One Dark Window (The Shepherd King, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

Nothing comes free, the Nightmare murmured in accord.

“Some think the Scythe forces the mind to turn against itself—to feel emotions not its own. But the truth is, the Card doesn’t force anything. You’ll feel a little strange—your eyes may glaze over. But in the end, you’ll want to do everything I ask of you. A tad less frightening, no?”

Ravyn Yew was more than a soldier. He was the shadow on the forest road. The keeper of keys and secrets, invisible but for his purple and burgundy lights. A man with many masks.

mother’s voice ingrained into my very soul. What was it she had once said? The Cards. The mist. The blood. 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. I stared at the faces around me.

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

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.

I looked up at Ravyn. For eleven years, the infection had been a leash around my throat. I had cowed under that leash, the hope for a cure beyond the scope of my imagination. But as I gazed into the Captain’s gray eyes—a man who, by law, should see me dragged to the dungeon—the leash around my throat loosened. He had opened a door—taken a key from his belt and unlocked a part of Blunder I had not allowed myself to believe in. I was a child again, wrapped up in The Old Book of Alders. There was magic in the world. Terrible, wonderful magic. Magic great enough to undo magic. A cure for the infection.

“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.”

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.

woman in the castle with black eyes and dark magic.” His smile did not touch his eyes. “The poor boy was too excited. He’s never met anyone else infected before. Anyone besides his brother, that is.”

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

For the last Providence Card, I wanted her close, To answer my call when I needed her most. But she guarded her secrets, like a dragon its gold, Saying nothing of price our bargain would hold. But long had I suffered, and long had I bled. “I’ll pay any cost for a twelfth Card,” I said. The salt stung my nose and her spite filled the air. I woke in the chamber, the Twin Alders Card there. And so, my dear kingdom, my Blunder, my land, The Cards fall to you, paid by my hand. For her price, it was final, our bartering done. I created twelve Cards... But I cannot use one.

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.

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.”

“But I don’t trust you, Captain. How could I trust a man who hasn’t been forthright with me?”

spine, slower than it should have. When he leaned in, his jaw scraped against my ear. “I’d call an admission of treason exceptionally forthright for one day, Miss Spindle,” he

The ties of Blunder are strong. Family, magic, kingdom. They hold us together, guiding us, like the sisal ropes we leave in the mist to find our way home. One is blood, the other salt, and the last stone. Keep all three and do not let go. The ties of Blunders are strong.

Trees, the Nightmare muttered, scraping his claws. Now we must play at tea with Blunder’s bottom-feeders? You said joining these fools would be dangerous. You said nothing of torture.

Providence Cards are a gift. Their magic is measured. Neither they, nor those who wield them, risk degeneration. Still, be wary. Be clever. Be good. Nothing comes for free, especially magic. Providence Cards are a gift.

Death by a thousand cuts

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.

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 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.

“You and I already carry strange magic. We’re the very things the book warns against, Miss Spindle.”

Mind the mist. It does not lift. The Spirit doth hunt, ever adrift. Stay out of the wood, Be wary, be good. The Spirit doth hunt, ever adrift. Mind the mist. It does not lift. The Spirit ensnares, like grain through a sift. Hold tight to your charm, And you’ll come to no harm. The Spirit ensnares, like grain through a sift.

How you look is—and perhaps always has been—utterly irrelevant.

“The Old Book says magic sways, like salt water on a tide. I believe the Spirit is the moon, commanding the tide. She pulls us in, but also sets us free. She is neither good nor evil. She is magic—balance. Eternal.”

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.

“There are so few of us, Miss Spindle. You are more special than you know. And it pains me to think I might have hurt you. I’m—sorry.” He paused. “Trees, I’m sorry.”

THE IRON GATE Be wary the moss, Be wary the fence. Be wary the gate and the mist, dark and dense. It’ll stop all your tears. It’ll steal all your years. Be wary the gate and the mist, dark and dense.

“Be wary the blue,” I said, my voice melding with the Nightmare’s oily tone. “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 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.

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.

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.

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

don’t know if I qualify you as a Destrier anymore.” “What else would I be?” My lips curled. “A highwayman.”

And there it is, the Nightmare said, his voice so sudden I jumped. A pinch of beauty, a whit of wit, and just a touch of unabashed coldheartedness.

A man is not measured by magic alone. His scruples must extend beyond infection, beyond Providence Cards. Rather, how he wields magic shall determine his character. Does he keep our words? Does he bear his seal with loyal intent? Or is his heart overgrown as the depths of the wood—full of darkness and thorns? A man is not measured by magic alone.

“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.

A place of time—a man of fault. Both fueled by rage—both buried in salt.

I prodded the darkness, the Nightmare. When he spoke, his words dripped like rainwater. An offering, bartered with blood. That’s how the Spirit bargains—always with blood. So the Shepherd King built her this chamber at the edge of the woods, this altar. And here, they bartered. How do you know so much about it?

But it felt incomplete, my collection yet whole. And so, for the Nightmare, I bartered my soul. I put a hand to my mouth, fingers shaking. My voice came out hollow. “But that would mean I absorbed your soul when I touched the Nightmare Card. Which makes you ... the Shepherd King.” A growl, a sneer—oil, bile. His voice called, louder than it had ever been, as if he was closer. Stronger. Finally, my darling Elspeth, we understand one another.

Practice restraint, and know it by touch. Use Cards when they’re needed, and never too much. For too much of fire, our swords would all break. Too much of wine a poison doth make. Excess is grievous, be knave, maid, or crown. Too much of water, how easy we drown.

Tell them. Tell them the truth. When your children ask, do not lie—do not hide the risk of magic. Children are strongest when their eyes are clear. Only then can they make their own choices. Only then are they truly free. Tell them. Tell them the truth.

You’re running out of time, dear one, he said, slithering past my ears. Tell him how you feel. If you don’t say it aloud, can it ever be real?

He’s already seen my eyes. Why not let me speak to him? They’re my eyes, I stammered. Mine, not yours! They should be black, not yellow. Should they? he purred. You said so yourself. I’m getting stronger. When I remained silent, the Nightmare swaddled my mind in darkness. What’s yours is mine when the shadows draw near. You asked for my help—and now I am here. With your eyes I do see, with your ears I do hear. There’s no going back—this is payment, my dear.

Soft sway the leaves of the willow tree fair, Its reeds are thus gentle, bended in prayer. No switch shall be crafted from branch, stalk, or bark. Its canopy waits, respite from the dark. So, too, I demand, the Physician must be. His words whisper soft as breeze through a tree. From the white spring flower to the depths of his root, His wisdom is pure, his healing absolute.

When the shadows grow long, when our names turn to dust, what we loved, what we hated, will spoil to rust. All will be forgotten, save one truth, unshaken... What did we do when the children were taken?