Two Twisted Crowns: Part 3 – Chapter 45

lm wasn’t alone in Stone’s frozen underbelly. Erik Spindle and Tyrn Hawthorn were there with him. Separated by iron bars, they were the only three prisoners in their row.

The torches outside their cells had been neglected—or forgotten. It was so dark Elm’s mind played tricks on him. Disembodied shapes danced before his eyes and voices rang in his ears. They sounded like children, crying. Like him as a boy, crying.

Every bit of skin, every hair follicle, felt like a rotten tooth—a raw nerve exposed. He was cold in ways that felt physically impossible.

No one came for days. Not Hauth, not a Destrier or a guard save the one with water and rotten bread, and even he arrived with such errant consistency Elm had no accurate way to measure time.

He thought Hauth would come, that there would be some kind of reckoning between them. That they would stand—green eye to green eye—and only one would walk away.

But the night the King had died, Elm had been so tattered, so desperate to save Ione from Stone, that he had used the Scythe too long. He’d lost himself to agony, the pain doing something it never had before.

Make a fool of him.

He should have gone with her, should have fled. He was supposed to be clever. Clever men didn’t freeze to death for pride, thinking they could rewrite old wrongs. They certainly didn’t die, believing their older brother—who had been nothing but a brute—would suddenly fight fairly.

Clever men died on their own terms. And if they were wary, clever, good, they perhaps died in peace.

He, apparently, was none of the three.

A tonic and blanket passed between the bars. “Hold strong,” Filick Willow whispered. “Ravyn will come for you.”

Elm danced at the edge of consciousness. “Not this time.”

On the ninth—tenth, perhaps—day of captivity, echoes sounded down the corridor. Erik cocked his head to the side, his voice rusty with disuse. “They’re coming, Prince. Do not falter.”

The Destriers were not gentle. When the beating finished, someone shoved a crude cup into Elm’s hands. The wine was bitter, settling in all the dry places in his mouth.

Linden stood in front of him—tapped the Chalice Card. “Where did Ravyn and Jespyr go to retrieve the Twin Alders?”

Elm had no answer. “I don’t know.”

Hours later, after the beating was done, Linden returned with more wine, and tapped the Chalice thrice more. “Where is Ione Hawthorn?”

Elm shut his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Another Card had joined the Chalice. Elm immediately recognized the feel of a Scythe. A cold hand cupped his jaw. Elm looked into green eyes.

Hauth’s face, carved by the Maiden’s magic, was beautifully unholy. “You had your chance to flee with her, yet you didn’t. Why?”

Elm’s head rolled. Blood dripped out his mouth onto the dungeon floor. “You never cared for her. If you wish to barter with Ravyn, I am hostage enough.” He laughed, then coughed. “And I wanted to stay and kill you.”

Any other time, his brother would have answered with his own laugh, then a fist. But Hauth was inexpressive, fringing on disinterested, the Maiden’s ill effects masking him in chill. “You are right,” he said. “I never cared for her. Still, I will hunt her. Take back the Scythe she holds. This time, there will be no Maiden to save her. All you’ve done is buy her time—and made even more of a traitor of yourself.”

Elm spat blood on the floor. “I’ve been betraying you for years,” he ground out. “I was there on the forest road the day your face was cleaved. I was a highwayman, there to steal Wayland Pine’s Iron Gate. I helped collect the Deck right under your nose.” He took in a slow, rasping breath. “I’d do it all again, just to watch you flinch.”

Hauth’s hand tightened over Elm’s throat. “I’m not flinching now. And as for killing me, brother—” His green eyes were cold. “You cannot.

can.”

He dropped Elm to the floor and quit the cell, Destriers on his heels.

Darkness took Elm away.

“You were on the forest road when Wayland Pine’s Iron Gate was stolen?”

Elm jumped. He didn’t recall dozing off—or how long he’d slept. There were food trays upon his floor. Three of them, untouched.

Erik Spindle watched him through the bars between their cells.

