Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King #2)

by Rachel Gillig

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

The Twin Alders is hidden in a place with no time. A place of great sorrow and bloodshed and crime. Betwixt ancient trees, where the mist cuts bone-deep, the last Card remains, waiting, asleep. The wood knows no road—no path through the snare. Only I can find the Twin Alders … For it was I who left it there.

was the darkness and the darkness was me, and together we rolled with the tide, lulled toward a shore I could neither see nor hear. All was water—all was salt.

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

Blunder was full of magic. Wonderful, terrible magic. This was the Shepherd King’s body. He was truly dead. But his soul carried on, buried deep in Elspeth Spindle, the only woman Ravyn had ever loved.

“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 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.”

Ravyn had been a liar always out of necessity, never a fondness for the craft. It was one of the many masks he wore. And he’d worn it so long that, even when he should take it off, he didn’t always know how.

The Shepherd King did not move but for his eyes. “You’re alone, Captain,” he said. It was still Elspeth’s voice. Only now, it sounded slick, oily. Wrong. “Is that wise?” Ravyn stiffened. “Would you hurt me?” His answer was a twisted, jagged smile. “I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t played with the idea.”

But just like her voice, there was something undeniably wrong about Elspeth’s body. Her fingers were rigid, curled like talons, and her posture was twisted—her shoulders too high, her back too curved.

“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.”

“I know what I know. My secrets are deep. But long have I kept them. And long will they keep.”

The journey to the twelfth Card will three barters take. The first comes at water—a dark, mirrored lake. The second begins at the neck of a wood, where you cannot turn back, though truly, you should.” The Nightmare’s gaze shifted to Ravyn. His words came out sharp, as if to draw blood. “The last barter waits in a place with no time. A place of great sorrow and bloodshed and crime. No sword there can save you, no mask hide your face. You’ll return with the Twin Alders … “But you’ll never leave that place.”

Besides the dungeon, it was Elm’s least favorite part of the castle. The throne room.

The King stared down at Ione. “I see Renelm did not put you in chains.” Ione’s eyes flickered to Elm. “His methodology is dissimilar to your other son’s, Majesty.”

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.”

I looked up. From the far side of the beach, children emerged. Boys, all with yellow eyes—save the tallest. His eyes were gray. None of them left footsteps in the sand. The boy with gray eyes bent to one knee. Peered into my face. Sighed. “You’re with us, but you’re never really here, are you, Father?”

“You’re not out of your mind,” Ione murmured. “The cut was deep.” The urge to scrape his teeth across her palm—to press her skin like clay and test her fortitude—was overwhelming. “How?” “Can’t you guess?”

“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?”

Only when the corridor was quiet again did Ione acknowledge him. “Sorry. I forgot. You’re delicate.” “Yes, I am. I should be abed, resting my delicate body.” He waved his bruised knuckles in front of her face.

“Why, Ione Hawthorn.” Elm scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. “Don’t tell me it makes you feel something when I flatter you.” “It doesn’t.” Her face was unreadable. Unreachable. “I can’t feel anything anymore.”

She hooked his chin with her thumb, and though Ione Hawthorn was so cold in all her expressions, her touch warmed him. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you aim to be better?” “Because I have to be,” Elm said in one breath. “I care not what they say about me at court, even if it is that I’m a rotten Prince and a piss-poor Destrier.” He leaned closer. “But I do want it said, loud enough so everyone hears, that I am nothing like Hauth.”

“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.”

“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— Elm swallowed. “Nothing is off-limits.”

When his gaze met mine, I pressed against the window in my dark room. You’re not allowed to blame yourself for a second of those ten minutes. It was magic that made me … disappear. Terrible, inevitable degeneration. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But I’m still sorry it happened. I would have liked— My voice quieted. I would have liked a little more time. With you. The lines in Ravyn’s face strained, his voice deepening with insistence. We’ll get that time. I swear it, Elspeth.

