One Dark Window (The Shepherd King, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

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.

Look past twisting branches, dig deep to its bones. Is it Providence Cards he seeks—or is it the throne?

It wasn’t what I’d expected for someone so severe. Order, neatness, discipline—like my father. Those were qualities I attributed to the Captain of the Destriers. Either Ravyn Yew was in the middle of rearranging his chamber, or what was beginning to feel more apparent by the moment— He was not the man I imagined him to be.

The second Nightmare Card. Ravyn’s Nightmare Card.

Be quiet. Be shrewd. He can’t hear your thoughts lest he focus on you. What makes you so certain? I demanded. His laugh rumbled in the dark. I know a few things about Providence Cards, my dear. I doubt that.

If I tell him I absorb any Card I touch, he’ll want to know the rest. He’ll find out about YOU.

I let out a slow breath. “And what am I, Nerium?” Her icy blue eyes narrowed. “The same thing your mother was. Strange, fevered.” She whispered through her teeth. “Infected.”

The same calloused thumb that had slid over my knuckles in Ravyn’s chamber caught the tear on my cheek—dragged it away. It was gone in a moment. His voice drifted past my ear.

“You said you wanted to know everything. It’s a double-edged sword, Miss Spindle.”

They sat at the rounded table, five of them: Jespyr Yew, Elm Rowan, Filick Willow, and two others I had not met but knew by the Yew insignia upon their clothes—Fenir and Morette Yew. Ravyn’s parents.

the sister, the only female destrier; the cousin and a Rowan, who the Nightmare hates, a physician, and the parents.

Elm, Jespyr, and Ravyn pulled the Cards from their pockets: the Scythe, the Chalice, and the Nightmare. Red or turquoise or burgundy. Control, truth serum, or the violation of my mind. The Mirror, Ravyn kept in his cloak.

Darling, the Nightmare said. You can’t make it so easy for him to control you.

Ravyn approached, kneeling beside my chair. He rested his arms on his bent knee. Had he not been clad in all black, severe as a crow, I might have thought him a knight kneeling before a maiden, slipped from the pages of a book. “We need you to help us collect the Deck of Cards, Miss Spindle,” he said.

Unite all twelve Providence Cards with the black blood of salt, and the infection will be healed. Blunder will be free of the mist.

“King Rowan, and all the Rowan Kings before him, have wanted to collect the Deck.” I gripped the lip of my chair so tightly my knuckles ached. “But you’re not working with King Rowan. Otherwise, you would have already given him your Nightmare Card. You’re collecting the Deck on your own account…” My eyes flew to the table. “Is there going to be a rebellion? Are you going to depose the King?”

Fenir’s voice was sharp. “Nothing of the sort. Rebellion would destroy Blunder.” Then why not work alongside the King to collect the Deck? the Nightmare said, coili...

“But as The Old Book of Alders so loves to remind us,” Elm said from the hearth, twirling the Scythe, “nothing comes for free. Now that my father has the Nightmare Card, he needs only two things to unite the Deck: the lost Twin Alders Card and blood. Infected blood.” He looked toward the flames, his shoulders tight. “And he’s going to kill Emory to get it.”

The strange boy—his erratic, fitful nature. Infected. Which meant Emory Yew was not a resident in the King’s castle as a token of hospitality. He was a captive.

“All we need is the Well, the Iron Gate, and the Twin Alders,” she said. “After that, our Deck is complete.”

“Whose infected blood will you use to unite the Deck, if not Emory’s?” I asked, twisting my hands in my skirt. “Someone close to the King,” Ravyn said, his shoulders tight. “Someone who has committed great wrongs.”

I know what I know. My secrets are deep. But long have I kept them, and long will they keep.

“I’ll do it,” I said, my heart drumming in my chest. “For the cure, I’ll help you find the Twin Alders.”

You’ll weep, plea, and cower. Be wary of visions that come in the night. I waited outside the cellar on the stone steps with my head in my hands. It had been only an hour since I’d met the council, but the hour had felt like a lifetime. Above me, I heard the gong strike eleven. The feast was over—the celebration had moved outside for dancing and wine. Inside the cellar, they discussed my fate. I spun my charm between my fingers. Behind the cellar door, I could discern Lady Yew’s tone from the others. Someone coughed. I rubbed my eyes. Why didn’t you tell me? Tell you what? That the Scythe doesn’t work on you. A vile scraping sound echoed through my mind. The Nightmare was picking at his teeth. None of them work on me, dear one. I gaped. Something you casually forgot to mention? For ELEVEN years?

“The Prophet showed me a hooded figure with a shadow,” Morette Yew’s voice called above the clamor, stern and sure. “The shadow remained, even when the light faded. The figure walked to the wood, and behind it trailed Providence Cards, one by one—followed by a thirteenth I have never seen before. Behind the figure I saw my Emory, alive and well. That was what I saw. That was why I bade you watch the forest road.”

