Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King #2)

Ravyn’s pulse was a barbarous rhythm, each beat hammering inside his head like a pike.

He’d had hangovers and head injuries. Twice, before his magic had made him immune to it, he’d been poisoned trying to lie against a Chalice Card. But this—coming out from the fog of the sweet, sudden smoke that had rendered him unconscious—was worse than all three.

He’d lost consciousness near midday. And now the light in the sky was new, the dawn pale. They’d lost half a day—and an entire night.

Wincing, Ravyn took in his surroundings. He was in a dirt courtyard. Around it was a crude wall of earth and wood that stood twenty hands high. When he tried to turn and see how far the wall went, his body didn’t heed him. Pain cut into his wrists, and he felt a stiff surface press into back.

He realized he was tethered to a wide wooden post. Arms, torso, legs—all bound.

Panic flooded Ravyn’s throat like bile. He’d never been restrained. It was always him that had done the restraining. He called his sister’s name and immediately regretted it, his headache responding with a punch.

A low groan sounded somewhere behind him. “I’m here,” came Jespyr’s voice.

She was tied to the post next to him. Ravyn couldn’t see her, but his left wrist was tethered to her right. On his other side, the Nightmare was talking to himself in slow, slippery whispers.

Ravyn pressed his eyes shut and slowed his breathing. “Everyone all right?”

“I’m tied to a post with a grating headache and the dimmest Yews in five centuries,” the Nightmare muttered. “Never been better.”

The next voice was Petyr’s. It was lifeless. “Wik’s dead.”

Ravyn’s stomach dropped. He shut his eyes—let out a shaking breath—searched his mind for the right thing to say. Came up with nothing.

Jespyr said it for him, her voice coated with pain. “I’m so sorry, Petyr.”

They remained quiet a long time.

“Elspeth,” Ravyn finally managed. “Is she well?”

The Nightmare made a familiar clicking sound with his teeth. “Yes. But the more she talks,” he said pointedly, “the less I can focus. Which is exactly how we got into this mess in the first place.”

Elspeth’s voice, that sharp, feminine timbre, untouched by the Nightmare’s oil or spite—Ravyn had wanted to drown in it. She’d sounded so real. Real enough to make him think they might be together again after they dragged themselves out of hell.

But first, he had to discern where hell was, and who had tethered them there.

“I thought you said we’d have safe passage to the next barter if we made it across that bloody lake,” Jespyr gritted out.

“The Spirit of the Wood has no need for crude walls or rope restraints, you little twit. Our captors are decidedly human.”

Ravyn craned his neck, scanning as much of the courtyard as he could glimpse. “Did anyone get a look at them?”

“All I saw were their boots,” Jespyr answered. “Two pairs, worn laces and soles. Hunting boots.”

“Women,” said the Nightmare. “They were women.”

It hurt to think. But Ravyn knew for certain they were miles from Blunder. And those miles had been hard-earned. A stronghold this far from town would be of little use to the King. And as Captain, he knew Blunder’s strongholds like the back of his hand.

So who the hell had built this one?

“I can see our weapons,” Petyr said from the other side of the post. “They’re in a heap against the wall.” He shifted. Laughed. “They missed the knife in my boot.” Then, as if it had injured him to laugh without his brother, the temper of his voice leached away. “I can’t get to it.”

“Someone is coming,” the Nightmare hissed. “Bright with color.” He clicked his teeth. “They’ve availed themselves of your Cards, Captain.”

A figure appeared out of nothingness, Ravyn’s Mirror Card held in a dirty hand. “Finally awake,” came a woman’s voice.

She was tall, adorned in clothes similar to what Ravyn might wear guised as a highwayman. Leather and wool and trousers that tucked into tall, worn-in boots. Her cloak was the color of peat moss. She wore the hood up, covering her hair save a few brown plaits that dangled near her ears.

Her face was obscured entirely by a mask. Not a highwayman’s mask, but one of bone. A ram’s skull.

