Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)

by Rachel Gillig

“This mist,” I said, the word a hiss on my tongue. “It makes my people lose their way. Draws them into the wood. Its magic is not a blessing, but a curse.” That is the way of magic, the trees whispered.

I crumpled to the foot of the stone, surrounded by the Cards’ colorful lights. I’d found a way to speak to the Spirit of the Wood. I’d bled, bartered, and bent for twelve Providence Cards. And I could not use a single one.

“When I bed you, Ione, I want you to feel it.”

Never breaking their gaze, Ione held a finger up to her Maiden Card. With three taps, she released herself from its magic.

Be wary the green, be wary the trees. Be wary the song of the wood on your sleeves. You’ll step off the path—to blessing and wrath. Be wary the song of the wood on your sleeves.

There is no escape from the salt, the alderwood called. Magic is everywhere—ageless. To the Spirit of the Wood, the exactor of balance, our lives are but of a butterfly—fleeting.

“The Spirit of the Wood awaits. New beginnings—new ends!” She turned, her yellow eyes cold, as if she no longer knew me. “But nothing comes free.”

“A King’s reign is wrought with burden. Weighty decisions ripple through centuries. Still, decisions must be made.” The Nightmare’s whisper was like wind in the trees. “You are strong, Ravyn Yew. I have known that since the moment I clapped eyes on you. And you must keep being strong—” He turned and faced the hilltop. “For what comes next.”

Seems you have much to learn yet. Now go. The Spirit will not wait forever.

And I understood, better than I ever had, how he had become a monster.

His life had been a never-ending barter. He had given his time, his focus, his love, for magic. He’d wielded it with great authority. But it was magic that had taken his kingdom, his family, his body, his soul.

It’s the same thing you’ve thought for centuries, isn’t it? That this pain might never have occurred if you had simply played in the wood with Ayris as a child and never asked the Spirit for her blessings. You’d have never gotten the sword. Never bled onto the stone. You might have held your children as dearly as you did your Cards. I softened my voice. For if you had, there would have never been any Cards at all. And none of this would have happened.

And now you know that every terrible thing that happened in Blunder took place long before I handed Brutus Rowan a Scythe. It happened because, five hundred years ago, a boy wore a crown—had every abundance in the world—but always asked for MORE.

There’s a reason you are here a second time, I said to the Nightmare, my voice urgent. You may have lost a sister to magic, but you must not resign Ravyn to the same fate. You are the Shepherd King—the author of everything I have ever known. You wrote Blunder’s history, Aemmory Percyval Taxus. Now rewrite it.

There were not enough pages in all the books Elm had read, in all the libraries he’d wandered, in all the notebooks he’d scrawled, that could measure—denote or describe—just how beautiful she was.

“You liked me… out of envy?” His arm tightened around her. “I’m a rotten thing, Ione. I’m learning as I go.”

“Thinking you could collect the entire Deck under the King’s nose, including a Card that has been lost five hundred years, is the most arrogant—most Elm—thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Your family will be safe someday. I’m going to change things. I’m going to be the worst Rowan King in five hundred years.” The tips of his lips curled. “I might even enjoy it.”

“I thought I’d slipped through the veil. I was riding in the wood, mud on my ankles.” A small smile graced her colorless lips. “With you.”

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.

“Magic has little use for time. I walk through centuries like they were my own garden.” Her eyes fixed on Ravyn over her shoulder. “Human life is short. You are not as a tree, stoic and unyielding, but a butterfly. Delicate, fleeting. Inconsequential.”

“You are eternal. And you are magic. But I know as well as you that magic is the oldest paradox. The more power it gives you, the weaker you become. The Shepherd King taught me that.”

They call for the Deck, and the Deck calls them back. Unite us, they say, and we’ll cast out the black. At the King’s namesake tree, with the black blood of salt. All twelve shall, together, bring sickness to halt. They’ll lighten the mist from mountain to sea. New beginnings—new ends…” “But nothing comes free,” Ravyn finished.

“For even dead, I will not die. I am the shepherd of shadow. The phantom of the fright. The demon in the daydream. The nightmare in the night.”

A smile haunted the Nightmare’s silken timbre. “How poetic. I couldn’t have asked for a better Solstice.” He put his mouth to Ravyn’s ear. “Now, stupid bird, will you listen to my plan?”

