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.

She was alive in every way, proclaiming her wants and fears and anything in between out loud, like a spell of gratitude.

I gave him a false smile and turned away, running my hand over the taut muscles of my brow until I felt my expression go blank. It was a trick I had spent years perfecting in the looking glass—molding my face like clay until it bore the vague, demure look of someone who had nothing to hide.

Yellow girl, soft and clean. Yellow girl, plain—unseen. Yellow girl, overlooked. Yellow girl, won’t be Queen.

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

“Such a lackluster flower,” Nerium said, watching me, her eyes narrowing as they slid over the irises. “I can’t understand what your father sees in them.” My insides knotted. Like most things Nerium said to me, there was an undertone of malice in her soft, well-chosen words. My father kept irises in the house for a simple reason. Iris had been my mother’s name.

“We were going to meet you in the hall,” my stepmother said to my father, a pinch in her voice. “Is something the matter?” My father’s expression gave nothing away. “I came to say hello to my own daughter in my own house, Nerium. Is that all right with you?” Nerium’s jaw snapped shut. Ione covered her mouth to hide her snicker.

The intruder was in my mind. “Hello?” I called, my voice breaking. Its tone was male, a hiss and a purr—oil and bile—sinister and sweet, echoing through the darkness of my mind. Hello.

Eleven years, we’ve been together. Eleven years, and I’ve never told a soul.

My magic moves, he said. My magic bites. My magic soothes. My magic frights. You are young and not so bold. I am unflinching—five hundred years old.

I was born with the fever, my blood dark as night, With magic unflinching, power and might. My sights, they were endless, my ambition too vast, So I asked for more blessings, for power, amassed. The Spirit did warn me that nothing comes free, That bargains and barters all come with a fee. Though payment was dear, I paid what it cost. With blood and with bones and parts of me lost. So mind how you use them, and keep up your guard. Twelve blessings—twelve curses. Twelve Providence Cards.

The twelve call for each other when the shadows grow long— When the days are cut short and the Spirit is strong. 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.

“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.”

The Hawthorn tree carries few seeds. Its branches are weary, it’s lost all its leaves. Be wary the man who bargains and thieves. He’ll offer your soul to get what he needs.

“If everyone was as distrustful as you, Bess, Blunder would never change.” My laughter was hollow. “Better distrustful than delusional.” There was redness in Ione’s cheeks—rarely displayed anger in her hazel eyes. “Having hope does not make me delusional, Elspeth,” she said.

“I see you, Elspeth Spindle.” His voice was near and far at once, as if underwater. “I see a pretty maiden with long black hair and charcoal eyes. I see a yellow gaze narrowed by hate. I see darkness and shadow.” His lips twisted in an eerie smile. “And I see your fingers, long and pale, covered in blood.”

The berry of rowans is red, always red. The earth at its trunk is dark with blood shed. No water, nor cloth, can lessen its spread. He’ll ask for a maiden… Then turn her heart dead.

I had seen that hue of velvet before. Burgundy—rich and blood red. The second Nightmare Card.

“Forgive me, Miss Spindle. But I must ask you something.” I slipped my hand out of his grasp, my throat tightening. “Yes?” “Why were you on the forest road, alone at nightfall, fifteen days past?”

My eyes lowered to Ravyn’s belt. There it was, plain as day. The ivory hilt—the dagger he’d pressed to my chest. It’s him, I gasped. I assaulted the bloody Captain of the Destriers.

Ravyn raised his dark brows. “Yours isn’t a face I’d soon forget, Miss Spindle.” When he asked the question a second time, there was an edge to his voice. “What were you doing on the forest road?”

“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?

But as I watched Ravyn Yew’s face, his gray eyes tracing the darkness in my veins, there was no fear, no resentment in his gaze. Only concern. Concern and wonder.

“You’re a decent liar,” he said, turning back to the mist. “You’ll fit right in.”

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 berry of rowans is red, always red. The earth at its trunk is dark with blood shed. Trust never the man who wields the Card red. His voice seeped out of him, a poisonous fog filling my mind. No peace will be known till the final Rowan is dead.

“Quite the family you have,” I said to Ravyn, shooting daggers. “One assault from the two of you was enough. Tell the Prince to take his Scythe and go, or I won’t breathe another word.”

For the Black Horse Card, for power and speed, The Spirit wanted blood from my warhorse, my steed. For the Golden Egg Card, abundance and wealth, I bartered two years of my life’s precious health. The Prophet came next, the Card of foresight. She wanted my fear, so I gave her my fright. When I asked her for courage, the White Eagle Card, I bartered my skin, which left my hands scarred. So I begged for the Maiden, for beauty I prayed. She asked for my hair, shorn off with a blade.

