Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King #2)

by Rachel Gillig

To anyone who’s ever felt lost in a wood. There is a strange sort of finding in losing.

“Elspeth Spindle,” he said quietly, his eyes—so strange and yellow—ensnaring me. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

But his soul carried on, buried deep in Elspeth Spindle, the only woman Ravyn had ever loved.

“They are … your family? The Shepherd King’s family?” “We’re waiting,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “For Father.”

“Balance,” she answered, head tilting like a bird of prey. “To right terrible wrongs. To free Blunder from the Rowans.” Her yellow eyes narrowed, wicked and absolute. “To collect his due.”

“There is little else to do here but remember.”

“There once was a girl,” he said, his voice slick, “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.”

He combed through darkness, searching for any hint of Elspeth. He did not find her.

She died in her room at Spindle House four nights ago. A low, rumbling laugh. All because you were ten minutes late back from your patrol.

“There is a place in the darkness she and I share. Think of it as a secluded shore along dark waters. A place I forged to hide things I’d rather forget. I went there from time to time in our eleven years together. To give Elspeth reprieve. And, most recently,” he added, tapping his fingernails on the wall, “to spare myself the particulars of her rather incomprehensible attachment to you.”

The Nightmare twisted a finger in the ends of Elspeth’s black hair. Ravyn watched, scorched by memory. He’d had his own hands in that hair. Run his fingers through it—sighed into it. He jerked his eyes to the wall.

Most of what he knew about her, Elm had gathered in glances—many of which had been stolen.

Ione’s entire body went still, her leg tensing under the highwayman’s touch. Elm’s voice came from the back of his throat. “Get your fucking hand off of her.”

It was surprisingly heavy, her hair. Dense. Long enough to wrap around his fist and tug.

“Ione Hawthorn,” he said, his gaze finally moving to Elm. “I’m surprised to find you here.”

Because you’ve never been turned by a beautiful woman, have you, Captain?

“No, Your Majesty,” Linden echoed, sounding too much like Hauth. “Asshole,” Elm muttered, loud enough to earn him a sharp look from Ravyn and a familiar murderous glare from his father.

“The disgust,” Ione said, her tone idle, “is mutual.”

New memories spilled into me. They were not like the others, softened by childhood or tethered by family. These were fresh—forged when I was a woman. A man, clad in a dark cloak, a mask obscuring all but his eyes. Purple and burgundy lights. Running in the mist. A hand, coarse with calluses, on my leg as I sat in a saddle. That same hand in my hair. A heartbeat in my ear—a false promise of forever. His name slipped from my lips. “Ravyn.”

“The dark bird has three heads,” Emory said, his voice strangled, an invisible rope around his neck. “Highwayman, Destrier, and another. One of age, of birthright. Tell me, Ravyn Yew, after your long walk in my wood—do you finally know your name?”

It, nor any other part of the King’s castle, had earned a single farewell from him. Ravyn uttered one nonetheless. “Fuck you.”

“Is that what people call me? Wayward?” “I’ve heard the word prick thrown around.” “Naturally.”

She pulled away, her expression a stone wall. “Don’t.” There it was again. Even in the dim light of the stairwell—pink in her cheeks. “Don’t what?” “Pretend to flatter me.” “Who’s pretending?”

“I look forward to when we meet again, Princeling,” the Shepherd King called after him. “I have plans for you yet.”

And so, Ravyn Yew, your Elm I won’t touch. His life strays beyond my ravenous clutch. For a kicked pup grows teeth, and teeth sink to bone. I will need him, one day, when I harvest the throne.

Ravyn blinked, tracing the plait once, twice, then a third time. “You cut her hair?” The Nightmare jerked out of his grasp. “It was matted with blood.” Ravyn peered back through the cellar’s open door. A pair of scissors sat upon the old wooden table. There were chunks of dark hair on the floor. Whatever crossed his face stopped the Nightmare in his tracks. The monster peered through narrowed eyes, dropping his gaze to Ravyn’s knotted hands. “It will grow back,” he said slowly.

