Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)

by Rachel Gillig

This was the Shepherd King’s body. He was truly dead. 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.”

“Aemmory Percyval Taxus.” He dragged his gauntlets across the sand. “That’s my name.”

“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.”

Salt burned up his throat, into his nose. Closing his eyes, Ravyn let the salt swallow him, then pushed it outward, entering the Shepherd King’s mind. He combed through darkness, searching for any hint of Elspeth. He did not find her. When Ravyn opened his eyes, the Shepherd King was watching him. A voice, masculine, slippery—poisonous—spoke into his mind. What do you want, Ravyn Yew?

“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.”

“Elspeth Spindle is charged with high treason for carrying the infection.” The throne groaned, the King’s fingers white as he clung to the armrests. “Furthermore, she is charged with the slaying of Physician Orithe Willow and the attempted murder of my son, High Prince Hauth Rowan. Of these crimes, I have found her irrevocably guilty, and sentence her to death.”

“You agreed to marry Hauth, knowing you’d be tethering him to a family that carried sickness? You disgust me.” “The disgust,” Ione said, her tone idle, “is mutual.”

“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?”

Ione acknowledge him. “Sorry. I forgot. You’re delicate.” “Yes, I am. I should be abed, resting my delicate body.”

“You’re a Rowan. Don’t you take whatever you fancy?” “Clearly not, when all I fancy is a proper night’s sleep.”

“Why, Ione Hawthorn.” Elm scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. “Don’t tell me it makes you feel something when I flatter you.” “It doesn’t.” Her face was unreadable. Unreachable. “I can’t feel anything anymore.”

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.”

“I will take Larch as my namesake for a blessing, great Spirit of the Wood.”

“Developed a taste for removing my clothes, have you, Prince?” That shut him up. Elm looked away. He wanted to break things. And her, ripping her dress like that, only maddened the desire.

He said it would be easier, being his betrothed, if I didn’t feel things so keenly.”

The journey to the Twin Alders will three barters take. The first comes at water—a dark, mirrored lake.

“Your stone veneer is crumbling, Ravyn Yew. Who will be waiting on the other side when the mask slips away? Captain? Highwayman? Or beast yet unknown?”

“Perhaps one day I’ll make a Card to read your mind, too, Brutus Rowan.”

Magic that made its user as beautiful and unblemished as a pink rose—Tilly’s favorite flower.

Petra passed through the veil before Tilly’s fourth nameday. I buried her on the west side of the meadow, near the willow tree, not knowing I would dig her up soon enough to forge the Mirror.

One that would make others bend their wills to me, just as I bent to the Spirit of the Wood.

“My sleep.”

The Spirit demands your soul. I left the chamber, two burgundy Cards nestled in my palm, my fingers curling like claws around them.

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.

“The Gallivanting Heir—I like it. Add it to the title.”

“Sit down, Ravyn Yew. I’m going to fix your broken beak.”

“Sometimes,” she muttered, wiping his blood on her skirt, “I think things would be infinitely better if there were simply no Providence Cards at all.” Elm gave a shaky exhale. “You’d make such a perfect Queen.”

“Marriage contracts,” Elm said, itching to touch her. “A Kingly duty my brutish father has never tended well. The last one he penned himself—poorly, might I add—was signed on Equinox. A Nightmare Card, for a marriage.” “To Hauth. A contract that bound me to Hauth.” Elm smiled. “To the heir.”

By the third tap of the pink Card, the flawless—unearthly and unreachable—Ione Hawthorn was gone. The real Ione was there in her stead. Freckles. The first things Elm saw were her freckles.

She’d endured a bartered marriage to Hauth, a brute, who’d gotten her drunk and used his Scythe on her—locked away her heart with three indifferent taps. He’d dragged her to the precipice of that window at Spindle House and pushed her to her death. She’d lain there in her own blood, staring up at the moon, thinking it would be the last time she’d see the night sky. It tore at Elm, thinking she’d endured it all alone.

“Seems you’re less stupid than I thought.” “And you’re just as horrible as ever.”

“Yes, well, it took me longer than it should have to recognize you. I imagine it was Bennett who revised our family name. But magic, and degeneration, runs in bloodlines. Your inability to use the Cards—that, I did recognize.” Warmth stole over his mind. “Along with your nose.”

Nothing is free, the trees called after them. Nothing is safe. Magic is love, but also it’s hate. It comes at a cost. You’re found and you’re lost. Magic is love, but also— “For mercy’s sake.” The Nightmare spat phlegm onto roots. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Shove off, you ancient windbag.” In one impressive maneuver, Jespyr was in Petyr’s arms. “You still with us, princess? Want to hold my lucky coin?” She stirred in his arms. Grimaced. Her brown eyes opened a sliver. “You smell worse than he did.”

“You won’t win,” he said again. “For nothing is safe, and nothing is free. Debt follows all men, no matter their plea. When the Shepherd returns, a new day shall ring. Death to the Rowans.” His gray eyes focused, homing in on Elm. “Long live the King.”

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.

“You know how this goes, asshole. Be wary. Be clever. Be good.”

The Nightmare laughed, wicked and infinite. “Fool. I’m not going to kill your brother.” He opened his arms, a beckoning—and a promise. “I’m going to crown him.”

“Destroy this, and Elspeth returns?” “Yes.” Something hot touched Ravyn’s relief. “You’re telling me I’ve had the means to free her all this time?” The Nightmare grinned. “Yes.”

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— I couldn’t go on. Elspeth. No. I’m not ready. Not yet. Finish the story, dear one. My voice shook. The two were together— Together. 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.

“I’ll love you for a hundred years—and an eternity after.”