When Elm and my father and uncle saw the Nightmare and Ione coming, their mouths fell open.
Tyrn stumbled forward first. With his hands tied, he could do little besides push his broad chest at Ione and the Nightmare. He smelled of sweat—grime and filth. “Ione,” he sobbed. “Elspeth. I’m so sorry.”
The Nightmare hissed and wrenched away. “Get away from me, you traitorous scab.”
At least untie him.
Grumbling, he passed Ione his sword, discontentment sliding over his mind. I might stab him if I do it.
Ione cut her father’s restraints, then my father’s. Erik Spindle had more poise than Tyrn—he didn’t try to hug the Nightmare. But he stared into his yellow eyes. “What’s happened to you, Elspeth?”
“I’ll explain later,” Elm said, breathless as Ione cut his binds. When his hands were free, he shook them at his sides and looked down at my cousin, a flush sliding over his marred skin. “Hey, Hawthorn.”
The Nightmare took his sword back and snapped a finger in Elm’s face. “Focus, Princeling. Time is running out. Heal yourself with the Maiden—then we must get to the stone chamber. How many fallen Destriers did you count in the wood?”
Elm dragged his gaze from Ione. “What?”
The Nightmare ground his molars. “How many—”
“Four,” my father said. “We passed four dead Destriers.”
Ione met the Nightmare’s eyes, her face stricken. I knew what she was thinking. Eight Destriers had chased her from the meadow into the wood. Four were dead on the forest floor, three crushed by the trees behind us. Seven. Seven had fallen.
Which meant the eighth—
There! I shouted.
He was paces away, walking on silent step, fitted with a shortbow. Even behind the darkness emanating from his Black Horse, I recognized him. He was the same Destrier who’d chased me through the mist on Market Day—the one whose face the Nightmare had cleaved. Royce Linden.
The Nightmare slammed his sword back against soil. But before he could command the trees, Linden’s arrow flew. It grazed Elm’s arm, then lodged itself into the muscle of Ione’s shoulder.
She faltered back a step.
The Nightmare sprang forward at the same time as Elm. Linden pivoted—let loose a second arrow. The Nightmare cut it from the air and kept running. Linden threw down his bow and drew two knives. But the Nightmare’s gait was so fast, so trained and full of fury, that when he reached Linden—limbs and blades colliding—the unflinching force of him knocked the Destrier onto his back.
Linden’s skull collided with roots. He looked up, awash with loathing. The Nightmare drew in a breath, lifted his blade once more—
“Give me that,” Elm said, ripping the sword out of his hands. Auburn hair in his eyes, he placed the blade over Linden’s chest and spoke through his teeth. “You know how this goes, asshole. Be wary. Be clever. Be good.”
I shut my eyes. When I opened them, a fatal blow had been dealt through Linden’s heart. Blood wept from it onto the forest floor. The Destrier shut his eyes, gasping only a moment before the great, final sleep called him through the veil.
Elm stared down at him a second longer, then turned away. He handed the Nightmare back his sword and had the good sense to look contrite. “I was keeping a promise.”
By the time he and the Nightmare got back to Ione, the arrow from her shoulder was on the ground—her wound already healed. She held her Maiden Card in her hand and tapped her foot, hazel eyes narrowing over Elm. “That was excessive.”
He let out a broken laugh, then surged forward. Catching Ione’s face between his palms, Elm leaned over, crashed his mouth against hers, kissed her feverishly. “I’m sorry. I should have gone with you. I’m not clever at all. I’m sorry—I’m sorry.”
The Nightmare and I stared. We seem to have missed something rather important, I said.
Small mercies.
My uncle and father turned away, scarlet. When Ione managed to pull herself from Elm, slightly dazed, she passed him the Maiden Card. Elm tapped it, letting out a sigh of relief when his wounds—his cuts and bruises and blackened bits of frostbitten flesh—healed until he was without blemish.
My father and uncle did the same. I felt my own relief, seeing them restored. But the chant in my mind returned, louder than before. Midnight. Midnight. Midnight. I cleared my throat and spoke to the Nightmare. Thank you. They are alive because of you. And now—
We must take the Cards and meet Ravyn in the chamber. But just as he said the words, the line of his shoulders went rigid. The Nightmare looked out into the wood, and I saw what he sensed. Light, flickering in our shared vision. A flurry of color.
There were Providence Cards in the wood. Only, they weren’t headed in the direction of the stone chamber, but the opposite. And fast.
I called out into nothingness. Ravyn?
No answer.
My heart bottomed out. Something’s wrong.
The Nightmare clasped his hand over Ione’s shoulder. “Bring the Maiden and Scythe and Twin Alders to the stone chamber.” His gaze found Elm. “I have plans for you yet.”
He ran. Not after the lights, but toward Castle Yew. Faster, I called over the drumming of his heart. Run faster.
He ripped through the tree line and faced the meadow. Snow decorated every blade of grass, but it was not pale.
It was red.
Ravyn was on his back, a hand pressed against his side, his copper skin the color of ash. His eyes were open, glassy, his breath coming in quick, halting breaths.
Blood. In the snow, in his clothes, upon his face and hands. So much blood.
The Nightmare let out an inhuman snarl. And I saw what he was focused on. The hilt of a dagger—lodged between Ravyn’s ribs.
I screamed.
The Nightmare dropped to his knees at Ravyn’s side. “No,” he said, stilling Ravyn’s trembling hand. “Do not pull the blade out. It stanches the blood.”
Ravyn blinked and looked up with unfocused eyes. He said my name, a whisper, just between us. “Elspeth.”
I thrashed against darkness—against nothingness—trying to get to him. My consciousness rattled so greatly the Nightmare began to shake. “Hauth Rowan?” came his venomous question.
Ravyn managed a nod. “My Mirror, the Cards—he—”
“I will find him.”
Ravyn winced—tried to focus. “Elspeth,” he said again. “Tell Elspeth not to hate me.”
Something fractured in the dark room I inhabited.
The Nightmare’s hands shook on his sword. Unflinching, five hundred years old, he looked down at Ravyn, his lost descendant, and trembled. “I wanted a better Blunder for her. If you perish, that Blunder will never exist.”
“It cannot exist unless the Deck is united,” Ravyn growled, blood on his lips. “Only you can see my Cards. Find Hauth. End it the way you wanted to, Taxus. I’ll be fine.”
The sound of snapping—teeth and bones—filled my dark room. And I realized that the thing that was fracturing—breaking in a thousand razor-edged pieces—was me. It can’t end like this.