“I—” Elm winced. It hurt even to speak. “I was there. You nearly ran me through, actually.” He traced a finger over the split in his bottom lip. “Your daughter was there, too.”

Steam plumed in his periphery. Erik Spindle’s voice was ragged. “Elspeth? Why?”

“She was helping us collect the Deck. She wanted to heal Emory’s degeneration—her own as well. She saved me from your sword.” He let out a weak breath. “And I returned her favor with distrust and contempt.”

Someone coughed in the adjacent cell. A weak, trembling sound. Tyrn. “M-my Ione. She escaped? She’s safe?”

“I don’t know.” Elm put his face in his hands. “Pray she forgives you for trading that Nightmare Card for a marriage to Hauth. Because I never will.”

Wakeless, Elm dreamed in yellow.

Summer grass and a muslin dress caught between his fingers. Hair swept over his face, a sigh, like a rush of wings, in his ear. There was no mist, no salt, no Rowan red. Everything was slow, soft. Delicate.

But he couldn’t escape the cold. He woke to the sound of his own teeth chattering, shivers racking his body raw.

“You shouldn’t sleep so long,” came Erik’s voice. “Get up. Move your limbs.”

A crazed half laugh crawled out of Elm. He looked down at his frostbitten fingers that had all gone black. Some to the knuckle. “Sorry, Captain—I don’t think I’m up for a training session.”

Erik crouched on his side of their shared bars, finally close enough to be more than a vague outline. His face was pale—his skin ragged with frostbite and mottled with old bruising. His beard had grown long and his clothes were ragged, bloodstained. When he spoke, his voice was solemn.

“Elspeth’s mother was infected,” he said. “She tried to hide it from me. She degenerated, suffered terribly, in silence. All because I was the Captain of the Destriers. Iris knew if a Chalice was levied against me, her secret would be my death. So she said nothing. And I”—he ran his hand over his face—“I did nothing. She died. And when Elspeth caught the infection as well—”

The great tree of a man splintered, his steadfast expression finally giving way to sorrow. “I began to hate myself. To hate my Destriers and the laws we upheld. In my heart, I was a traitor.” He sucked in a quivering breath. “When the Yew boy took my place and I was free of my charge, I thought my hate might dissipate. It didn’t. And Ravyn Yew—he was just as strong as me. Just as cold and unrelenting as I’d been. I knew, so long as men like him and I were Captain, Blunder would never change.”

His voice softened. “But then I saw him on Market Day. Holding my daughter. Wrapping her in his arms the way I’d once held Iris in mine. He was not the same man who’d taken my place as Captain.” Erik shook his head. “Because that Captain of the Destriers is not a man, only a mask. A show of Rowan might. And there will always be stronger things in this world than Rowan might.”

Elm shut his eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’ve never said any of it out loud. I wanted to see what it tasted like, being honest.”

“And?”

“Bitter.”

The corner of Elm’s bruised mouth lifted. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll take your confessions to my grave soon enough.”

The sound of coughing came from the next cell. “I can’t stomach this rot they feed us,” Tyrn Hawthorn wailed.

Erik paced, kicking his boots together every so often to keep his toes alive. “So starve.”

Tyrn’s platter of food ricocheted off the bars, an ugly knell that echoed through the dungeon. “You think I’m weak.”

“I know you are,” Erik answered.

“Would it surprise you that I’ve killed a man?”

Elm raised his brows. He’d tried to pace as well, but after an hour, he’d gotten sleepy. “A little.”

Tyrn’s voice went thin. “He was a highwayman. It was by chance that he and I traveled the forest road at the same time. When I saw the Nightmare Card’s burgundy velvet, peeking out from his sleeve, I didn’t think—I just ran him through and stole it.”

He rasped another cough. “I thought of him while I plotted a way for the Card to earn my family favor. But even when it did and Ione was engaged to the High Prince, I felt no joy, only fear of losing everything I’d gained. I betrayed Elspeth, because I was afraid that—” His voice began to wobble. “That if Ione didn’t become Queen, I’d be a murderer for nothing.”