“Keep the Card,” I said. “There are more. And I will make others that offer different magic. As providence would have it, I have a knack for bartering with the Spirit of the Wood.” “And you’d give one of your precious Cards to a lowly guard?” “No. But I would to the Captain of my Guard.” His green eyes widened. My laugh sounded into the night. “Magic isn’t just for those to whom the Spirit lends her favor.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Besides, you’ll need something to your name if you’re going to continue batting your eyes at my sister.” He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Ayris told you about us, then?” he said, rubbing his jaw. “No. But I can read her well enough.” I tilted my head to the side, hawklike. “Perhaps one day I’ll make a Card to read your mind, too, Brutus Rowan.”

But it cost her, little Tilly, to heal. Every time she did, her own body grew more frail. And so, for my next Providence Card, I asked the trees, the Spirit, for magic that healed. Magic that made its user as beautiful and unblemished as a pink rose—Tilly’s favorite flower.

A boy stepped out of thin air, twirling a Mirror Card between his fingers. He was young, no older than thirteen. His skin was a warm brown, his hair dark and unkempt. When he tilted his head to the side, birdlike in his movements, light caught his gray eyes and the high planes of his face.

You’re not the only one who would do anything for Emory.” She took her charm, and before Ravyn could reach out and stop her— Shoved it into the hole in the alder tree. The wood groaned in response. The wind rose in a torrent, mist gusting through branches. Then the trees began to move, a narrow path opening in the impenetrable line of alders. Opening for Jespyr.

“Are you with me, brother?” Something inside of Ravyn shattered. “I’m right behind you.”

The apology you owe him, I seethed, is beyond measure. He just saved your life. OUR life. A humiliation neither of us should attempt to recover from.

He laughed, a bitter sound. And now you know that every terrible thing that happened in Blunder took place long before I handed Brutus Rowan a Scythe. It happened because, five hundred years ago, a boy wore a crown—had every abundance in the world—but always asked for MORE.

Hauth’s own voice was even. He patted his father’s shoulder. “I hear you’ve been hosting feasts. Host tonight’s in my honor, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

FUCKING HAUTH! AFTER ALL THIS SHE DARE BRING HIM BACK?! I AM RIOTING

“The dark bird has three heads. 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?”

“I’ll tell you what I told the Shepherd King when he visited long ago.” The wind picked up, and her voice grew louder. “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,” Ravyn finished.

What did Brutus Rowan do when you returned and his wife was gone? Broke my nose. Waited three months. Then killed you and your children. Yes.

Nothing is free, the trees called after them. Nothing is safe. Magic is love, but also it’s hate. It comes at a cost. You’re found and you’re lost. Magic is love, but also— “For mercy’s sake.” The Nightmare spat phlegm onto roots. “Shut the fuck up.”

Ravyn kept running his hand over his face, looking for injury. He felt nothing—no swelling, no pain, just a lingering tingle where Jespyr’s fingers had grazed his skin.

Ravyn tripped, panting. “Need—to stop.” The Nightmare kept going, pulling in rasping breaths. “Elspeth says if you do not get up, she’ll never kiss you again.” “That’s—not—what she—said.” “Get up, Ravyn.” The Nightmare’s oily voice echoed through the wood. “Get up.”

Ravyn and Jespyr were practiced. Twisted and intrepid, like the branches of their namesake tree, they’d learned by now how to keep steady when the Shepherd King commanded the wood.

Elm looked into his brother’s green eyes. Smiled. And ripped his charm loose.

“I thought I was the father she deserved. That I could carry her through this terrible, violent world. I hadn’t done it well with my own children, and when I woke in her young mind, the first thing I felt, after five hundred years of fury”—his voice softened—“was wonder. Quiet and gentle. I remembered what it was to care for someone.”

I couldn’t go on. Elspeth. No. I’m not ready. Not yet. Finish the story, dear one. My voice shook. The two were together— Together. So the two were the same. The girl, he whispered, honey and oil and silk. The King … We said the final words together, our voices echoing, listless, through the dark. A final note. An eternal farewell. And the monster they became.