“You have some quality Cards, Destriers,” she said, twirling the Mirror between her fingers. “This one, plus the Black Horse and Nightmare, will come in handy. Though I doubt we’ll have much use for a Maiden out here.” Her head tilted as she surveyed Ravyn through the ram’s empty eye sockets. “How’s your head? I hear the smoke causes a brutal headache.”

“She knows it does,” came another female voice, somewhere near Jespyr. “Which is why she delights in making it. Too strong a dose this time, sister—they’ve been out for ages.” A pause. “You’re a Destrier?”

Jespyr’s voice was even. “Don’t I look like one?”

“Not really. Your face is missing that boorish, murderous quality.”

“Come closer. You’ll see it.”

When the second woman came into view, Ravyn noted the same make of clothes. Her mask was bone as well—a wolf skull. She was just as tall as the other woman, just as broad in the shoulders.

“Who are you?”

The one in the ram mask opened her arms wide, a false welcoming. “Blunder’s blight. Her vile outcasts. Her infected. Welcome to our hold, Destriers. It won’t be a long stay. But I can promise your last hours on this earth will be full of wonder.”

It wasn’t a well-guarded fort. There were no sentries, and though dozens of men, women, and children passed through the courtyard, none of them bore weapons save a few bows and hunting knives. All were civilians, save the two women in charge. The one in the ram mask was called Otho, and her sister, with the wolf skull, Hesis.

The sisters moved around the post in tight, predatory circles. They didn’t, for a single moment, believe that Ravyn, too, carried the infection.

“I know who you are,” Hesis said. “Nephew to our vile King. You want me to believe that a Rowan would appoint an infected man as Captain of his Destriers?”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” Jespyr seethed. “It’s true.”

“And yet we found a charm on him. A viper’s head in his tunic pocket.”

Ravyn twisted against the ropes. “That’s a spare.”

Hesis laughed. She hit Ravyn across the face with a closed fist. The back of his head slammed against the pole—his headache so fierce his vision winked.

The Nightmare let out a low hiss.

“Say we suspend all disbelief,” Otho hedged. “If you’re infected, what’s your magic?”

An easy question. And a long, complicated answer. “I can’t use Providence Cards,” Ravyn ground out.

“Yet you travel with a veritable arsenal.”

“I can’t use all the Cards.”

Hesis sucked her teeth. “Sounds like another lie, Destrier.” She hit him again.

“And your magic?” Jespyr demanded. “So we might know the merit of our kidnappers?”

Hesis disappeared out of Ravyn’s view, her voice close to Jespyr’s. “I can see through the eyes of crows,” she said. “They speak to me, whispers and notions. It’s how we found you lot. You made quite a lot of noise in the wood. Nests were upturned. I saw a hunting party in black cloaks cross Murmur Lake, coming our way.” Her voice went slick with amusement. “My sister is an alchemist. That smoke that knocked you out? That pretty little headache, pounding in your skull? She made it. With magic.”

“You’re giving me a headache just fine on your own,” Jespyr muttered.

A thud sounded on the pole. Jespyr groaned—then two more thuds as Hesis struck her.

Petyr swore, thrashing against the ropes. Ravyn bit down—hard.

The Nightmare’s warning was but a whisper. “Careful.”

The women turned, their focus finally landing on the Nightmare. “Who the hell are you?” Hesis said. “That’s no Destrier sword we pulled from your hands.”

A smile crept into his voice. “I was born with the fever, my blood dark as night. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

“You must know of another stronghold,” Ravyn offered. After so many years of lying, the truth was fragile upon his tongue. “Deep in the Black Forest, near the dried-out creek bed that runs northeast. A place children are brought when the Destriers and Physicians come sniffing too close.”

The women’s spines stiffened. Hesis let out a sharp exhale. “The children are brought there by highwaymen, not Destriers.”

“All you know is that they wear masks.”

Otho’s laugh came out a bark. “You expect me to believe it was you who saved infected children all these years?”

“And I.” Petyr’s voice snagged. “My brother Wik as well. And you—you shot him. A man who lived outside the law for people like you.”

Otho paused, watching Ravyn through the holes of her mask. “Yet your Captain still does the King’s bidding. Still arrests infected folk and their kin. Still does unspeakable things to them.”

