Ione kept her eyes ahead. “As much as it bothers you, I imagine.”
Hauth. Blood on the floor, blood on his clothes, blood all over his face. Yes, it bothered Elm. For all the wrong reasons. “Count yourself lucky you didn’t have to see what was left of him when she was through.”
They came to the crossroads, the forest road diverging. Elm veered the horse east, to the place he hated most in the world. Stone.
“When does the inquest begin?” Ione asked.
“Anxious for the Chalice, are we?”
“I’m not afraid of the truth.”’
Elm bent, putting his mouth near her ear. “You should be.”
“Yes. I imagine I should.”
He glanced down. He’d hadn’t spoken much to Ione Hawthorn. Most of what he knew about her, Elm had gathered in glances—many of which had been stolen.
Her face had always been easy to read, even from across the great hall at Stone. Her expressions were genuine, her smiles so unrestrained that Elm had almost felt sorry for her. That kind of naked authenticity had no place in the King’s court.
He’d always thought she was beautiful. But the Maiden—that useless pink Card—had curated her beauty until it reached unearthly perfection. Her hair and skin were without blemish. The gap in her front teeth was gone. Her nose was smaller. The Maiden hadn’t made her taller, hadn’t—thank the bloody trees—diminished any of her remarkable curves. But she was different than the yellow-haired maiden he’d watched smile at Stone. More controlled.
Colder.
His eyes raked over her. Had Elm not noticed the dip in her throat, the swell of her breasts as she breathed—the shape of her thighs beneath her dress—he might have kept his eyes on the road. Had he kept his eyes to the road—
He might have seen the highwaymen.
They wore cloaks and masks and stood in a line, blocking the road. Elm yanked the reins, pulling his horse to a stop. The animal whickered, then reared. Ione slammed into Elm’s chest and he put an arm around her waist, holding her firmly against him.
The first highwayman bore a rapier and several knives on his aged leather belt. The next held a shortbow, the arrow aimed at Ione’s head. The third, taller and broader than the other two, carried a sword.
“Hands in the air, Prince Renelm,” called the man with the shortbow. “Reach for your Scythe and I’ll shoot you both.”
Elm’s nostrils flared. Slowly, he slid his hands off Ione and raised them into the air. “Bold of you,” he said, appraising them. “Three is a small number to take on a Prince and a party of Destriers.”
“I see no party.” The highwayman with the sword kept one hand on his hilt and stepped to Elm’s horse, taking the animal firmly by the bridle. “You look alone to me, Prince.”
Elm said a silent curse for leaving Gorse and Wicker behind at Hawthorn House.
Ione was silent, her spine pressed firmly against his chest. Elm tried to lean back, afraid she’d feel the pounding of his heart—but there was nowhere to go. Smooth as a snake, Ione’s hand glided behind her, prying along the hem of his tunic near his belt.
Elm froze.
Ione tugged at the fabric, searching, icy fingers grazing over his lower abdomen, near the pocket along his hip.
The pocket where he kept his Scythe.
“Don’t you dare, Hawthorn,” he seethed into her hair.
The threat in his voice did nothing. In one smooth maneuver, Ione’s fingers were in his pocket, grasping his Card.
Elm kept his eyes on the highwaymen and his hands in the air, his thoughts scrambled, an unwelcome vulnerability twisting in his stomach. He didn’t want Ione Hawthorn to touch his Scythe. He didn’t want anyone to touch his Scythe.
The highwaymen stalked forward.
“He’s not entirely alone,” the highwayman with the knives corrected, stepping closer. He let go of the hilt of his rapier and reached for Ione’s leg, his hands rough as he pushed the hem of her dress up. “Not with this exceptional creature.” He ran a finger down Ione’s bare calf, his muddy glove leaving a mark upon her skin. “Trees, your skin is cold.”
Ione’s entire body went still, her leg tensing in the highwayman’s grip. Elm’s voice came from the back of his throat. “Get your fucking hand off of her.”
“Then give us what we want, Prince.”
“Which is?”
“Your Cards,” said the man with the sword. He was looking at Ione’s leg. “Give us your Scythe and Black Horse. If you throw in the Maiden Card—and the woman attached to it—we’ll let you keep the horse.”
Rage burned in Elm’s mouth like bile, fingers curling to fists in the air.
“Keep those hands up, Prince,” said the highwayman with the shortbow. “Move, and I’ll send this arrow into the woman’s heart.”
Ione’s voice seeped out of her mouth. “So kill me. If you can.” Her hazel eyes lifted to the highwayman with the bow. She drew in a breath—then tapped the Scythe three times behind her back. “Let loose your arrow.”
The highwayman looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue. His bow jerked, the tip of the arrow shifting directions. With a strangled cough, he shut his eyes and released his arrow.
Elm slammed Ione forward, flattening her against the horse. But no arrow whizzed overhead. He heard a sickening sound and looked up, face-to-face with the highwayman touching Ione’s leg.
The tip of the arrowhead, crimson red, protruded from the man’s throat. The highwayman choked, blood spilling out of his mouth and neck. His fingers grasped for purchase as he dropped to the ground. He caught Ione’s dress, yanking her—and Elm—off the horse.
Elm hit the muddy road, his arms caged around Ione. She coughed, his Scythe locked in her fist, her entire body seizing as she tried to wrench herself free from the highwayman with the arrow in his throat.
Elm pushed to his feet and kicked the bastard away, and then he was running, closing the distance between himself and the second highwayman—the one with the sword. Elm wore no sword to match. Reluctant Destrier that he was, he’d left it at Stone. His only blades were two throwing knives he kept on his belt, mostly for show.
The first knife missed. The second nicked the highwayman along his inner thigh. Elm reached into his pocket. The Scythe was gone, but he carried another Card. A brutish one he almost never used, inherited when he took up the Destrier cloak.
The Black Horse.
Elm tapped it three times, harnessing an old weapon he always kept with him. He may have been less powerful without Ravyn and Jespyr—but he had enough rage for the three of them.
He dodged an arrow as it sang through the air, then the swipe of the sword. He closed the distance between himself and the highwayman, denying the blade its leverage, and sent his fist across the man’s face.
He struck again and again, his knuckles colliding with the highwayman’s cheeks and nose and jaw. The world around Elm crumbled, and suddenly he wasn’t hitting a stranger in a mask anymore, but his own brother, his father—even Ravyn.
The highwayman fell backward onto the road and did not stir. Elm stood above him, his hands screaming out in pain. He turned to look for Ione—