Clever men died on their own terms. And if they were wary, clever, and good, they perhaps died in peace. He, apparently, was none of the three.

A tonic and blanket passed between the bars. “Hold strong,” Filick Willow whispered. “Ravyn will come for you.” Elm danced at the edge of consciousness. “Not this time.”

“I don’t know.” Elm put his face in his hands. “Pray she forgives you for trading that Nightmare Card for a marriage to Hauth. Because I never will.”

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.

When he reached for his arms—tore at his sleeves—his veins were the color of ink. The infection crept into him on a salt tide, unbidden. Dark, magical, and final.

Then, over the Deck of Cards, they held the tip of the sword against Hauth’s chest—the same place he’d stabbed Ione. And pressed.

Without a sound, without a final word, the King of Blunder was gone, disappeared—the last casualty to the mist and the Spirit of the Wood’s ravenous snare. All that was left of him was the crown he’d dropped, a gilded ring of twisted rowan branches, fallen upon the Shepherd King’s grave.

Ravyn stared down at it—a Providence Card he’d never seen before. It was not one color, but twelve, iridescent as stained glass. Depicted upon it was a man—with brilliant yellow eyes and a gold crown of twisting yew branches resting upon his head. Above him were two words. The Shepherd.

Upon it rested the ancient adornments of Aemmory Percyval Taxus and Brutus Rowan. Gilded, bloodstained. Two twisted crowns.

“Destroy it,” he whispered. “With the final Nightmare Card gone, my soul will disappear. Her degeneration will have nothing to cling to. She will return. And I…” His voice faded. “I will finally rest.”

“I had my Deck to collect. History to revisit—and rewrite. A path to draw for you and the Princeling, both of you Kings in your own right.”

The Nightmare nodded. “She’s clawed through hell with me.” His voice grew colder. “It’s time to let her out.” Ravyn didn’t move. The Nightmare turned, his mouth a hard line. “Do it now.”

“Goodbye, Taxus. Be wary. Be clever. Be good.” He waited ten minutes in the meadow. Then tore the Nightmare Card in two.

Yellow girl, plain—unseen… The berry of rowans is red, always red… You are young and not so bold. I am unflinching—five hundred years old.

The Nightmare sat on the stone in the chamber, looking up through the rotted-out ceiling. The same place where Aemmory Percyval Taxus had once lived, bled, died. Here we are, my darling girl, he whispered to me. The end of all things. The last page of our story.

Just know that I am sorry, Elspeth. His presence was a hand against my cheek. I was too long in the dark. And I am sorry for that, too. For I dragged you in with me.

It was well worth it, I said. To unite the Deck and lift the mist. To watch you right old wrongs. I’d do it all again, just to know you a little better, Taxus.

I don’t know what it will be like to finally slip through the veil, he whispered. I hope it is as it was, eleven years ago, when you freed me from the Nightmare Card, Elspeth Spindle. Quiet. Gentle. Full of wonder. It will be. It will be just like that.

I’ll tell you a story, I whispered. It always helped me sleep as a child. He nodded, folding his hands over his lap, and closed his eyes. There once was a girl, 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—

So the two were the same. The girl, he whispered, honey and oil and silk. The King… We said the final words together, our voices echoing, listless, through the dark. A final note. An eternal farewell. And the monster they became.

mist welcome to our home. To all infected who desire a cure, seek the Shepherd Card at Castle Yew. To any displaced, Stone is no longer a fortress, but a refuge. To those who wish to remain as they are, christened by the fever, gifted with old magic, you are safe.

Let us not hold The Old Book of Alders as our steadfast law. Rather, let us cherish it for what it is—Blunder’s twisted tale. A book of time, written by a man who knew magic like his own name, and bent to its sway. But remember, though the mist is gone, the Spirit of the Wood remains, watching, measuring. To my kingdom, my Blunder, my land—be wary. Be clever. Be good. —The King of Elms

When Filick handed them their gold bands, Elm looked into Ione’s eyes. “A hundred years,” he said to her, as if she were the only one in the room. “I’ll love you for a hundred years—and an eternity after.”

Ione didn’t wait for him to slip the ring over her finger. She threw her arms around him, kissed him unabashedly, earning a jubilant shout from Emory and many more tears from the rest of us.