Jespyr exhaled. “He doesn’t—”

Hesis hit Ravyn square on the nose. He heard a snap all the way in the back of his head. Twin streams of blood fell from his nostrils over his mouth.

The Nightmare clicked his jaw. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“The Twin Alders Card,” Ravyn managed, his words thick with blood, “that’s why we’re in the wood. We seek to unite the Deck—to heal the infection. We won’t breathe a word of this place.” His voice quickened, his control slipping. “After Solstice, when the mist is lifted, come to Castle Yew. We’ll heal your degenerating—cure anyone who wishes to be cured. But you must let us go.”

When they said nothing, utterly still, Jespyr’s voice sounded from the other side of the post. “Our brother is infected. He’s degenerating—dying. Please. Let us go.”

A ring of steel, then Otho and her ram’s skull were an inch from Ravyn’s face, a cold knife pressed against his throat. “Even if what you say is true,” she seethed, “there are people here who have lost loved ones to Destriers. Parents, children. Our own mother’s charm was destroyed, and a Rowan Scythe sent her to her death in the mist. There is payment due to the people of this fort. And a Destrier will pay it.” She stepped back, nodding at her sister. “It’s time.”

Hesis disappeared into the fort. Clamoring voices sounded, growing louder. Doors banged open and the fort emptied itself, a crowd forming. Everyone wore skull masks—save one. A man, led by a rope. His face was bloody, his eyes wide, teeth flashing. He was tethered, but still he thrashed, fought.

Just as Ravyn had trained him to.

Gorse.

“We will have our payment, Captain,” Otho said. “Now.”

The Nightmare remained tied to the post next to Petyr, fingers curling like claws.

The Destriers—Ravyn and Jespyr and Gorse—were unleashed in the dirt courtyard, rough instruments shoved into their hands. A club with rusted nails driven into it for Jespyr, a riding crop with rocks tied to its tassels for Gorse.

And for Ravyn, the dull, rusted blade of a scythe.

“For the kin of a Rowan,” Hesis said behind her mask. She pushed him toward the others, and the crowd closed in around them.

It was clear what was meant to happen. The three of them hemmed into a circle, armed with poor weaponry—this was a blood sport. The kind without winners.

A man wearing an ewe skull called out to the crowd. “Are we ready to smell Destrier blood?”

A roar clashed against the walls of the courtyard. It rose up over the jagged fence into the forest, a long, devastating cry. Bile crawled up Ravyn’s throat. He forced it back down.

Gorse shook and Jespyr’s copper skin went the color of ash. At the post, Petyr tugged against his restraints.

The Nightmare stood eerily still.

The crowd went quiet as Otho came forward. Her arms were bare, her veins black as ink. She stepped to Ravyn, held a closed fist to her mouth—

And blew smoke into his face.

Salt cut across Ravyn’s senses. He coughed, eyes rolling back a moment. The smoke burned down his throat—not sweet like the smoke that had rendered him unconscious, but hot and cold and acidic all at once.

Otho did the same to Jespyr—blowing smoke in her face. When she came to Gorse, he swung his whip at her.

Otho dodged it—dispelling her smoke a final time.

Gorse made a retching sound, his eyes rolling. “What the hell is that?”

Otho stepped back to the rim of the crowd next to her sister, her voice cutting through the courtyard. “Magic, alchemized by two things. Rage, and hate. Bones of the enraged infected—and your cloak, hateful Destrier. They make a wretched pairing, do they not?”

Ravyn felt his entire body go hot, his well-honed restraint snapping. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth—wiping away blood from his nose. He turned to the Nightmare. “Is this what it was like, when Hauth beat Elspeth’s head in? Did you sit by then, just as you do now, enjoying the show?”

He hadn’t meant to say it. The words had pried themselves out of him, acrid on his tongue. Only, no one seemed shocked to hear them. The crowd was expectant, as if they’d been waiting for him to say something vile. Some even cheered.

It was the smoke, he realized. Otho’s smoke—her magic—had washed his mind clean, leaving but two things. Rage, and hate.