Erik stopped pacing.

“So you’re right,” Tyrn said. “I am weak. My wife and children know it. Everyone knows it. I’m weak, and entirely bloodstained.”

Elm was drifting, near and far. “Welcome to the club.”

The clanging of a sword against the cell bars ripped Elm’s dream away. The cell door wrenched open. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was dragged along with Erik Spindle and Tyrn Hawthorne out of the dungeon up the long, winding stairs in a sea of black cloaks. He vaguely recognized the men whose fingers dug into his skin. Destriers. Not only the ones he’d trained with, but older ones, too.

The way their fists slammed into Erik’s stomach confirmed it. “Traitor,” they spat at him.

Erik said nothing. Unmoved, unwavering. Even Tyrn had the decency not to cry out when a Destrier shoved his face into the castle door.

Gray morning light made Elm wince, his eyes slow to focus. When they did, he saw that there was snow upon the ground.

Destriers, old and new, sat upon their mounts in the bailey, waiting.

At their lead, tall and broad and beautiful, Hauth wore their father’s crown and a deep blue doublet with a gold rowan tree embroidered across its chest. He spun his Scythe between his fingers and surveyed the prisoners down his nose. When his green eyes landed on Elm, he nodded. “Your misery is almost at an end, brother. The highwayman meets the hangman. But first—how about a ride into town?”

They strapped him to a horse like a newly slaughtered deer.

Elm could only see the ground—the path directly beneath the animal’s legs.

Nearly all of it was covered in snow.

He felt every break, every bruise upon his skin expand on the journey into town. When the dirt road ended and the clacking knell of hooves against cobblestone met his ears, he knew they were on Market Street.

He strained against his tethers—tried to look up. There were red and gold ribbons, strewn over doorframes and lantern posts. “What day is it?”

Linden rode next to hm. He reached down—hit Elm over the back of his head with a club. His voice was a sneer. “Solstice.”

Elm’s vision tunneled, a sticky warmth sliding through his hair.

When he came to, the horses had stopped. Rough hands untied him—yanked him out of the saddle and set him on weak legs and screaming, frostbitten feet.

Castle Yew’s reaching towers loomed over him.

The castle door was open—not latched how Jon Thistle usually kept it. When the Destriers dragged Elm and Erik and Tyrn inside, the air was cold. Stale.

The knot in Elm’s stomach shot up into his throat. Something was horribly wrong.

Castle Yew was abandoned—its hearths left untended, the estate empty of laypeople, doors and windows left open despite the chill air.

“Take one last look, Renelm,” Hauth said. “At midnight, this creepy old place will make a proper Solstice pyre.”

They passed through the house and out the eastern doors into the gardens, stomping over shrubs and brambles until they were in the meadow near the ruins.

There were Destriers—six more of them, waiting. Morette and Fenir and Jon Thistle were with them. So was Emory. When they saw Elm, their chests heaved, tears turning Morette’s green eyes glassy.

Elm’s relief to see them lasted only as long as it took to take in their appearances. They were bruised, pale—shivering. They wore no cloaks against the chill. Emory was swaying on his feet, held up by his mother and father’s arms.

There was a cut in his left hand. Long—deep, dripping red into the snow.

Elm choked on his breath. “What have you done?”

Hauth walked down the line of Destriers. “Our aunt and uncle, with a little persuasion from my men, my Scythe, and a Chalice, of course, have informed me that this is where Ravyn and Jespyr and their friend Elspeth Spindle entered the wood in search of the Twin Alders Card.” An unfeeling smile touched his mouth. “They told me a fascinating story about a stone, hidden in a chamber behind the castle.”

He reached into his pocket—pulled out six Providence Cards. A Prophet. A Well. An Iron Gate. A Golden Egg. A White Eagle. A Chalice.

Elm’s gaze shot back to the cut in Emory’s palm.

Hauth sucked his teeth. “I told you, Renelm. I have no desire to unite the Deck. The mist, the infection, keeps Blunder small. Terrified. And terrified people are easy to control. Ravyn’s little collection—all his lying and thieving—was merely to adorn the vaults at Stone with more Providence Cards.”

