One Dark Window (The Shepherd King, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

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.

“There once was a girl,” he murmured, “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.”

Ravyn Yew. The King’s eldest nephew. My father’s successor—Captain of the Destriers.

But my gaze did not linger on the Captain’s face. I was too caught up in the color—the light—radiating from his breast pocket. It was darker than the Maiden, but just as strong. Dread curled my chest and I choked on air. I had seen that hue of velvet before. Burgundy—rich and blood red. The second Nightmare Card.

Wait, Elspeth Spindle, a deep voice called in my head. I’m not going to hurt you. I screamed.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated. “You, on the other hand…” He wiped his bloody nostrils on his sleeve, wincing. “Fuck.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s twice you’ve handed me my ass and run off.”

What creature is he, he asked, with mask made of stone? Captain? Highwayman? Or beast yet unknown?

I didn’t realize I had stopped walking until Ravyn cleared his throat, halting a few paces ahead. He must have seen the terror on my face because, for a moment, the firmness around his eyes softened. He glanced down the stairwell. “I’ll never take you there, Miss Spindle. You have my word.”

I peeled myself off the wall. “Animals don’t like me,” I murmured, my heart pounding as I took in my surroundings.

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

The Black Horse made its beholder a master of combat. The Golden Egg granted great wealth.

The Prophet offered glimpses of the future. The White Eagle bestowed courage. The Maiden bequeathed great beauty. The Chalice turned liquid into truth serum.

The Well gave clear sight to recognize one’s enemies. The Iron Gate offered blissful serenity, no matter the struggle. The Scythe gave its beholder the power to control others. The Mirror granted invisibility. The Nightmare allowed its user to speak into the minds of others. The Twin Alders h...

I know no one’s going to ask me what I want, the Nightmare said, snide to his bones, but just in case you were wondering, the answer is no. No, I am decidedly NOT agreeable.

Alyx’s eyes darted between us. “Yes, well, we should take our seats, Elspeth, my parents—” I put a hand on Alyx’s arm. “You’ve been very sweet, Alyx. But I told the Yews I’d sit with them this evening. Isn’t that right, Captain?” Alyx stalled, midstep. Ravyn ran a hand over his jaw, hiding his expression. “Indeed.”

The Nightmare’s tail made a whooshing sound. Find out. How am I supposed to do that? Best stick to the old ways. Which are? Pressing a bloody ear to the door, I should think.

Elm Rowan looked down at me through rich green irises. When I was on my feet, he wrapped a firm arm around me, shielding me from the crowd. “All right there, Spindle?” “Go away,” I said, the feeling of slapping myself so fresh my cheek still stung. “I think you mean ‘thank you,’” the Prince said, pulling me through the crowd, up the path.

“Let go.” I twisted in his arm, the Nightmare hissing behind my lashes. “And let you get trampled?” Elm said. “Our aspirations will have ended before they’d begun.”

Ravyn’s eyes did not leave my face. If my words had stung him, his stonelike features bore no tell. He leaned forward. “And what are we, Miss Spindle?” The intensity of his gaze sent me back a step. “Nothing,” I said. Then, for spite, “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

But the blade did not touch me. Stepping to my side, Ravyn took the rose by the base and lifted it from the bramble of thorns, freeing it with a single cut. He held it for a moment and said nothing, the silence between us loud enough to drown out even the most enthusiastic morning birds.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, as if unused. “Are you well?” My voice hitched, still shaken by his sudden arrival. “Yes.” “My family is seeing to your needs?”

He took a step forward, holding the blood-red rose in his hand out to me. “May I?”

He offered a small smile. “Would you like a tour?” I looked around, the garden soft in the mist. “I didn’t realize there was an allotted design.” “Quite the opposite,” Ravyn said. “Which makes it the most interesting part of the estate. Only don’t tell Thistle. He’ll take enormous offense.”

A window. His voice swarmed in my ears, near and far at once, slick with oil. That’s all she ever required. Who? The Spirit of the Wood.

“Because when he speaks—relaying my worst fears over and over in my mind—it’s not a stranger’s voice,” he said quietly. “It’s mine.”

“We can’t exactly wear our family seals, can we?” Ravyn said. He paused, gently extracting the flower crown from my hair. “I’ll have your clothes sent back to your room. Join us when you’re ready.”

I extended my hand. “You’re forgiven. On one condition.” The invisible string tugged the corner of his mouth. “What’s that?” When our hands touched, heat moved into my cheeks. “Call me Elspeth,” I said. “We’re about to commit treason together, after all.”

Ravyn froze, his hand still in mine, the noise of approaching horsemen rumbling in the distance. “Best put that mask on, Elspeth,” he said. “It’s time.”

I felt resistance in his pause, he, too, lost to the world of things unsaid. “Of all the things I pretend at,” he said, his thumb drawing small, gentle circles along my waist, “courting you has proven the easiest.”

“Ravyn,” he said, his eyes tracing my face, flashing a moment to my mouth. “If we’re going to be convincing, you should call me Ravyn.” A smile tugged at my lips. “Good night, then, Ravyn.” He responded with a slow, satisfied grin. “I’ll take that as your answer, Elspeth.”