Ravyn shifted the rusty scythe between calloused fingers, his headache replaced by bloodlust. “You said you cared for Elspeth. That you protected her. And you did—just as well as you protected your own children, it seems.”

The Nightmare’s yellow eyes burned, his voice sharpened by malice. “You are, without a doubt, the greatest disappointment in five hundred years, Ravyn Yew. Every time I glance your way, I find myself wishing I’d spent another century in the dark—that I’d spared myself the agony of your stony, witless incompetency.”

“Another century would have been too soon,” Ravyn bit back. “At least then I might have had more than a single moment with the woman you stole from me.”

Across the circle from him, Gorse sneered.

Jespyr turned on him, knuckles flexing around the club in her hand. “Something to say, coward?”

Gorse’s bloody face went redder still. “What did you call me?”

“Ugly and stupid.” Jespyr raised her voice. “I called you a coward, runaway Destrier.”

Gorse’s crop whipped through the air, the rocks at the ends so close to Jespyr’s face they stirred her hair. “Better a coward than a thief and a liar,” he spat, turning the crop toward Ravyn. “Our two-faced Captain stole the King’s Nightmare Card. Worse, he’s been fucking an infected woman—”

Jespyr’s club slammed into Gorse’s shoulder.

The crowd erupted in a hollering jeer. “And with that,” Hesis called, “we begin.”

Jespyr looked at her bat, then at to Gorse, her gaze wide—like she hadn’t meant to hit him. A moment later, her eyes narrowed. “You don’t deserve to wear the Destrier’s cloak.” She turned to Ravyn. “Neither do you.”

Vitriol poured out of him. “You think you could be a better Captain, Jes? Take it from me. Hell, I’ll even waive the challenge. Because you couldn’t beat me, not without your Black Horse—your precious little crutch.” Ravyn’s voice went dangerously low. “Go on, take my place. Be Uncle’s puppet. Bow and scrape and swallow the bit he shoves in your mouth. You’ve always been better at those things than me.”

Jespyr lunged.

Ravyn pivoted, but not before the nails in his sister’s club took a bite out of his cloak.

“You want to talk about crutches, brother?” she seethed. “Let’s talk about yours.”

Ravyn held his arms open wide. “Do your worst.”

Jespyr pushed left and the circle shifted. She, Ravyn, and Gorse moved in a slow rotation, never taking their eyes off of each other.

“You tell yourself the Destriers hate you because you’re infected. They don’t—not all of them.” Jespyr spat the words. “They hate you because you think you’re better than them.”

“I am better than them.”

Gorse opened his mouth but Jespyr cut him off. “Big, strong Ravyn Yew. The Captain who never smiled, never fell, never flinched—who lies to his King, his men, and most of all, to himself.” Her eyes went cold. “You’re not better than anyone, brother. And you’re not stronger than me. You’re just better at pretending.”

“You want to know what I’ve been pretending at all these years? I’ll tell you.” Ravyn went still, breaking the circle’s rotation. “I pretend that I don’t spend every moment of every day hating myself for being Captain of the Destriers.”

“You’re a traitor,” Gorse spat. “And you’ll bleed for it.”

“Likely.” Ravyn fixed his stance—aimed with both eyes open. “But not yet.”

The scythe flew. Without his Black Horse, Gorse’s reflexes were slow. The scythe caught him along the shoulder, the dull edge finding purchase over his breastbone.

Deep. But not, with such an aged, rusted blade, deep enough to kill.

The crowd roared. Ravyn was across the yard in a breath. Vision limned in red, he knocked Gorse to the ground, hand on the Destrier’s throat. Gorse looked up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. He’d dropped his whip. But his fists met Ravyn ribs over and over again.

Air shot out of Ravyn’s lungs. He kept his hand on Gorse’s throat and thought about blood and whips and the smell of smoke, clawing its way up the dungeon stairs. Of terrible things he’d had to watch, had to do, as Captain of the Destriers.

Ravyn leaned close to Gorse’s mottling face. “Be wary, Destrier,” he ground out, “Be clever. Be good.” Then, with a final, brutal push—

He crushed Gorse’s windpipe.

