Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)

by Rachel Gillig

The Twin Alders is hidden in a place with no time. A place of great sorrow and bloodshed and crime. Betwixt ancient trees, where the mist cuts bone-deep, the last Card remains, waiting, asleep. The wood knows no road—no path through the snare. Only I can find the Twin Alders… For it was I who left it there.

But his soul carried on, buried deep in Elspeth Spindle, the only woman Ravyn had ever loved.

“Balance,” she answered, head tilting like a bird of prey. “To right terrible wrongs. To free Blunder from the Rowans.” Her yellow eyes narrowed, wicked and absolute. “To collect his due.”

“There once was a girl,” he said, his voice slick, “clever and good, who tarried in shadow in the depths of the wood. There also was a King—a shepherd by his crook, who reigned over magic and wrote the old book. The two were together, so the two were the same: “The girl, the King, and the monster they became.”

“Listen closely. The journey to the twelfth Card will three barters take. The first comes at water—a dark, mirrored lake. The second begins at the neck of a wood, where you cannot turn back, though truly, you should.” The Nightmare’s gaze shifted to Ravyn. His words came out sharp, as if to draw blood. “The last barter waits in a place with no time. A place of great sorrow and bloodshed and crime. No sword there can save you, no mask hide your face. You’ll return with the Twin Alders… “But you’ll never leave that place.”

Because you’ve never been turned by a beautiful woman, have you, Captain?

music tangled in tapestries, pirouetting around pillars and knotting itself in skirts.

There were no seats beside the throne on the dais—no one equal to the King.

A bird, black of wing. Dark, watchful, clever.

“The dark bird has three heads,” Emory said, his voice strangled, an invisible rope around his neck. “Highwayman, Destrier, and another. One of age, of birthright. Tell me, Ravyn Yew, after your long walk in my wood—do you finally know your name?”

“How exhausting it must be, wanting everyone to know how clever you are, Prince.”

Above rowan and yew, the elm tree stands tall. It waits along borders, a sentry at call. Quiet and guarded and windblown and marred, its bark whispers stories of a boy-Prince once scarred. His voice in Ravyn’s mind went eerily soft. And so, Ravyn Yew, your Elm I won’t touch. His life strays beyond my ravenous clutch. For a kicked pup grows teeth, and teeth sink to bone. I will need him, one day, when I harvest the throne.

“Neither Rowan nor Yew, but somewhere between. A pale tree in winter, neither red, gold, nor green. Black hides the bloodstain, forever his mark. Alone in the castle, Prince of the dark.”

you know nothing of losing control.” His lips twisted, snarl letting to a smile. “But you will. You will learn, just as I did, what it feels like to lose yourself in the wood.”

“How unfortunate,” he said with a sigh. “There is poison in the water.”

Baldwyn was as pleasant to speak to as the inside of a chamber pot.

“Don’t tell me these feasts are in costume.” Elm put a hand to his brow and groaned. “What’s the theme? Shrubs?” “They’re wearing sprigs from their house trees, you imbecile.”

“One more word, Destrier, and I’ll finish what began on Market Day and rip your face so far open not even the Spirit will recognize you. If you touch Miss Hawthorn again, by the fucking trees, I’ll end you.”

He yelled himself raw—until a sky full of stars danced before his eyes.

We said the final words together, our voices echoing, listless, through the dark. A final note. An eternal farewell. And the monster they became.

“None of this might have happened without you, Elspeth,” Ione whispered. “And isn’t that such a beautiful thing.”

I was more than the girl, the King, and the monster of Blunder’s dark, twisted tale. I was its author.