They’d been waiting for me on the forest road, Ravyn and Elm, though they had not yet known it. And I—I was embedded in a prophecy of magnitude so great it had led me to the Yews, one of Blunder’s oldest families… and into the depths of treason.

“What if we tell Erik Spindle and the Hawthorns that we’ve invited Elspeth to stay at Castle Yew… so that you might court her?”

Dread coiled with curiosity in my stomach. It seemed too dark and cruel that the King would sacrifice his own nephew—even if the outcome could forever change Blunder for good. A King’s reign is wrought with burden, the Nightmare whispered, his voice uncharacteristically heavy. Weighty decisions ripple through centuries. Still, decisions must be made. “Why Emory?” I asked. “I know the infection is rare… but surely there is someone else…”

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

“He can read people,” he said. “As if all their secrets had been transcribed onto the pages of a book. All it takes is a single touch.” Coldness crept up my spine. I see a yellow gaze narrowed by hate, the boy had said to me. I see darkness and shadow. And I see your fingers, long and pale, covered in blood.

Ravyn Yew. Infected. Did you know? I gasped at the Nightmare. He purred, gratification dripping like hot wax off his voice. I had my suspicions. And you didn’t think to tell me? You’ve had the man in your gaze all day. Surely you saw more than a handsome face.

What creature is he, with mask made of stone? the Nightmare said once more. Captain? Highwayman? Or beast yet unknown?

Ravyn held out an open palm to them and waited. The Nightmare leaned forward, honing my eyes. We watched both men, bruised and bloody, place their White Eagle Cards onto Ravyn’s open palm. The moment the Cards touched the Captain’s hand, the white color disappeared.

“Methinks she is a tree spirit. Nay—a King! Nay.” His smile twisted. “A villain.”

“In the cellar, the light from your Cards flickered. I didn’t understand until just now.” My eyes fell to his hand. “The White Eagles. As soon as you touched them, their light extinguished.” I searched his face, seeing him for the first true time. “What is your magic?”

Twelve Black Horse Cards, yet thirteen Destriers, he murmured. Have you ever seen him with a Black Horse? No, because he cannot use it. He gave a sudden laugh, startling me. Don’t you see? He cannot use Providence Cards. Or at least, not all of them. My gaze shot up to Ravyn, the white light from the Cards casting new shadows across his face. “You can’t use them?” The Captain was statue still. “No. But neither can they be used against me. Such is the nature of my magic. Cards like the Chalice—the Scythe—have no effect on me.”

“Cards lose their magic the moment they touch my skin. The Mirror and the Nightmare—and perhaps the Twin Alders—are the only Cards I can still use.” I still did not understand. “Why only those?”

Ravyn rolled his eyes and swore under his breath. “Take my hand.” My eyes flew to his face. A face that, in that moment, I wanted to tear my fingers across. “What?” “We’re meant to be courting,” he said, stepping closer, his voice a growl. He offered his hand. “Or have you forgotten?”

I shuddered, recalling how often my aunt had told me Castle Yew was haunted.

“It was not my intention to be unfeeling, Miss Spindle,” he said, a bite to his words. “I’ve had to pretend for so long, hidden parts of myself—my magic—so deep, I’ve forgotten how to talk about them.”

Which perhaps was why Ravyn Yew enraged me so deeply. It was easier to hate him for being secretive and dishonest than admitting I hated myself for the same reasons.

It felt good, watching him struggle to read me. He’d wounded my pride. And now, my pride called for blood.

Be safe, my love. And, if you will, humor an old woman—be careful in Castle Yew. There is old magic there.

it was the right thing to do. Are you trying to convince me or yourself?

For a moment your eyes almost looked yellow.”

“My mother invited Sylvia Pine because we believe it is very likely her husband, Wayland, owns an Iron Gate Card.

Just because they talk too much doesn’t make them idiots. That’s precisely what it makes them.

“That’s where you come in, Miss Spindle. With your keen eyes, we should be able to locate and retrieve the Card as hastily as possible. Violence is something we avoid.”

“And what does Brutus say about the Twin Alders?” I asked. “The same thing everyone else says,” Morette replied. “That the Shepherd King took it into the mist one day and returned without it.” I frowned. “Surely the Shepherd King has his own history—his own documents.” Fenir’s voice was grave. “Most of what we know of the Shepherd King we take from lore. His histories were destroyed, and none of his children survived to claim the throne. Brutus Rowan, his Captain of the Guard, became the next King of Blunder.”

“Whose blood do you intend to use to unite the Deck?” Fenir leaned forward. “You may have met him. He’s head of the King’s Physicians.” The tall, narrow man with eerily pale eyes. “Orithe Willow?” I cried. “He’s infected?”

“Spare Emory’s blood, spill Orithe’s,” I murmured. A man responsible for the deaths of dozens of infected children. Two birds… One stone, said the Nightmare.