A slow, hungry cheer raked over the courtyard. They’d wanted Destrier blood. And Gorse, taken by the great, final sleep, was a crimson canvas. Red spilled from the scythe wound, trickling into the dirt, feeding the soil, burrowing its way into the cracks in Ravyn’s hands.

The smoke’s magic slipped away, taking rage and hate with it.

Ravyn stared down at Gorse, hands shaking. This time, the bile refused to be forced down. Ravyn leaned over and was sick in the dirt, his ribs screaming pain as he heaved.

The courtyard went eerily quiet.

Ravyn looked up. Someone had breached the circle and was standing between him and Jespyr. An unmasked woman, shadowed by two young boys. She wore a green dress and a cloak of the same color with a white tree embroidered near the collar. Her graying gold hair was loose, her hazel eyes wide. Wide, familiar—

And trained on the Nightmare.

Opal Hawthorn put a hand to her mouth. “Elspeth,” she said, tears in her eyes. “You’re alive.”

With a few booming commands from Otho, the courtyard cleared—spectators filing into the fort, the dark sockets of their bone masks trained on Ravyn as they went. They dragged Gorse’s body with them, a bloody trail the Destrier’s last mark upon the kingdom he’d served.

Ravyn locked his hands into fists. Even then, they shook.

Opal stood at the post opposite the Nightmare, staring at what used to be her niece, tears in her eyes. Ravyn knew her pain by heart. She’d seen a maiden with black hair and thought it was Elspeth—only to be met by terrifying yellow eyes.

Just as Ione had in the dungeon, Opal placed a hand on the Nightmare’s cheek and lost the color in her own. “What’s happened to you?” she whispered. “You’re—different.”

The Nightmare’s expression was smooth. “I am.”

“You’re—you’re not Elspeth.”

The Nightmare said nothing. Opal’s hand fell. She stepped back from the post and began to weep. Her boys stood next to her, their young eyes wide as they stared at the Nightmare. But when Ravyn moved to approach—to explain—Hesis pulled a rapier from her belt. “Stay back.”

“I don’t understand,” Opal said, scrubbing tears from her cheeks. “Why have they been imprisoned?” Her eyes moved to Jespyr. “She’s the one who warned me the Destriers were coming.”

Otho’s posture stiffened.

Jespyr reached for Opal’s hand. Spoke in a gentle voice. “How did you and your boys end up here?”

“I brought her,” Hesis said through her mask of bone. “The stronghold your Captain spoke of is full. But we have plenty of room here, far beyond the King’s reach. Or so we thought.”

Jespyr explained to Opal, Otho and Hesis leaning in to listen, what had happened to Elspeth that night at Spindle House. That Tyrn and Erik and Ione were at Stone. Why they had journeyed into the wood.

Ravyn withdrew to the post.

“All right, lad?” Petyr grunted.

Ravyn could still feel the pillar of Gorse’s hitching throat in the center of his palm. “Fine.”

Petyr lowered his voice. “The knife they overlooked is in my left boot.”

When the hollows of Otho’s and Hesis’s masks were turned on Jespyr and Opal, Ravyn planted his foot next to Petyr’s—made like he was tying his laces—and slipped his hand into Petyr’s boot. When he withdrew it, his fingers were wrapped around a slender leather sheath.

The blade was small, its hilt a hook. Ravyn stood—rounded the post until he was near the Nightmare. “Don’t move.”

But when he pressed the blade against the rope, his hand shook so hard the rope quivered. He paused. Tried again.

Had they been soldiers under his command, Ravyn would have dismissed Otho and Hesis for their ineptitude—he was making a boar’s ass of cutting a simple tether. But their focus was so tight on Jespyr, lost to her story of the Shepherd King, that they didn’t notice the rope shake for a full minute before it finally cleaved.

The Nightmare held Ravyn in his yellow gaze the entire time. “Messy business, killing.” The corner of his lip twitched. “Elspeth says you look terrible.”

Ravyn’s gaze shot up. “She didn’t say that.”