“Neither Rowan nor Yew, but somewhere between. A pale tree in winter, neither red, gold, nor green. Black hides the bloodstain, forever his mark. Alone in the castle, Prince of the dark.”

“What Prince Renelm means,” Ione said, her voice easy, “is that, while he merely warms Prince Hauth’s seat, that seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair under Beech’s narrow bottom, “belongs to me, your future Queen.” She threw her gaze over her shoulder at Elm. “Unless you’d like to see me take my seat atop the Prince’s lap.”

When was the last time you slept a night through?” Ravyn braced himself with his arms, coating his words with spite. “When I was with Elspeth.”

“Developed a taste for removing my clothes, have you, Prince?” That shut him up. Elm looked away. He wanted to break things.

“I am angry. I think, if I’m honest, I’ve been angry all my life.”

“Any topics you wish me to avoid, Prince?” Ravyn. Emory. The Shepherd King. His childhood. His brother. His father. The impending doom of his life, should he be forced to marry a stranger, forced to become King—

“Is that what happened to you?” she said, her voice hardly a whisper. “No one stopped him—no one was safe enough to tell?”

“I’m not sorry he’s broken—only that it was not me doing the breaking.” Elm took a deep drink. “Does that make me wicked?” “If it does, you and I are the same kind of wicked.”

“How old are you?” “Twenty-two vexing years. And you?” “The same. Though I imagine my years were easier earned than yours.”

“I’ve been looking for Hauth in your face. For temper or cruelty or indifference.” She leaned forward. “But I can’t find any. I see guile, tiredness, fear. Anger, without a trace of violence.” She drew in a breath. “You are both Rowans—and less similar than I ever imagined.”

“Let’s see—which memory of Ione Hawthorn shall I pull from … ?” He took a long sip of wine, savoring the moment like he did before crushing Ravyn in chess. “How about when you were a girl and rode your father’s horse on the forest road without shoes, yellow hair in the wind, mud caked up to your ankles? Or perhaps a more recent time. Equinox, two years ago. No one asked you to dance, so you simply danced alone—rather well, I might add.”

“The smile lines, I was fond of.” His gaze traced the corners of her mouth, her eyes. “Your eyelashes were blonder. You had freckles and red patches of skin. A gap between your front teeth. Your eyes are the only thing the Maiden hasn’t altered too much. Only, before Equinox, they were happy.”

“You were the strangest girl I’d ever seen. Because no one at Stone is happy. They pretend at it, or drink, but the performance has its tells. But not you. You were … painfully real.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t remember you?”

“Then do it,” he whispered, gliding a hand up her spine. “Use me. Toy with me. Feel something, Ione.”

She clearly wanted him to be rough with her. And he could. It was what he was most familiar with. But if he was rough, it wouldn’t last. And for a reason he had no time to work out, Elm wanted it to last with Ione Hawthorn. He softened his grip and slowed his hands,

The furrow between dark brows—the cold, permanent snarl—was a face Ravyn had never seen Elspeth wear. It was easier to hold the Nightmare in his periphery and not, a thousand times over, think it was Elspeth next to him. It kept him grounded. Miserable, but grounded.

But you’re a stubborn, stupid bird, aren’t you? Blood drained from Ravyn’s face. “Elspeth. You—you can’t find Elspeth?”

“Keep your cut shallow,” he said. “Don’t give her a scar.”

“Tell me what’s happening.” A lump rose in his throat. “You can’t reach Elspeth?”

“Are you with me, Jes?” His sister’s voice was close, just as it always was. “I’m right behind you.”

“The freedom you seek has always been here, behind the mask. Be who you like. Love the infected woman. Steal, betray. Flout the King’s law. Stay.”

I knew that voice. Turbulent. Deep, like the lines of a calloused hand. Rich, smoke and wool and cloves.

“I am helping them, dear one,” he said under his breath. “More than they know.”