He doesn’t trust me. You told him your mind is off-limits. If he didn’t think you were hiding anything before, he certainly does now. I AM hiding something, I said, fidgeting with the hem of my torn sleeve as I marched up the stairs. You.

The Captain of the Destriers is dark and severe. Watching from yew trees, his gray eyes are clear. His wingspan is broad and his beak is quite sharp. Hide quick or he’ll find you… and rip out your heart.

Wary I’d grown, so I needed the Well. She asked for a chamber—a place she might dwell. To reclaim my good self, I forged the Iron Gate. The cost was my armor, my golden breastplate. For the Scythe I wanted power, and her price was quite steep. I gave her my rest—she claimed all my sleep. The Mirror was next, to be invisible—unseen. She wanted old bones, so I gave her my Queen’s. But it felt incomplete, my collection yet whole. And so, for the Nightmare… I bartered my soul.

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?

Elm’s smile held no hospitality. “Do you think he’s handsome?” The Prince was toying with me, like a cat its prey. I bit down, determined not to answer, but the Scythe’s influence—the desire to reply—was overwhelming. My head began to pound. Sweat came in beads along my brow and the nape of my neck. When I spoke, my voice sounded strangled. “Yes.” Then, out of spite, “For a Destrier.” Elm cackled. Ravyn shot him a narrow glance. Still, I did not miss the way the Captain’s lips pulled at the corner; the elusive half smile, tugged by an invisible string.

None of them work on me, dear one. I gaped. Something you casually forgot to mention? For ELEVEN years? But I have mentioned it, my clueless little companion. His claws grated against his teeth. I cannot, however, be held responsible for your feeble comprehension. I wanted to reach into the darkness and smack him across his monstrous face. You really know how to make a girl feel special.

“You don’t actually have to woo her, merely give the impression of wooing her. Just, I don’t know, smile at her once in a while. You remember how to smile, don’t you?”

Fenir cleared his throat. “What exactly do you object to, Ravyn? She’s clever, striking.” I wondered the same thing. The Captain’s adamant refusal to court me—not even court me, pretend to court me—felt like a dozen wasp stings, leaving me wounded, hot with anger. “Make no mistake, she’s beautiful. Only, I—” Ravyn’s voice cut out. Then, as if the words were bitter in his mouth, “If the ruse will help…” He heaved a sigh. “I’ll try. Though I doubt I’ll play a convincing suitor.” I huffed hot air out my nostrils. “Don’t do me any favors,” I said into the din. As if I would ever deign to court someone like him. I had enough struggles of my own without adding the chore of coaxing a smile out of Ravyn Yew to my list.

“Care to fill her in, Ravyn?” Footsteps shuffled. “Don’t forget to smile!” Jespyr called as the handle turned.

Ravyn Yew. Infected.

I blinked, my tongue caught in a snare. “He—He’s—” “Infected,” Elm said. “Yes. Terribly so.” What creature is he, with mask made of stone? the Nightmare said once more. Captain? Highwayman? Or beast yet unknown?

The moment the Cards touched the Captain’s hand, the white color disappeared.

“Who’s the pretty lady?” Emory asked, peeling a twig off the rowan tree and plucking its leaves one by one. “Methinks she is a tree spirit. Nay—a King! Nay.” His smile twisted. “A villain.”

I wanted to shout, to break the glass of his control. But I could not find the words. The day had stolen them. And the night had buried them. Weariness was king, and I his servant.

It felt good, watching him struggle to read me. He’d wounded my pride. And now, my pride called for blood. “It relieves the burden of a pretend courtship—which, as I understand, is abhorrent to you.” My smile did not touch my eyes. “Here, away from the gossip, we needn’t pretend to be anything we’re not.” 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?” Something flared in Ravyn’s gray eyes. Not anger—but just as strong. For a moment, strain broke across his fixed expression. His fingers flexed along the candlestick, his shoulders rigid—his body tense, and honed entirely on me.

Be wary. Be clever. Be good.

“Will anyone else be joining us?” Jespyr eyed me from across the table. “Like who?” Her lips curled, mischievous as a goblin. “Like Ravyn?”

THE MIRROR Be wary the violet, Be wary the dread. Be wary the glass and the world of the dead. You’ll fast disappear. You’ll tremble in fear. Be wary the glass and the world of the dead.

The Nightmare hummed, his words slippery. The Captain of the Destriers is dark and severe. Perched atop yew trees, his gray eyes are clear. Be wary his magic, be wary his fate. The Yews and the Rowans do not ready friends make.

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

“May I?” I looked at the rose, then back at his face. Trees, that face. Austerity and beauty. An imperfect, breathtaking statue. “I thought we weren’t pretending,” I murmured. He stripped the rose’s thorns with his blade. “It’s just a flower. Flowers don’t play games.” He offered it again, once more asking my permission. “May I?” This time, I nodded.