Hauth shoved him aside and rose to his feet. The places he’d been injured were already healing. He leaned over, his fingers probing at Ravyn’s pockets. He withdrew Ravyn’s Cards—his Nightmare and Mirror. The corners of Hauth’s lips twitched, and he collected the rest of the Providence Cards, splayed out like pieces of stained glass upon the snow.
“Pity the Maiden will not work on you, cousin.” When Hauth stood over Ravyn, he was without blemish once again. Brutal, perfect. A true Rowan King. “I’d always hoped I’d be the one to kill you.” He tapped Ravyn’s Mirror Card three times.
And disappeared.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Elspeth
I could not yet see Ione—but her Cards were brilliant in the darkness of the wood. Pink and red and forest-green lights emanated, and I knew my cousin was out of the meadow and into the trees, retrieving Elm’s horse where she’d left it. Mounting. Riding this way—just as the Nightmare had planned.
He hunched low to the ground and cocked his head to both sides, cracking the joints in his neck. Grip lax around his sword, he’d stopped moving the trees after we’d spoken to Ravyn. His self-imposed task was one he’d honed for centuries.
He waited.
He’d waited, while Ione and Ravyn confronted Hauth. Waited, as Jespyr and Petyr crept through shadow undetected. Even as he’d guided the trees into the meadow, he’d been waiting. Waiting.
For the Destriers to come.
But I was not so practiced in the art of stillness. My mind ticked on a steady rhythm, not a chime, but a chant. Midnight. Midnight. Midnight.
Hush, the Nightmare admonished. I can feel your worry in my teeth.
It can’t be helped. I let out a long breath, which did nothing to ease me. You have so little time.
I heard them, then. Footsteps. Several pairs, all of them running.
Ione rode loudly, weaving through the wood. The Destriers behind her were far quieter—difficult to hone in on. But not impossible.
The Nightmare tightened his grip on his sword and tapped it upon the earth, his namesake tree slithering out of his mouth like a hiss. “Taxus.”
Shepherd King, came the chorus of their reply.
“How many Destriers are in the wood?”
The Black Horses arrive, eight in their rank. They verge near the Maiden—to chase and to flank. Mind all your circles, guide the wood as you please. To hunt the King’s guard—cut them down at the knees.
The Nightmare stood to full height. Veins dark with magic, he swept his sword into the air. The wood trembled, then began once more to move. Dirt and mist and snow shrouded his eyes, so he shut them, content to listen to the noises of the wood.
I listened with him. I heard the groaning of trees—the rumbling of roots as they ripped toward the Destriers. I could hear the beats of Ione’s horse. Then, above it, men’s voices echoed.
The Destriers were shouting. Screaming.
The Nightmare opened his eyes, and Ione cantered past, stirring mist and kicking up dirt. The horse whickered, dodging through shifting trees. Ione kept her seat, turning the animal in wide circles through the wood. For each pass, she drew more Destriers from shadow, and the Nightmare, with swings of his blade, cut them down with the trees.
When four Destriers were left, Ione turned the horse, hurtling once more toward the Nightmare. One Destrier was so close behind her the tip of his blade cut several strands of hair from the horse’s tail. He pulled a knife, flinging it at Ione. But with one swipe of his sword, the Nightmare bade the trees to knock it from the air—and the Destrier from his feet.
Ione rode until she was next to him, dismounting in a flurry. She dropped her hand into her pocket and seized the red light therein. “Be still,” she said, panting. “Be still, Destriers.”
Louder, Ione, I called in the dark.
“Louder,” the Nightmare echoed.
Ione clamped her eyes shut. When she commanded the Scythe a third time, her voice shifted to a thunder greater than the whickering horse or the rush of incoming Destriers—greater than the wood itself. “Be still!”
Salt touched everything. Even me, though the Scythe had no sway over the Nightmare. When I looked through my window, three Destriers stood paces away—arrested in utter stillness.
Darkness emanated from their Black Horse Cards. Unmoving, the Destriers looked upon my cousin, unmistakable disgust flashing over their eyes.
Ione came to stand next to the Nightmare. She measured the Destriers, taking in their frozen statures and hateful gazes. With the Scythe, and her thunderous command, she’d bent them to her will.
But it only took a needle-thin whisper to break them. Ione turned to the Nightmare, dropping her hazel eyes to his sword. “Go on, then.”
His mirth coated our shared darkness. When the Nightmare’s sword sang through the air, the yew trees answered its call. With an impact so great I heard nothing but a terrible snap, the Destriers were knocked from their feet, ground by roots into snow—into nothingness.
I let out a shaking breath, and Ione winced. A drop of blood fell from her nose. She reached into her pocket—released the Scythe. “Is that all of them?”
The Nightmare closed his eyes, listening to the wood.
“Is Bess—Did she see all of that? That must have been terrible to watch.”
The Nightmare ignored her, clearing his throat to speak once more to the trees.
“Will you tell her I’m sorry about Equinox?” Ione scrubbed a hand over her face. “I feel sick, thinking we fought over Hauth bloody Rowan—”
“You know, yellow girl, I’ve always liked you best. But if you do not be quiet and let me listen, I’m going tell the trees to press their branches over your mouth.”
Ione balked, and I swatted at darkness. Would it kill you to be civil?
I’m already dead. But yes. Decidedly. He opened his eyes a sliver. Peeked at Ione. “Elspeth is lecturing me.”
Hesitant at first, then blossoming, a smile spread over my cousin’s mouth. She could not see it, but I answered with my own. Oh, give her a hug.
Don’t be grotesque.
A moment later the Nightmare’s spine straightened. He put a finger to his mouth, warning Ione to remain silent. There were voices in the wood again. Men, shouting.
“For fuck’s sake, Tyrn,” a booming voice called. “Stop cowering. They’re only trees.”
I jolted forward in the Nightmare’s mind. That’s my father’s voice.
A second answered, pointed and snide. “Only trees? When was the last time that wiry shrub in your courtyard ripped itself free and wrapped branches around your neck, Spindle?”
My smile widened. Elm.
The third voice was my uncle’s. “At least the wood doesn’t seem angry with us, that’s someth—oh, Spirit, another one.” Wet coughs echoed through the trees. “I can’t look at another dead Destrier.”
“Huh,” Elm said. “I don’t feel that way at all.”
The Nightmare rolled his eyes. He tapped his sword upon the ground. The wood went still, dirt and snow settling.
Three figures stumbled into view, like ships upon stormy seas. Wrecked ships, by the look of them. Their shoulders were slumped—their hands tied behind their backs. Their skin was bleeding and bruised and blackened with frostbite. None of them walked without a limp.
Ione’s breath caught. She ran forward.
Don’t be shy, I chided. Go say hello.