Erik Spindle cursed, spitting blood into the snow.

Hauth ignored him. His eyes were on the tree line, fixed near the stone chamber. “He’s taken his time, Ravyn. My men have been watching these woods for weeks. Still, he may yet come. He has until midnight to make that Twin Alders Card count for anything.”

Elm had wondered, down in the frosted dungeon, why his brother hadn’t come for him or Erik or Tyrn yet. Now, he knew. “We’re your bait.” He was shaking. He’d spent a month being cold. But now—there was an inferno in his chest, clawing up into his throat. “You’d trade us for the Twin Alders?”

“Of course not. You’re all traitors. You’ll die tonight.” Hauth picked under his fingernail, his tone bored. “But Ravyn won’t know that, will he?”

Daylight bled away into night.

Elm counted fifteen Destriers in total, including Hauth—which meant not all of them carried Black Horses. He watched their movements, noting the ones that had been conscripted during his stint in the dungeon. They moved on silent step through the snow, collecting shrubbery and bramble and wood, spreading it into four pyres around the meadow.

When it was fully dark, they lit the pyres, the snow reflecting yellow and orange flames. No one said anything, all of their gazes tight on the tree line, watching for Ravyn.

Then, quiet as a bird, Emory’s voice broke the stillness. “You won’t win.”

Hauth stopped pacing. He came to stand in front of Morette and Fenir, who were trying to shield Emory behind their backs. “What’s that?” Hauth put a mocking hand to his ear. “I couldn’t hear you under the grating sound of your dying breaths, Emory.”

Elm yanked against his restraints—tasted blood on his tongue.

Emory swayed. Then, quicker than a dying boy should, he lunged forward. Grasped Hauth’s wrist. His eyes rolled back in his head, and when he spoke, his voice was strange, smooth—as if slick with oil. “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.”

Hauth ripped himself out of Emory’s grip. Expressionless though it was, his face had gone the color of paper. He raised a hand—hit Emory across the face with a closed fist.

The boy fell into snow and did not get up.

Morette screamed. Fenir reached for his son, but the Destrier on his left twisted his arm behind his back. Elm surged against his restraints, only to feel the ropes cut tighter into his wrists. “Hauth,” he said, half curse—half plea. “Don’t do this. He’s just a boy.”

Hauth looked down at Emory. There was nothing in his green eyes.

“Movement, Highness,” a Destrier called, pointing his sword to trees on the other side of the meadow. “There—just ahead.”

Hauth’s gaze wrenched forward. The line went still, prisoners and Destriers alike all holding their breaths as they watched the wood.

There was nothing at first, just the whisper of wind. Then, so silent and ethereal she might have been the Spirit of the Wood herself—

Ione Hawthorn stepped into the meadow.

She wore the same gray dress she’d worn when she’d fled Stone, only now it was filthy, wet. Her face was red from the cold, her hair roped into a thick braid down her back. Elm drank in the sight of her, elation spoiling to dread as his gaze dropped to Ione’s hand.

Three Providence Cards lay in her open palm. The Maiden, the Scythe, and a third. It was forest green, depicting two trees—one pale, one dark—interwoven at their branches and roots.

The Twin Alders Card.

Ione’s hazel eyes shifted over the crowd—over Hauth and his horde of Destriers, then the Yew household and her uncle and father. When her gaze collided with Elm’s, her chest heaved, her brow going soft.

Then she took in his face. The damage they’d done to it. Ione stiffened, the red in her cheeks going wan. When her gaze returned to Hauth, those hazel eyes burned.

Hauth stepped into the meadow and offered her a curt, mocking bow. “You’ve always had a knack for unpleasantly surprising me, Ione.” He nodded to the Twin Alders in her hand. “Where did you get that? Did Ravyn give it to you?”

She said nothing.

Hauth took another step. “Where is he?”

