They clasped hands, then Petyr hurried after Ravyn’s family and Thistle, slipping through the mist, snow flurrying in his wake.
Ravyn turned and scanned the meadow. It was darker now. Several of the yew trees had dragged their roots through the pyres, scattering the flames—smothering the light. But Ravyn could still see everything he needed to.
Hauth, caged in the heart of the meadow by the yew trees.
He stepped forward, looking out into the wood. He could not see him, but he knew the Nightmare was there, guiding the trees with his sword. Waiting. Watching.
Ravyn reached into his pocket—tapped his burgundy Card. Elspeth?
She answered right away. Ravyn. Is your family safe?
Yes. Ione and the Destriers are headed your way.
Good, came the Nightmare’s oily timbre. The Princeling?
Right behind them. What time is it?
The trees declare we’ve thirty minutes until midnight.
Elspeth returned. She made a noise in her throat. Ravyn?
Even now, taut with strain, her voice eased him, like a warm cloth pressed over his eyes. Yes, Elspeth?
Don’t die.
I won’t.
Because if you do, and we never get the time we’re owed, I’ll hate you, Ravyn Yew. I’ll love you and hate you forever.
The corner of his lip quirked. This will all be over at midnight, Elspeth. After that, you can love me as thoroughly as you like.
The Nightmare made a retching noise. Not to cut this tender moment short, but time is somewhat of the essence. You sure you don’t want the trees to help you, stupid bird?
I can handle Hauth.
Good. Bring him, and the Cards he carries, to my chamber. His laugh was heady as smoke. By whatever means.
Ravyn’s hands dropped to the ivory hilt of his dagger. I will.
The three yew trees caging Hauth went still. Hauth stepped away from them—his face unreadable, save the angry veins that protruded from his neck and brow. His eyes were cast downward, combing the snow for the Scythe he’d not yet recovered.
Have at him, the Nightmare murmured.
Ravyn drew in a breath. And because he’d never said it when he first felt it, and never after she’d disappeared into the Shepherd King, he spoke one last time into Elspeth Spindle’s mind. I love you too, Elspeth.
And then he was running.
He crashed into Hauth just as his cousin’s fingers closed around his Scythe. They rolled in the snow like snapping dogs. When Hauth found his feet, he shoved the red Card into his pocket and sliced a dagger through the air. Ravyn reared back, but not fast enough. There was a tearing sound, the blade ripping through leather, drawing a fine line of blood across Ravyn’s torso.
Hauth let out a triumphant bark. “The untouchable Ravyn Yew, finally made to bleed.”
Ravyn pivoted, moving on the balls of his feet. He reached into his pocket—tapped his Mirror Card. Disappeared.
Hauth gnashed his teeth. “Coward!”
If you imagined I’d fight fairly after everything you’ve done, Ravyn said into his cousin’s mind, you’re a fool.
Hauth blanched and replaced his dagger with his sword. “A Nightmare Card? Did you steal it upon the forest road as well, highwayman?”
Ravyn laughed, his steps light. Not this time. This Card, I inherited.
He reappeared in front of Hauth and slammed his fist into his cousin’s jaw. Hauth hit the ground with a thud and rolled, dodging Ravyn’s boot. He was fast—using a Black Horse, his motions a blur.
Fast, but predictable. Hauth slashed his blade through the air. Before he could level another strike, Ravyn closed the distance between them. He caught Hauth’s swinging arm and bent it back.
Hauth grunted and dropped his sword.
Ravyn poised his dagger to his cousin’s neck. “This ends tonight. You, me, and the Deck.”
Cold green eyes grew ever colder. “Or what? Any damage you tend me will be undone by the Maiden. I plunged my knife into Ione Hawthorn’s heart, watched her bleed out—and still, she lived. I’ve hidden my Maiden Card deep within the vaults at Stone, Ravyn. You cannot kill me.”
Hauth pushed forward, his neck pressing over Ravyn’s dagger until it split his skin. Blood wept from the wound, but Hauth didn’t even flinch—he barreled into Ravyn with the force of a charging horse.
Ravyn’s feet dragged backward through snow, and Hauth landed punches into his sides, again and again, fueled by the unflagging strength of the Black Horse. Ravyn’s ribs absorbed the blows. They bent, bent—
Broke.
He groaned, took Hauth by the throat, and slammed him onto snow. Pinning his cousin to the ground, Ravyn leveled him with a decade of malice. He’d saved it, praying a day would come when he could unleash it. Hit after hit he paid Hauth with a closed fist. One for killing the King. Two for telling Orithe Willow that Ravyn was infected as a boy. Three for doing the same when Emory got sick. Four for the Rowan bloodline and the heinous violence Brutus Rowan had commanded. Ten for Elm.
And for what Hauth had done to Elspeth, Ravyn took his ivory-hilted dagger and shoved it into his cousin’s gut.
Hauth coughed, his face marked only briefly by pain. He was a mess of blood and spit, but eyes were cold.
“You’re coming with me to the chamber,” Ravyn snarled. “Whole, or in pieces.”
“Says the man who can’t even wield a Scythe.” Hauth spat in his face. “You want to bring me to heel, Ravyn? Make me.”
Knuckles screaming, broken and bruising, Ravyn reached his hands into his cousin’s doublet. He felt velvet and wrenched it free.
All the Cards Hauth had stolen from the chamber scattered, falling upon snow. Golden Egg. Prophet. White Eagle. Iron Gate. Well. Chalice.
Ravyn ignored them. He was reaching only for Hauth’s Scythe. Blood red, he held it between his hands.
But Providence Cards are ageless, he’d said to the Spirit of the Wood. Their magic does not fade. They do not decay with time. They cannot be destroyed. The Shepherd King said so himself.
And he, like you, is certainly a liar.
“I may not be able to use the Scythe,” Ravyn said. “But I can undo it.” He hauled in a breath, clenched his jaw—
And tore the indomitable red Card in half.
Hauth’s mouth fell open, twin pieces of red fluttering above him. The Scythe fell to the ground, reduced to nothing more than paper and velvet.
A smile bloomed over Ravyn’s face. He laughed, triumph rearing in his veins.
Pain sank into his side.
Ravyn’s laugh fell away. When he looked down, a ceremonial dagger was lodged between his ribs. It struck him as strange, how easily the blade had slipped to the hilt into his skin. As if he, like the Scythe, were no more than paper—frail as the wings of a butterfly.
Stranger still that the wound should be in the same place Brutus Rowan had stabbed the Shepherd King, five hundred years ago.
Blood seeped into snow. Ravyn flinched. Fell.