One Dark Window (The Shepherd King, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

To the quiet girls with stories in their heads. To their dreams—and their nightmares.

The infection comes as a fever in the night. If you take ill, watch the veins—the tributary of blood traveling down the arms. If they remain as they ever did, you have nothing to fear. If the blood darkens to an inky black, the infection has taken hold. The infection comes as a fever in the night.

She did not have time to hide me. I was asleep, resting like a cat in the window.

Still, it was the first time I stopped fearing the Nightmare—the voice in my head, the creature with strange yellow eyes and an eerie, smooth voice. Eleven years later, and I don’t fear him at all. Even if I should.

Gray clouds darkened my way and the path was slippery—thick with moss. The wood held its water, heavy and moist, as if to challenge the inevitable shift of season. Only the occasional dogwood stood in contrast to the emerald sheen, its red-orange hues bright against the mist, fiery and proud.

That’s how the best lies are told—with just enough truth to be convincing.

I did not reflect on how I had loved sliding down that banister as a girl, nor how the house had remained the same since then.

A heart of gold can still turn to rot. What he wrote, what he did, was all done for naught. His Cards are but weapons, his kingdom now cruel. Shepherd of folly, King of the fools.

“You are in no danger—you have my word. Your infection does not concern me. I merely wish to understand the gift you possess. And I have no intention of discussing it in an open field.”

“Miss Spindle. You have nothing to fear from me.” Strange, coming from the man who might have pierced your heart on the forest road.

In the cold and the dark, the stone does not age. The light cannot reach where the shadows doth rage. At the end of the stairs, by rope or by blade, they take the sick children, to burn in a cage.

The room looked like an abandoned cellar. There were no windows—no natural light. A small hearth nestled on the far wall illuminated the room. An old rounded table stood near the hearth, surrounded by chairs that did not match. A shelf with old tomes was positioned on the south wall, its contents perhaps older than the room itself.

Not the dungeon, then. Don’t be so sure, the Nightmare said. There are many different kinds of cages.

“I’ll see you at dinner, Miss Spindle.” A threat or a promise? said the Nightmare.

I stared at the King’s second son, tightness creeping into my stomach. How easily he wore the mask of cordiality—of charm. But I could hear disapproval, doubt, in his voice. I smelled it on him like smoke.

Castle Yew was old—the grounds historic. The wrought-iron gate and the dark, climbing ivy resided under the shadow of ancient yew trees—tall and foreboding. Beyond lay a statuary, a maze of stone and hedges, then the towering, ominous house. I had walked past the gate many times as a child, certain to my bones there was something to fear under those trees.

“It has not been an easy harvest. The Spirit of the Wood’s stranglehold on Blunder continues. Still, let us celebrate the triumphs we’ve achieved in family, in health, and, most importantly, in the trade and use of Providence Cards.” The great hall echoed with

The yew tree is cunning, its shadow unknown. It bends without breaking, its secrets its own. Look past twisting branches, dig deep to its bones. Is it Providence Cards he seeks—or is it the throne?

For the last Providence Card, I wanted her close, To answer my call when I needed her most. But she guarded her secrets, like a dragon its gold, Saying nothing of price our bargain would hold. But long had I suffered, and long had I bled. “I’ll pay any cost for a twelfth Card,” I said. The salt stung my nose and her spite filled the air. I woke in the chamber, the Twin Alders Card there. And so, my dear kingdom, my Blunder, my land, The Cards fall to you, paid by my hand. For her price, it was final, our bartering done. I created twelve Cards… But I cannot use one.

He was there, curled up like a cat in the corner of my mind, quiet.

I frowned, searching the wool. It felt like a forgotten dream, looking at the man with gilded armor. A reflection in water too murky to make out.

Death by a thousand cuts, he groaned. Ask her where the bloody Iron Gate is and be done with it. And invite a world of suspicion once it’s stolen? Just because they talk too much doesn’t make them idiots. That’s precisely what it makes them.

But it was the wrong time of year for blossoms. Soon the wild soul of the garden would grow tired and retreat deep into itself, the looming chill of winter drawing closer each night. I had to look deep within the bramble for blooms, only the most protected plants still willing to share their flowers with me.

“Those thorns are vicious,” a deep, familiar voice called.

Neither of us spoke, a day apart enough time to make strangers out of us once more. If we’d ever been anything else.

could smell the salt in the air. The Spirit of the Wood lingered in the mist, invisible, watching, held at bay by only our magic and our charms.

The Spirit has no forgiveness, no pardon to lend. She calls out our names, neither kin, foe, nor friend. She watches the mist like a shepherd its sheep…

But when I looked again, he was gone. The face in the mirror was mine once more. Only now, my features were contorted in fear, and my dark eyes—wide with terror—had gone glassy. My aunt had told me once that my strange charcoal eyes were special, beautiful even—a dark window to the soul beneath. But as I glanced back into the looking glass, the reflection of my black eyes flickering to that bright, eerie yellow, I had to wonder… whose soul was it? The Nightmare’s? Or mine?

“Perhaps he feared old magic—magic he could not control.” His brow darkened, his eyes distant. “Or perhaps in a kingdom where balance is the only constant, he simply sought to cheat the scales. He stole the throne from an infected King. And now his lineage strives to kill anyone with enough magic to take it back.”

Something ancient—born of salt. We were the same, he and I. Gifted with ancient, terrible magic. Woven in secret, hidden in half-truths. We were the darkness in Blunder, the reminder that magic—wild and unfettered—prevailed, no matter how desperately the Rowans tried to stamp it out. We were the thing to be feared.

There was something about Hauth Rowan that deeply unnerved me. Just like in the wood, I could not shake the feeling he was hunting me. With every look—every touch—he was seeking me out for the kill.

Death at his door, and the boy still understands you better than the rest of these fools.

“Are you still pretending?” I said, reveling in his gaze. Ravyn gave a surprised laugh and, in front of everyone, leaned in and kissed me. “I never was,” he whispered into my lips.

“Be safe,” I whispered to the wind as Ravyn Yew disappeared beyond the gate. Had I known they’d be the last words I’d say to him aloud, I might have chosen them differently.

It was dark on the north side of the dungeon. Worse still, it was quiet. The King had ordered the rest of the cells emptied three days ago, afraid Elspeth Spindle might poison the minds of the other prisoners with her dangerous, dark magic.

Elspeth tilted her head to the side, her yellow eyes narrowing. “You came all this way into your frozen underworld to tell me that, usurper?”