One Dark Window (The Shepherd King, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

A King’s reign is wrought with burden, the Nightmare whispered,

Weighty decisions ripple through centuries. Still, decisions must be made.

“Emory’s magic flares at the shift of seasons. And The Old Book of Alders states the Cards should be joined at the darkest part of the year.”

He took a deep breath. “Emory may not survive another turn of the year. I may be a liar and a traitor,” he said, “but at least I can say there is nothing I would not do to save my brother.”

Emory Yew, the King’s captive, was gone.

Degeneration falls like leaves from a branch. Swift, or slow and steady. The infection grants great magic. Degeneration is the cost of such a gift. For many, the payment is their own sanity. For others, their lives. Degeneration falls like leaves from a branch.

He’s degenerating, the Nightmare said. Little by little. Magic always comes at a cost.

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

“You and I already carry strange magic. We’re the very things the book warns against, Miss Spindle.” He smiled, gesturing away from the house into the garden. “We needn’t be afraid of a little salt in the air.”

Go in where? My eyes caught on the ivy-laden room. There? Yes. Why? I want to see it. There is no door. Only— 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.”

The last of the lot was Jon Thistle, who greeted me with a broad smile. “Pleased to see you, milady. Welcome to our fine collection of ruddy outlaws.”

To my silence, the Captain of the Destriers smiled. “Come now, Miss Spindle. Surely you’ve seen a party of highwaymen before.”

She’d said the Spirit could take the form of animals, but never an exact replication. There was always something other about the animals the Spirit pretended to be. Their bones were too long—their teeth too jagged.

But the Spirit was neglected, no matter her plea. The Rowans erased her, as they once did to me. But she keeps her own time, and I keep a long score. The tide that comes next will blot out the shore.

The berry of rowans is red, always red. The earth at its trunk is dark with blood shed. But a Prince is a man, and a man may be bled. He came for the girl… And got the monster instead.

I stiffened, the Nightmare’s wicked laugh resonating in the din. When I spoke, the low notes of my voice were slick, as if dipped in oil. “Perhaps it was he who got away from me.”

Magic is the oldest paradox. The more power it gives you, the weaker you become. Be wary. Be clever. Be good. Magic is the oldest paradox.

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

Magic born of the infection is immeasurable. Unfathomable. It owns no loyalty—keeps no rules. For some, it carries great, unyielding power. For others, darkness and degeneration await. Magic born of the infection is immeasurable.

“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.”

Only now, perched atop it, his gold armor dimly glistening, sat the man from my dreams. He watched me as I stood with the Captain of the Destriers. When he spoke, I recognized the silky quality of his voice. “Elspeth Spindle,” he said, his eyes—so strange and yellow—ensnaring me. “Let me out.”

He is a vestige of the past, haunting the chamber he built for the Spirit of the Wood, nothing more than a memory of a man who once was. His voice grew harder. A man I once was.

“And so, the Spirit created the mist, to draw people back to her. By force.”

“You ask what changed, Miss Spindle? Brutus Rowan, the first Rowan King. That’s what changed.

He took The Old Book of Alders and made it doctrine, twisting the words until they’d become weapons against anyone infected.”

“Why should Brutus Rowan hate the infection?” Filick tapped his finger on his cup. “Perhaps he feared old magic—magic he could not control.”

“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.”

Filick Willow was one of the cleverest men in Blunder, there was one thing he was terribly, terribly wrong about. What happened five hundred years ago mattered. Far more than I had ever realized.

If it’s your soul I absorbed when I touched my uncle’s Nightmare Card, I said, then I absorbed a King. But you—you are not a King. You’re a monster. He laughed at me again. I am both. There was a pause. Don’t you remember the story, Elspeth? Our story?

I’m not TAKING anything, Elspeth Spindle. He hissed, claws flashing, suddenly vicious. I cannot TAKE. I am capable only of what I am willfully given. He slinked into the darkness, hasty to be away from me. Remember that, when you finally have the courage to admit it. In the end, I took nothing you had not already given me.

The woman reflected in the glass matched my smile, her feline yellow eyes flashing.

“Did you also know, Miss Spindle, that we Yews are descendants of the Shepherd King?”

“I trust you. You’re safe with me. Magic—or something else—is pulling us together. Only two more Cards,” he said, the tips of our noses grazing. “And then you’ll be free.”

Providence Cards are ageless. Their magic does not fade. They do not decay with time. They cannot be destroyed. Providence Cards are ageless.

Life had sheltered them, like pearls kept in a velvet pouch. And I—I was not made of pearls. I was made of salt.

THE WELL Be wary the blue, Be wary the stone. Be wary of shadows the water hath shown. Your enemies wait. The wolves stalk the gate. Be wary of shadows the water hath shown.

THE CHALICE Be wary the sea, Be wary the cup. Be wary the food and the wine that you sup. Your stomach may sour— Your tongue may twist dour. Be wary the food and the wine that you sup.

If you’ve a secret, the Nightmare called, the Chalice will reveal it. The High Prince seeks truth. And now he will steal it.

“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.

Easy now, the Nightmare called. The Chalice is a Card of truth. But the truth must be framed—netted—caught. The question is just as important as the answer.

The shepherd of the shadow. The phantom of the fright. The demon in the daydream. The nightmare in the night.

“It’s my ability—my magic. The moment a Providence Card touches my skin, I absorb whatever it was the Shepherd King paid to create it.”

I looked up, the truth finally torn from me, piece by piece. “He’s the Shepherd King.”

“It was his castle—the one in ruins. The first Rowan King burned it down, murdered him and his family.”

“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.

“Hello,” Orithe Willow said, looking down at me through unfeeling eyes. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Spindle.”

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… And pays those she snares with the great, final sleep.

I’m just the wind in the trees, the shadow, and the fright. The echo in the leaves… the nightmare in the night.

Don’t try to save us, Ravyn Yew, the Nightmare and I said, our voices melding in a strange, echoing dissonance. We cannot be saved.