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.

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.

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, it’s hate.

But no matter how often I asked, he would not tell me who he was or how he had come to exist in the Nightmare Card. 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.

The Spirit did warn me that nothing comes free, That bargains and barters all come with a fee.

“before Providence Cards, the Spirit of the Wood was our divinity. Folk of Blunder sought her out, combing the woods for the smell of salt. They asked her for blessings and gifts. They honored her woods and took the names of the trees as their own. This was old magic—old religion.”

“For his reverence, the Spirit of the Wood granted the Shepherd King strange, powerful magic. He wanted to share his magic with his kingdom, and so he made the twelve Providence Cards.”

“But everything has a price. For each Card, the Shepherd King gave something up to...

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 are all woven together, their balance delicate, like spider silk. Unite all twelve Providence Cards with the black blood of salt, and the infection will be healed. Blunder will be free of the mist.”

Degeneration. That’s what the Shepherd King called it in The Old Book of Alders. The sickness of mind or body that came with the infection. After the fever, the infection granted strange power, magical gifts. But everything had a price. For some, that price was obvious, draining one’s life force in a slow, agonizing deterioration.

“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.”

Magic smells of salt. Like ocean tides, it carries great balance. It wraps itself around the Spirit of the Wood, good and evil, love and hate, life and death. Can you smell it in the mist—in the Cards—in your own house? Magic smells of salt.

If the Deck of Providence Cards was not collected in my lifetime, even town—even roads and places of dwelling—would surely be caught in its snare.

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.

It was the history of our kingdom—an ancient homage to the Spirit of the Wood—to take the name of the trees.

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.”

Like his younger brother, his eyes were gray and stood out brilliantly against smooth copper skin. He watched me down a long, formidable nose, his eyes searching my face.

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

He nodded, the torchlight casting severe shadows across his face. “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Ravyn Yew.”

He merely cast me one last glance and turned with his torch into the darkness of the corridor, his last words “Sleep well, Miss Spindle.”

THE MAIDEN Be wary the pink, Be wary the rose. Be wary of beauty divine, unopposed. Her thorns will grow sharp, She’ll eat her own heart. Be wary of beauty divine, unopposed.

He mentioned yellow eyes. How could he possibly have known about your eyes? Do you think he— —knows there is a five-hundred-year-old monster stalking the dark corners of your mind?

A Card reserved only for royalty. With it, the Prince had the power to control anyone he chose—in any way he chose.

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.

In the end, the Nightmare continued, it does not matter how and why the Cards are used. Nothing is free, nothing is safe. Magic always comes at a cost.

The highwayman meets the hangman. Behind the mask, the highwayman carries two eyes for seeing, two ears for hearing, and one tongue for lying. There is no second chance for the cutpurse. The highwayman meets the hangman.

A charm is neither living nor dead. When an animal born of Blunder dies of age, bury it in deep soil. When the soil sprouts seed, unearth it. Take from the animal a piece no greater than the palm of your hand. Whether bone, hair, or feather, your charm is a safeguard in the mist, for the animals of Blunder remain free of the Spirit’s snare. A charm is neither living nor dead.

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.

King Rowan, like his predecessors, used the ancient wisdom of The Old Book of Alders to instill fear—not wonder—of magic. He corrupted our ancient text. Defiled it so that it became a weapon to control Blunder by—just like the Scythe.

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 ...

When I asked her for courage, the White Eagle Card, I bartered my skin, which...

So I begged for the Maiden, for beauty I prayed. She asked for my hair, s...

There must be touch, there must be intention. Tap a Providence Card thrice to command its magic. Tap it thrice more, and its magic will cease. Guard it in your cloak—your house. But be wary. Magic knows no loyalty. Should someone else touch the Card, its magic shall be theirs to command. There must be touch, there must be intention.

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.

Ravyn watched him go, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not the winning moment he hoped for, poor Laburnum.”

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 ...

What has two eyes for seeing, two ears for hearing, and one tongue for lying? When I didn’t reply, he tittered. A highwayman, darling girl.

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?

I think you mean “traitor to lord and land,” not “Captain.” After all, dear one, there were only two Nightmare Cards ever forged. Long have the Rowans sought one, only for it to be here—hidden neatly in the King’s castle—under his very nose.

So much dread, the Nightmare said. So much might. To see beyond the veil—what wicked delight.

THE SCYTHE Be wary the red, Be wary the blade. Be wary the pain, for a price will be paid. Command what you can, Death waits for no man. Be wary the pain, for a price will be paid.

THE PROPHET Be wary the gray, Be wary the sight. Be wary of visions that come in the night. You’ll lose all your power. You’ll weep, plea, and cower. Be wary of visions that come in the night.