“No. She didn’t.” He cleared his throat. “It seems I owe you an apology.”

“You mean Elspeth wants you to apologize.”

“Annoyingly, yes.” His mouth grew strained. “Witless though you are, you are not a disappointment.”

Had it been a different day or week or month, Ravyn might have laughed, watching the monster squirm. But he was far too tired for that now. “Does it cost you—showing a fraction of remorse, Shepherd King?”

“Yes. And I require recompense.” Those yellow eyes turned hard. “It’s taking me centuries of restraint not rip your head from your body after that outburst about Elspeth.” A flash of teeth. “About my children.”

“I didn’t mean to say it. That smoke—that magic—”

“Rage and hate. Two things I know well enough.”

Ravyn bit down. “I don’t know what happened to your children. But I know you would not want to see Elspeth harmed. It is perhaps the only thing I understand about you.”

Neither of them had apologized—not really. But an airing of truths, after so much malice, was the best they could do.

The Nightmare’s gaze drifted up the fort walls. “I’ve had enough of this wretched place. Give me the knife.”

“No. I don’t want blood on Elspeth’s hands.”

The Nightmare’s gaze lingered over Ravyn’s nose. It had begun to ache, his nose—a hot, constant agony ever since Hesis had struck it. Broken, he guessed.

When the Nightmare spoke again, the smoothness in his voice was gone. “The knife. Now.”

Ravyn faced those terrible yellow eyes. Looked for Elspeth. Could not see her. “Don’t kill anyone,” he growled.

When Hesis approached, Ravyn’s hands were at his sides. Shaking, but empty.

“Opal Hawthorns is a good woman. Though her wits may have abandoned her, because she’s insisting you and your sister possess honor.” Hesis heaved a sigh, alternating her rapier between her hands. “Even if that were true—we cannot let you leave. You would inevitably return to Stone. I hear the King is fond of his inquests. Sooner or later, the truth of what happened and who you saw on your journey to the Twin Alders Card will out. I cannot allow—”

There was a tearing sound, a flash of movement in Ravyn’s periphery. Hesis had but a moment to shift her blade from Ravyn to the Nightmare.

It wasn’t enough.

The Nightmare sprung off the post. He struck the snout of Hesis’s mask with the heel of his palm, an ugly crack echoing in the yard. She screamed, dropped her rapier.

Otho bolted toward her sister, but Ravyn surged forward—caught her with a broad arm—slammed her onto the dirt. When she tried to reach for her blade, Jespyr pressed a boot onto her arm.

“Pocket,” Ravyn gritted out. “Our Cards. Hurry.”

Jespyr reached into Otho’s jerkin. She pulled out their Cards—Nightmare and Mirror and Maiden, then two Black Horses. Hers, and Gorse’s.

Otho glared up at them through the empty sockets of her mask. “If the King uses a Chalice on you, it will be the death of every soul in this place. Their blood will be on your hands.”

“It won’t come to that,” the Nightmare called, he and Petyr aiming toward their pile of weapons. “I have plans for the Rowans.”

Petyr handed Ravyn his belt of knives—his satchel and sword.

Opal Hawthorn had retreated to the courtyard doors, wide-eyed, with her sons. “Castle Yew,” Ravyn said as he approached. “If this place ever proves unsafe, go to Castle Yew. My family will protect you.”

Opal nodded, but her gaze was lost over his shoulder. There were tears in her eyes once more. “And Elspeth?”

Ravyn’s voice was ragged. “I’m going to get her back. No matter the cost.”

The fort door groaned, and Petyr and Jespyr hurried through. Ravyn offered Opal his hand. He didn’t think her the sort of woman who would mind that his fingers were trembling.

She shook his hand. Squeezed it tightly. “Good luck.”

When Ravyn cast his eyes back into the courtyard, Otho was hurrying toward her sister. Hesis lay in the dirt, unmoving. Her mask was broken, shards of bone scattered around her. Blood trickled down her face.

“Nightmare,” he said through his teeth.

The monster laughed as he slipped out of the fort. “She’ll live. All I did was pay her back for breaking your nose.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“No. But Elspeth did.”