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?

He must have felt me watching him, because when he raised his gaze to mine, light returned to his eyes, the elusive half smile tugging at his mouth.

Then Ravyn stomped, full force, on the High Prince’s hand. A sickening snap echoed through the yard, followed by Hauth’s brutal scream. I flinched and looked away. Elm leaned in with wide eyes. The Nightmare hissed with gratification.

The Prince shrugged, his green eyes lingering on Ione’s shape in the distance. “Hauth broke your wrist, Ravyn mangled his hand. Balance.”

He slid his knife along the heel of my palm. I gasped, watching a trail of red beads escape the nigh-invisible cut Ravyn had just dealt. He pinched my flesh, pulling more blood to the surface. “Just a small cut,” he murmured. “Nothing too deep. No need to scar these beautiful hands.”

When he leaned closer, I closed my eyes, his mouth a whisper from mine. His voice caught at the edges. “Is this you pretending, Elspeth?” he said, the tip of his nose grazing mine. “Because if it is…” His breath stirred my eyelashes. “You’re very good at it.”

“No better than you, Captain.” Ravyn’s throat hitched, his eyelids lowering. He placed my hand firmly on his chest, across the Yew insignia, just above his heart. His chest thumped—his heartbeat ragged, as if he’d just been running. When I looked up, he was watching me, his eyes softer than before. “Does this feel pretend?” he said, his mouth close now, so close his lips tugged at mine.

Our lips collided, there, among the salt. Ravyn growled into my mouth and I pressed my entire self into him, wanting—needing—to feel him against my body. His hand slid over my jaw to the nape of my neck, his fingers twisting in my hair, his mouth opening to mine. Our tongues touched, hot and unfamiliar, tentative at first, then greedy.

But it felt incomplete, my collection yet whole. And so, for the Nightmare, I bartered my soul. I put a hand to my mouth, fingers shaking. My voice came out hollow. “But that would mean I absorbed your soul when I touched the Nightmare Card. Which makes you… the Shepherd King.” A growl, a sneer—oil, bile. His voice called, louder than it had ever been, as if he was closer. Stronger. Finally, my darling Elspeth, we understand one another.

The sharp contours along the ridge of his distinct nose. The way his hair, neither long nor short, framed his stern brow. His gray eyes—stark beneath his black mask—so sharp they cut at me.

It was all of those things—and none of them at once. Something else drew me to the Captain of the Destriers. Something I had, caught up in our game of pretend, overlooked. 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. We were the balance.

But I could not say that in front of Hauth Rowan. Instead, I offered Ravyn a rare, unconstrained smile. “He’s very… tall.” Ravyn’s eyes flared. He caught my smile and matched it with his own, stepping forward. When he squared off with the High Pr...

He traced the curve of my chin. “I resisted, Elspeth, because I was already imagining how I might press my finger against your wet lips again, like I had in my room.” He took in a breath, his mouth dropping to my ear. “And that was nothing to the wicked things I was imagining after we argued in the garden.”

“I resisted,” Ravyn said, “because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that first night on the forest road. And I realized at Equinox that the closer I let myself get to you, the less I’d want to be the King’s Captain—the less I’d want to pretend. And it’s dangerous for me, for my family, to stop pretending.” He pressed his lips to the shell of my ear, a low, scraping whisper. “It’s not safe to draw too close to me. I’m a liar, Elspeth. A traitor. And someday, there will be a reckoning.”

I stood on my toes and pressed my forehead against his, my voice so quiet my lips hardly moved. “Then be a liar, Ravyn. Betray. Upturn the kingdom that would see you and me and Emory killed. The King keeps you close so he can control you. But you are the only one who can withstand his Scythe Card.” I pulled back and looked him in the eyes. “It is not they who bring the reckoning, Ravyn. It is you. It is us.”

But he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against his chest in a hug so deep it blotted out Market Day entirely. He held me, resting his cheek against the crown of my head, his heart drumming against my ear. I inhaled him, leather and smoke and cedar, settling into his arms like a rabbit in its warm, safe den.

I had not fit into anyone’s arms like that since childhood. And even then, no one had ever held me so tightly—as if they needed me in their arms as much as I needed to be held. As if nothing else mattered but to hold one another.

Elm turned to me, his green eyes narrowing. “It’s different for Ravyn,” he said. “He’s not skeptical of your infection, your magic. When he looks at you, he feels he knows you—wants to help you. You make him remember why he’s done everything he’s done, and why he must continue on doing it.”

“But when I look at you, Spindle, I see something else,” he said. “I see someone secretive, guarded. I see someone who hasn’t been forthright with us.”

I shouted and pushed against the chest of his black tunic, but he caught me along the arms. He said my name, but I hardly heard him, my mind caught in a riptide, the Nightmare’s presence so strong it stupefied me. The Destrier pulled me to him. When I looked up, I saw gray eyes behind his mask. Ravyn Yew’s chest heaved against mine.