was just as the Nightmare had left it—cleaved. The path was open to them, swaddled by mist.
When moonlight cut through the edge of the wood, Ravyn let out a shaky breath. It wasn’t trees on the horizon, but Castle Yew’s towers.
Home.
He pushed ahead of the others, stepped out from the wood into the meadow—
And smelled smoke.
The Nightmare wrenched him back, clasping a hand over Ravyn’s mouth. He put a finger in the air, gesturing for the others to halt.
Ahead, just on the other side of the trees, voices sounded in the meadow. One was louder than the others, echoing with harsh clarity, both brutish and cold. Ravyn’s skin went clammy, then fiery hot. He knew that voice.
It belonged to his cousin Hauth.
A smile haunted the Nightmare’s silken timbre. “How poetic. I couldn’t have asked for a better Solstice.” He put his mouth to Ravyn’s ear. “Now, stupid bird, will you listen to my plan?”
Chapter Forty-Five
Elm
Elm wasn’t alone in Stone’s frozen underbelly. Erik Spindle and Tyrn Hawthorn were there with him. Separated by iron bars, they were the only three prisoners in their row.
The torches outside their cells had been neglected—or forgotten. It was so dark Elm’s mind played tricks on him. Disembodied shapes danced before his eyes and voices rang in his ears. They sounded like children, crying. Like him as a boy, crying.
Every bit of skin, every hair follicle, felt like a rotten tooth—a raw nerve exposed. He was cold in ways that felt physically impossible.
No one came for days. Not Hauth, not a Destrier or a guard save the one with water and rotten bread, and even he arrived with such errant consistency Elm had no accurate way to measure time.
He thought Hauth would come, that there would be some kind of reckoning between them. That they would stand—green eye to green eye—and only one would walk away.
But the night the King had died, Elm had been so tattered, so desperate to save Ione from Stone, that he had used the Scythe too long. He’d lost himself to agony, the pain doing something it never had before.
Make a fool of him.
He should have gone with her, should have fled. He was supposed to be clever. Clever men didn’t freeze to death for pride, thinking they could rewrite old wrongs. They certainly didn’t die, believing their older brother—who had been nothing but a brute—would suddenly fight fairly.
Clever men died on their own terms. And if they were wary, clever, and good, they perhaps died in peace.
He, apparently, was none of the three.
A tonic and blanket passed between the bars. “Hold strong,” Filick Willow whispered. “Ravyn will come for you.”
Elm danced at the edge of consciousness. “Not this time.”
On the ninth—tenth, perhaps—day of captivity, echoes sounded down the corridor. Erik cocked his head to the side, his voice rusty with disuse. “They’re coming, Prince. Do not falter.”
The Destriers were not gentle. When the beating finished, someone shoved a crude cup into Elm’s hands. The wine was bitter, settling in all the dry places in his mouth.
Linden stood in front of him—tapped the Chalice Card. “Where did Ravyn and Jespyr go to retrieve the Twin Alders?”
Elm had no answer. “I don’t know.”
Hours later, after the beating was done, Linden returned with more wine, and tapped the Chalice thrice more. “Where is Ione Hawthorn?”
Elm shut his eyes. “I don’t know.”
Another Card had joined the Chalice. Elm immediately recognized the feel of a Scythe. A cold hand cupped his jaw. Elm looked into green eyes.
Hauth’s face, carved by the Maiden’s magic, was beautifully unholy. “You had your chance to flee with her, yet you didn’t. Why?”
Elm’s head rolled. Blood dripped out his mouth onto the dungeon floor. “You never cared for her. If you wish to barter with Ravyn, I am hostage enough.” He laughed, then coughed. “And I wanted to stay and kill you.”
Any other time, his brother would have answered with his own laugh, then a fist. But Hauth was inexpressive, fringing on disinterested, the Maiden’s ill effects masking him in chill. “You are right,” he said. “I never cared for her. Still, I will hunt her. Take back the Scythe she holds. This time, there will be no Maiden to save her. All you’ve done is buy her time—and made even more of a traitor of yourself.”
Elm spat blood on the floor. “I’ve been betraying you for years,” he ground out. “I was there on the forest road the day your face was cleaved. I was a highwayman, there to steal Wayland Pine’s Iron Gate. I helped collect the Deck right under your nose.” He took in a slow, rasping breath. “I’d do it all again, just to watch you flinch.”
Hauth’s hand tightened over Elm’s throat. “I’m not flinching now. And as for killing me, brother—” His green eyes were cold. “You cannot. Nothing can.”
He dropped Elm to the floor and quit the cell, Destriers on his heels.
Darkness took Elm away.
“You were on the forest road when Wayland Pine’s Iron Gate was stolen?”
Elm jumped. He didn’t recall dozing off—or how long he’d slept. There were food trays upon his floor. Three of them, untouched.
Erik Spindle watched him through the bars between their cells.
“I—” Elm winced. It hurt even to speak. “I was there. You nearly ran me through, actually.” He traced a finger over the split in his bottom lip. “Your daughter was there, too.”
Steam plumed in his periphery. Erik Spindle’s voice was ragged. “Elspeth? Why?”
“She was helping us collect the Deck. She wanted to heal Emory’s degeneration—her own as well. She saved me from your sword.” He let out a weak breath. “And I returned her favor with distrust and contempt.”