There were Destriers—six more of them, waiting. Morette and Fenir and Jon Thistle were with them. So was Emory. When they saw Elm, their chests heaved, tears turning Morette’s green eyes glassy.
Elm’s relief to see them lasted only as long as it took to take in their appearances. They were bruised, pale—shivering. They wore no cloaks against the chill. Emory was swaying on his feet, held up by his mother and father’s arms.
There was a cut in his left hand. Long—deep, dripping red into the snow.
Elm choked on his breath. “What have you done?”
Hauth walked down the line of Destriers. “Our aunt and uncle, with a little persuasion from my men, my Scythe, and a Chalice, of course, have informed me that this is where Ravyn and Jespyr and their friend Elspeth Spindle entered the wood in search of the Twin Alders Card.” An unfeeling smile touched his mouth. “They told me a fascinating story about a stone, hidden in a chamber behind the castle.”
He reached into his pocket—pulled out six Providence Cards. A Prophet. A Well. An Iron Gate. A Golden Egg. A White Eagle. A Chalice.
Elm’s gaze shot back to the cut in Emory’s palm.
Hauth sucked his teeth. “I told you, Renelm. I have no desire to unite the Deck. The mist, the infection, keeps Blunder small. Terrified. And terrified people are easy to control. Ravyn’s little collection—all his lying and thieving—was merely to adorn the vaults at Stone with more Providence Cards.”
Erik Spindle cursed, spitting blood into the snow.
Hauth ignored him. His eyes were on the tree line, fixed near the stone chamber. “He’s taken his time, Ravyn. My men have been watching these woods for weeks. Still, he may yet come. He has until midnight to make that Twin Alders Card count for anything.”
Elm had wondered, down in the frosted dungeon, why his brother hadn’t come for him or Erik or Tyrn yet. Now, he knew. “We’re your bait.” He was shaking. He’d spent a month being cold. But now—there was an inferno in his chest, clawing up into his throat. “You’d trade us for the Twin Alders?”
“Of course not. You’re all traitors. You’ll all die tonight.” Hauth picked under his fingernail, his tone bored. “But Ravyn won’t know that, will he?”
Daylight bled away into night.
Elm counted fifteen Destriers in total, including Hauth—which meant not all of them carried Black Horses. He watched their movements, noting the ones that had been conscripted during his stint in the dungeon. They moved on silent step through the snow, collecting shrubbery and bramble and wood, spreading it into four pyres around the meadow.
When it was fully dark, they lit the pyres, the snow reflecting yellow and orange flames. No one said anything, all of their gazes tight on the tree line, watching for Ravyn.
Then, quiet as a bird, Emory’s voice broke the stillness. “You won’t win.”
Hauth stopped pacing. He came to stand in front of Morette and Fenir, who were trying to shield Emory behind their backs. “What’s that?” Hauth put a mocking hand to his ear. “I couldn’t hear you under the grating sound of your dying breaths, Emory.”
Elm yanked against his restraints—tasted blood on his tongue.
Emory swayed. Then, quicker than a dying boy should, he lunged forward. Grasped Hauth’s wrist. His eyes rolled back in his head, and when he spoke, his voice was strange, smooth—as if slick with oil. “You won’t win,” he said again. “For nothing is safe, and nothing is free. Debt follows all men, no matter their plea. When the Shepherd returns, a new day shall ring. Death to the Rowans.” His gray eyes focused, homing in on Elm. “Long live the King.”
Hauth ripped himself out of Emory’s grip. Expressionless though it was, his face had gone the color of paper. He raised a hand—hit Emory across the face with a closed fist.
The boy fell into snow and did not get up.
Morette screamed. Fenir reached for his son, but the Destrier on his left twisted his arm behind his back. Elm surged against his restraints, only to feel the ropes cut tighter into his wrists. “Hauth,” he said, half curse—half plea. “Don’t do this. He’s just a boy.”
Hauth looked down at Emory. There was nothing in his green eyes.
“Movement, Highness,” a Destrier called, pointing his sword to trees on the other side of the meadow. “There—just ahead.”
Hauth’s gaze wrenched forward. The line went still, prisoners and Destriers alike all holding their breaths as they watched the wood.
There was nothing at first, just the whisper of wind. Then, so silent and ethereal she might have been the Spirit of the Wood herself—
Ione Hawthorn stepped into the meadow.
She wore the same gray dress she’d worn when she’d fled Stone, only now it was filthy, wet. Her face was red from the cold, her hair roped into a thick braid down her back. Elm drank in the sight of her, elation spoiling to dread as his gaze dropped to Ione’s hand.
Three Providence Cards lay in her open palm. The Maiden, the Scythe, and a third. It was forest green, depicting two trees—one pale, one dark—interwoven at their branches and roots.
The Twin Alders Card.
Ione’s hazel eyes shifted over the crowd—over Hauth and his horde of Destriers, then the Yew household and her uncle and father. When her gaze collided with Elm’s, her chest heaved, her brow going soft.
Then she took in his face. The damage they’d done to it. Ione stiffened, the red in her cheeks going wan. When her gaze returned to Hauth, those hazel eyes burned.
Hauth stepped into the meadow and offered her a curt, mocking bow. “You’ve always had a knack for unpleasantly surprising me, Ione.” He nodded to the Twin Alders in her hand. “Where did you get that? Did Ravyn give it to you?”
She said nothing.
Hauth took another step. “Where is he?”
Elm needed her to look at him. Needed her to know that it couldn’t end like this. “Ione,” he said, his voice in tatters. “Go. Please—go.”
She didn’t budge an inch, save to plant her feet deeper into the snow.
Hauth kept stalking forward, eying her like she were an injured animal in the wood. “Are you going to use that Scythe on me, betrothed? On all my men?” He sucked his teeth. “Go ahead. But be warned—you better be skilled enough to compel all of us at once. Because if you’re not, well. You remember what happened in my brother’s chamber.”
Behind Elm, Linden laughed.
“If you tell me where Ravyn is, I’ll make it painless. But if you fight me—” Hauth took his own Scythe from his pocket. “Then I will take my time killing you. So by all means, Ione, fight me. You’ve always tried to.”
Tyrn Hawthorn heaved a terrible sob. “Go, Ione!”
She didn’t listen. She was staring down the man she might have married, her face an open book of loathing. “You want to watch me die, Hauth?”
He raised a finger over his Scythe. “It’d be the only enjoyment you could offer me.”
Ione’s finger was faster. She tapped the Maiden once—twice—thrice. “Then kill me. If you can.”
A knife sang though the air.