Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King #2)

by Rachel Gillig

“Magic has little use for time. I walk through centuries like they were my own garden.”

The Shepherd King had described the Spirit of the Wood in The Old Book of Alders as neither kin, foe, nor friend. He might have saved ink and called her what she truly was. A proper asshole.

“And your love?” Ravyn’s chest tightened. If he were to close his eyes, he knew what he would see. His parents’ faces, bent as they read books in silence by the library fire. Elm and Jespyr and Emory, riding on horseback down the forest road. Elspeth, sitting across from him at Castle Yew’s table, pink in her cheeks as she smiled at him from behind a teacup. “I have something of love in me.”

“You stand here, hundreds of years in the past, and speak to me of power?” The smell of salt was everywhere. “The Shepherd King was born with the fever because I deemed it so. His children were gifted magic by me. Brutus Rowan took the throne because I did not intervene. Kings and monsters can be made, and butterflies can be crushed. All that you know, I have created. I am Blunder—her infection, her trees, her mist. I am brimming with magic.”

“Time is precious to me, Spirit. Name your price for the Twin Alders. I would like to go home.”

Elspeth Spindle. I’m not sure who that is without you. You will learn. You’ll meet yourself—without me—soon enough. I didn’t know why, after so many years of wishing him gone, his words struck sadness in me.

I find it strangely comforting, even with our minds threaded together, that I must endlessly explain things to you, Elspeth. Perhaps if you didn’t speak in half-truths and intimations, I might not PESTER you so. You would pester me no matter what I said or thought. I sighed. I dislike you greatly. But do you trust me? Do I have a choice? He said the same thing he’d said to me in my chamber at Spindle House—just before he took over my mind. My darling, you’ve always had a choice.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” “Would you have believed me, monster and liar that I am?”

But poetry is as judicious as violence.

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.”

“Home,” Jespyr said, eyelids dropping once more. She rested her head against the Nightmare’s chest. “Tell the Shepherd King …he needs a bath.”

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.”

“What the hell happened—is Jes all right?” He tripped over himself, getting to the Nightmare. He reached for Jespyr. “I’m carrying her—” “Shove off, you ancient windbag.” In one impressive maneuver, Jespyr was in Petyr’s arms.

Petyr was pale as death, muttering to himself about never leaving home again.

A smile haunted the Nightmare’s silken timbre. “How poetic. I couldn’t have asked for a better Solstice.” He put his mouth to Ravyn’s ear. “Now, stupid bird, will you listen to my plan?”

Clever men died on their own terms. And if they were wary, clever, and good, they perhaps died in peace. He, apparently, was none of the three.

“You won’t win,” he said again. “For nothing is safe, and nothing is free. Debt follows all men, no matter their plea. When the Shepherd returns, a new day shall ring. Death to the Rowans.” His gray eyes focused, homing in on Elm. “Long live the King.”

“You want to watch me die, Hauth?” He raised a finger over his Scythe. “It’d be the only enjoyment you could offer me.” Ione’s finger was faster. She tapped the Maiden once—twice—thrice. “Then kill me. If you can.”

“I don’t want to kill you.” Gorse’s face flashed before his eyes. “But I will if I must.”

Ravyn’s nostrils flared. “If you do not get your asses into the castle, I’m going to tell the Shepherd King, and then the bloody trees will drag you away. Jespyr needs rest.” He looked down at Emory. “So does he. We started this for him, and it’s almost over. So, please—pretend I didn’t inherit a lifetime of stubbornness from you, and get. Inside. The castle.” They stared at him, jaws slack. “I’ve never heard you talk so much,” Morette muttered.

Don’t die. I won’t. Because if you do, and we never get the time we’re owed, I’ll hate you, Ravyn Yew. I’ll love you and hate you forever. The corner of his lip quirked. This will all be over at midnight, Elspeth. After that, you can love me as thoroughly as you like. The Nightmare made a retching noise.

Would it kill you to be civil? I’m already dead. But yes. Decidedly. He opened his eyes a sliver. Peeked at Ione. “Elspeth is lecturing me.” Hesitant at first, then blossoming, a smile spread over my cousin’s mouth. She could not see it, but I answered with my own. Oh, give her a hug. Don’t be grotesque.

“You know how this goes, asshole. Be wary. Be clever. Be good.”

Catching Ione’s face between his palms, Elm leaned over, crashed his mouth against hers, kissed her feverishly. “I’m sorry. I should have gone with you. I’m not clever at all. I’m sorry—I’m sorry.” The Nightmare and I stared. We seem to have missed something rather important, I said. Small mercies.

I could not see him, but I knew the Shepherd King with golden armor was with us. For he was the Nightmare, and the Nightmare was the King, and I was both of them.

“The only thing that can save him now is magic.” Morette and Fenir exchanged a glance. “Ravyn can’t use most Providence Cards.” “I’m very aware of that.” “What magic, then?” The Nightmare slammed his hands on the table, making Ravyn wince. “It’s hardly my fault, Elspeth,” he muttered under his breath, “that I am constantly surrounded by idiots.”

“Elspeth says she’s utterly sick of you.” His voice was weak. “She didn’t say that.” “No. She didn’t.”

“You’re telling me I’ve had the means to free her all this time?” The Nightmare grinned. “Yes.” “You didn’t—Why—” He pinched his nose, swallowing fury. “You make it so hard not to hate you.” “I had my Deck to collect. History to revisit—and rewrite. A path to draw for you and the Princeling, both of you Kings in your own right.” The Nightmare clung only a moment longer to his namesake Card, then released it into Ravyn’s hand. “And I was not yet ready to bid Elspeth goodbye.”

“Don’t you want to say goodbye?” “To you, stupid bird?” Ravyn crossed his arms over his chest. “To her, parasite.”

Here we are, my darling girl, he whispered to me. The end of all things. The last page of our story.

It was well worth it, I said. To unite the Deck and lift the mist. To watch you right old wrongs. I’d do it all again, just to know you a little better, Taxus.

The two were together, so the two— 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.

“None of this might have happened without you, Elspeth,” Ione whispered. “And isn’t that such a beautiful thing.”

Because for a moment—a fleeting, wonderful moment—I thought I saw him. Yellow eyes, peering at me through the trees. But it was only the sun, shining through a rotted-out log.