Elm needed her to look at him. Needed her to know that it couldn’t end like this. “Ione,” he said, his voice in tatters. “Go. Please—go.”

She didn’t budge an inch, save to plant her feet deeper into the snow.

Hauth kept stalking forward, eying her like she were an injured animal in the wood. “Are you going to use that Scythe on me, betrothed? On my men?” He sucked his teeth. “Go ahead. But be warned—you better be skilled enough to compel all of us at once. Because if you’re not, well. You remember what happened in my brother’s chamber.”

Behind Elm, Linden laughed.

“If you tell me where Ravyn is, I’ll make it painless. But if you fight me—” Hauth took his own Scythe from his pocket. “Then I will take my time killing you. So by all means, Ione, fight me. You’ve always tried to.”

Tyrn Hawthorn heaved a terrible sob. “Go, Ione!”

She didn’t listen. She was staring down the man she might have married, her face an open book of loathing. “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.”

A knife sang though the air.

Hauth doubled over, cursing. Blood dripped from his hand, the knife buried in his palm. His Scythe slid out of his grasp, catching the wind and fluttering onto snow.

Elm tasted salt. Not the sweat or tears or blood that had slipped down his face into his mouth, but a different sort of brine. An older sort.

Then he heard it. The thing he’d waited for around every corner, listened for in every pause.

Ravyn’s voice.

He appeared out of nothingness and stood in front of Ione, a dark, vengeful bird of prey. Hauth’s eyes went wide and he took a step back, the only man he’d ever feared standing in front of him—marking him.

And Ravyn Yew, the stony Captain of the Destriers, grinned. He drew his sword, his eyes moving from Hauth to Elm.

It hurt too much to smile back.

Elm’s breath shook.

Ravyn lifted his sword, pointing it down the line of Destriers. “I am your Captain no longer,” he said. “My business is with your new King, and the Deck of Cards. If you wish to live, leave this place. Now.”

Hauth stood straighter. Ripped the knife out of his palm. Wherever he kept the Maiden Card he was using, it was already healing him. “A bold claim from one man—and a whore—against the King’s guard.” He jerked his head, scanning the tree line. “I assume you killed Gorse. Where are the highwaymen and Jespyr and that you left with?”

“Close,” Ravyn replied. “Very close. They’re waiting. Watching.”

“Traitor,” a Destrier called.

“Infected bastard,” another spat.

With a clamor, they drew their swords—pointed them at Ravyn.

Hauth looked down the line, arrogance lighting his words. “Seems they’ve made their choice. Surrender the Twin Alders to me, cousin. Or watch your family die.”

Ravyn looked at his parents—at Emory in the snow—muscles bunching in his jaw.

, Elm shouted into his mind.

Ravyn’s gray eyes found him.

, he said.

Salt fled Elm’s senses. Ravyn touched Ione’s shoulder, then rushed forward, went invisible.

Ione turned on her heel and ran back into the wood.

“Kill the prisoners,” Hauth commanded the Destriers. He lunged into the snow, searching for his fallen Scythe. “And bring me the Twin Alders.”

Blades lowered over the Yew family’s necks. Elm felt a knife near his jaw, its bite just below his ear. He shut his eyes. There was a deep, wrenching groan—

And the earth began to roll.

Snow shook from treetops, the world a flurry of white. The terrible groan was coming from the wood.

was coming from the wood.

The trees, Elm realized. The trees were moving.

Roots tore from the earth, boughs whipping though the air. Twisting, the yew trees rushed into the meadow from all sides, swiping—grasping—at the Destriers.

The first tree that made contact burst through the ruins, knocking ancient sandstone pillars to the ground. It caught two Destriers in its branches—wrenched them back from Emory and his parents. With a sickening snap, the yew ground the men beneath it roots.

When the earth rolled again, Elm lost his footing. He crashed into Erik and Tyrn, the three of them a tangle of limbs. When he looked up, the meadow was a chaos of trees and snow, lit by the menacing light of the pyres. The Destriers were a whir of darkness, several of them running through the bedlam.

Running after Ione.