One Dark Window (The Shepherd King, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

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.

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. My sights, they were endless, my ambition too vast, So I asked for more blessings, for power, amassed. The Spirit did warn me that nothing comes free, That bargains and barters all come with a fee. Though payment was dear, I paid what it cost. With blood and with bones and parts of me lost. So mind how you use them, and keep up your guard. Twelve blessings—twelve curses. Twelve Providence Cards.

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.

“before Providence Cards, the Spirit of the Wood was our divinity.

This was old magic—old religion.”

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.

“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.

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.

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.

“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.”

Weariness was king, and I his servant.

Be wary. Be clever. Be good.

Death by a thousand cuts, he groaned. Ask her where the bloody Iron Gate is and be done with it. And invite a world of suspicion once it’s stolen? Just because they talk too much doesn’t make them idiots. That’s precisely what it makes them.

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.

The stone chamber—enveloped by moss and vines—stood tall at the edge of the mist. How strange it looked, alone in the ruins, unmarked but for one dark window situated on its southernmost wall.

“Come now, Miss Spindle. Surely you’ve seen a party of highwaymen before.”

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

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.

“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.