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.

words. My father kept irises in the house for a simple reason. Iris had been my mother’s name.

At first, I thought I had absorbed the Card itself—its magic. But despite all my efforts, I could not speak into the minds of others. I could speak to only the voice—the monster, the Nightmare.

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.

A heart of gold can still turn to rot. What he wrote, what he did, was all done for naught. His Cards are but weapons, his kingdom now cruel. Shepherd of folly, King of the fools.

“I can never understand what it’s been like for you,” she said. “Know that you are loved, and that you always have a place here, with me. But do not let a fever eleven years past keep you from living your life, Elspeth. You’re young. You still have so much ahead of you.” She wrinkled her nose and lowered her gaze back to her work. “If not for your own enjoyment, go for mine. I would pay good money to watch Nerium Spindle squirm.”

“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 Shepherd King had made seventy-eight Providence Cards in descending order. There were twelve Black Horses, held exclusively by the King’s elite guard—the Destriers. Eleven Golden Eggs. Ten Prophets. Nine White Eagles. Eight Maidens. Seven Chalices. Six Wells. Five Iron Gates. Four Scythes. Three Mirrors. Two Nightmares. And one Twin Alders.

“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.”

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

“Do you think anyone—apart from myself—survived the fever as a child?” My stomach turned. “Without getting caught?”

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.

“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.”

“I’m Elspeth Spindle.” A coy smile danced along the edges of Elm’s lips. “Spindle, is it?” he said. “Not Jayne Yarrow?”

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 had the power to commune with Blunder’s ancient entity, the Spirit of the Wood.

“There is no color,” I said. “There can’t be a Card.” “I assure you there is.” I ripped the blindfold from my face, a small gasp escaping my lips as I stared at the image of ancient trees bound together by forest-green velvet. The Twin Alders Card.

I could think of a fair few things that might embarrass my stepmother. Being chased through the mist by the Captain of the Destriers, for one. And knocking him senseless, said the Nightmare.

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.

Drawn by my gaze, Ravyn turned his head. His eyes captured mine, falling a moment to my dress before shifting to Alyx. For the briefest of moments, I thought I saw the corner of his lips curl.

“What about you, Captain? Are you too nice for your own good?” He watched me, something I could not read flashing in his gray eyes. “No, Miss Spindle,” he said. “I’m not nice at all.”

“I present to you,” he called, “the elusive Nightmare Providence Card, and my future wife, Ione Hawthorn.”

I inhaled abruptly, my lips parting against the skin of his finger. Ravyn lowered his gaze to my mouth. His finger slipped off my lips, his eyes meeting mine for a fleeting glance before he looked back at the door. And though it was too dark to be certain, I thought I saw a flush slide up his neck.

“Have you met my stepmother, Captain?” I whispered, the remnants of my anger distilled in a single tear that fell to my cheek. “Lovely woman.” 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. “Come.”

“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. And they were going to commit treason to save him. Even the Nightmare was stunned into silence.

“The Prophet showed me a hooded figure with a shadow,”

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

I felt it again, Ravyn Yew’s hesitance—his discomfort when the King noted us together. Was it the lie that bothered him, pretending to court me? Or was it me he could not stand?

“It’s been a long day. Let Ravyn have a little fun.”

“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.

“The poor boy was too excited. He’s never met anyone else infected before. Anyone besides his brother, that is.”

Ravyn Yew. Infected.

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.

“The Nightmare,” he said, quoting The Old Book of Alders, swinging his finger at me as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. “Be wary the dark. Be wary the fright. Be wary the voice that comes in the night.” “Enough, Emory,” Elm groaned. When Emory’s smile deepened, the hairs along my neck stood on end. I was suddenly certain that when he’d touched my hand on the stairwell, Emory Yew and his strange, dark magic had truly seen every last one of my secrets. “It twists and it calls, through shadowy halls. Be wary the voice that comes in the night.”

Shame, the Nightmare said. I was just beginning to like him.

“Sorry,” she said, blinking. “The light in here is playing tricks on me. For a moment your eyes almost looked yellow.”

Go on, then, the Nightmare said. Anything to put me out of my misery. Shut it, grumpy.

“I know someone who owns a Well Card,” I said. “He lives just down the street.”

“It’s just a flower. Flowers don’t play games.” He offered it again, once more asking my permission. “May I?”

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. The hair at my spine prickled. You’ve been here before? He laughed. But there was no joy in it. It was an empty laugh, ominous—like falling down a well. Like being eaten by darkness. It stole something from me, leaving me terrified of the place— the doorless chamber—he so desperately wanted me to take him. My muscles strained, every part of my body begging to heed him—to go to the chamber. I clenched my jaw and turned away from the dark window at the lip of the tree line, denying the Nightmare his request.

“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.”

“Then we’ll come back,” Elm said. “And you can tell us all about the Well Card in your father’s house.”

But Jespyr merely shook her head, her eyes glassy with fear. “I—I...” She coughed, as if she’d swallowed too much water. “Can you smell it?” she said. “Can you smell the salt?” I stared at her, my breath turning cold. “Jespyr?” Fingers shaking, she rubbed her eyes. “I—I—I—can’t—see.” Her eyelids fluttered wildly. “No, no, no!” she choked.

“Who are you?” Hauth said, shaking me. He twisted my arm. I felt a strange, unnatural snap, and suddenly my wrist was swimming in vicious agony. I cried out, the pain visceral as it tore up my arm. The Nightmare’s hiss became a roar. He flooded my mind with a sudden, venomous fury. Prince of brutes, he snarled.

“It’s just that, sometimes when I look at you, I feel like I know you—understand you. And other times...” His brow furrowed. “Your eyes flash a strange yellow color. I feel a stillness about you I do not recognize. A darkness.”

I cast my thoughts inward, searching for the Nightmare, who, since the mayhem in the wood, had remained still. Strange, how quiet he felt when I was with Ravyn. Almost as if he was gone altogether. Almost.

“Of all the things I pretend at,” he said, his thumb drawing small, gentle circles along my waist, “courting you has proven the easiest.”

“Or her,” Ione whispered, her voice so quiet I might have imagined it.

Then Ravyn stomped, full force, on the High Prince’s hand. A sickening snap echoed through the yard, followed by Hauth’s brutal scream.

It took three Destriers to peel Ravyn away from the High Prince. “Get off me,” Ravyn barked, pushing his way out of the yard, his smooth control cracked by anger. “Training concluded.”