Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
THE SCYTHE
Be wary the red,
Be wary the blade.
Be wary the pain, for a price will be paid.
Command what you can,
Death waits for no man.
Be wary the pain, for a price will be paid.
T here were three other Providence Cards in the room besides Ravyn’s. Elm’s Scythe, a Chalice in Jespyr’s tunic pocket, and the gray light of a Prophet emanating from Morette Yew. I gripped the edges of my chair, looking for softness in their faces.
But I was met with silence—their eyes masked by restraint.
The cellar door closed with a slam. I was getting used to the sound of the lock clicking behind me. When no one spoke, Ravyn cleared his throat. “This is Elspeth Spindle, Erik’s first daughter, niece of Tyrn Hawthorn.”
There were a few murmurs at my uncle’s name. After a moment, Ravyn addressed me, his expression unreadable. “These are my mother and father, Morette and Fenir Yew. Physician Willow, my cousin, and my sister, you already know.”
The dim light in the room made it difficult to see much of a resemblance between Ravyn and his parents.
Morette was the King’s sister—her eyes were Rowan green.
Fenir, like Jespyr, had rich brown eyes, much darker than Ravyn’s and Emory’s misty gray.
The only similarity I could make out was a long, distinguished nose on Fenir Yew’s stern face, same as Ravyn’s.
“I understand, Miss Spindle,” Fenir said, his voice deep, “that you wish to know the truth about us. About why we are seeking Providence Cards.”
I nodded, my muscles tense.
“Before we unravel the truth, we must first see if you are deserving of it,” Fenir continued. “Are you willing to submit to our forum—that this council might test your trustworthiness?”
Ravyn moved behind me. I glared at him over my shoulder. “Submit?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Our trust?”
“I wanted answers.”
“And I wanted a night of drunken debauchery,” called Elm from the table, the Scythe slipping in and out of his long, narrow fingers. “Yet I’m back in this broom closet for the second time today. So, if it’s not too much trouble, Miss Spindle, have a bloody seat so we might get on with it.”
Ravyn shot his cousin a nasty glance and put a hand to his brow. He looked tired. Tired and deeply annoyed. “This is how you get your answers, Miss Spindle,” he said. “Nothing comes free.”
Nothing comes free , the Nightmare murmured in accord.
I sighed. I was going for irritation, but the crack in my voice betrayed the disquiet lingering deep in my chest. “All right, then,” I said. “I submit to your forum.”
Elm and Jespyr stood from their seats and approached me. Ravyn joined them at my side. “This is simple enough, Miss Spindle,” he said. “We each present a Providence Card. Choose one, and we’ll proceed.”
Elm, Jespyr, and Ravyn pulled the Cards from their pockets: the Scythe, the Chalice, and the Nightmare. Red or turquoise or burgundy. Control, truth serum, or the violation of my mind. The Mirror, Ravyn kept in his cloak.
My stomach knotted instantly.
“They’re to gauge your honesty,” Jespyr explained.
To keep you from lying, more like , the Nightmare said.
To my silence, Jespyr softened her voice. “It’s a test we all must take, I’m afraid.”
The Nightmare sat in the darkness, his mind bleeding into mine. Choose the Scythe, child. Trust me.
I glanced at Elm. Even at a slouch, the Prince was easily the tallest of the three. His auburn hair fell over his brow, unruly. When he caught me watching him, he winked, his lips twisting, a fox-like sneer. A challenge.
Anger spiked my blood. “The Scythe,” I said, crossing my arms across my chest.
The Prince’s smile widened.
Jespyr shrugged, returning to Filick and her parents at the table. Elm continued to flip the Scythe Card, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger as he moved to the hearth, resting his elbow upon the mantel.
Ravyn did not sit. He pocketed his Nightmare Card and moved to the wall opposite me.
The dogs followed him, yawning, before folding themselves at his feet.
I could only see half the Captain’s face, the other half lost to shadow.
But I could not mistake the directness of his gaze.
Two eyes the color of storm clouds, aimed at me.
My heart raced.
Elm tapped the red Card three times. “Have you ever been in the grip of a Scythe before, Spindle?”
“No.”
“It’s less abrasive than you might imagine. I cannot make you tell me the truth—not like the Chalice. I can only affect your emotions, your willingness to tell me everything I need to know.”
“Sounds horrible.”
The Prince smiled. But there was no humor behind his green eyes.
“Some think the Scythe forces the mind to turn against itself—to feel emotions not its own. But the truth is, the Card doesn’t force anything.
You’ll feel a little strange—your eyes may glaze over.
But in the end, you’ll want to do everything I ask of you. A tad less frightening, no?”
“I’m not frightened,” I said through my teeth.
Warmth crept over me—a lightness of being. Gone was my fear, my strain. Suddenly the room felt less dark. The dogs, curled at Ravyn’s feet, seemed an adorable picture. When I glanced at the others, I felt joy, my frown transforming to a smile as laughter lines creased my face.
Darling , the Nightmare said. You can’t make it so easy for him to control you.
I couldn’t help it. I was happy—euphoric.
My laughter filled the room like bread rising from a tin.
I brushed tears from my eyes and put my hand over my mouth, trying to control the giggles bubbling inside me.
I eyed Ravyn, wishing for a sign of his elusive half smile.
He watched me from the shadows, his mouth a tight line.
And it made me happy all the more, knowing his eyes were fixed on me.
Doubled over, hands on my stomach, I let go of a lifetime of strain and laughed, not a care in the world.
My joy siphoned away, replaced by hopelessness and the sudden, violent urge to hurt myself.
I slapped myself across the cheek. Hard.
The Nightmare hissed, anger flaring across my mind. I looked up at Elm, my eyes wide.
But the urge to hurt myself raged on, insatiable, fed only when I slapped myself again. I cried out, my cheek tender, abruptly aware I was not in control of my own emotions, powerless to stop them.
At the table, my audience shifted.
“Elm,” Morette Yew warned.
“I need to be certain she’s under my hand before we begin,” the Prince said, his handsome face calm. “Otherwise, there will be holes in the influence.”
When I slapped myself a third time, Ravyn pushed away from the wall so abruptly the dogs leapt up with a snarl. “Enough,” he said, ice in his voice.
“All right, all right,” Elm said, winking at me. “Sorry. I had to make sure there was a tether.”
My cheek was half-numb, half-aflame. “You couldn’t have made me spin around the room?” I hissed through my teeth.
“Anyone might spin. Not everyone is willing to hit themselves.”
I should have chosen the Chalice. At least Jespyr’s not a raging asshole.
Easy now , the Nightmare said. Let him think he’s in control.
He IS in control.
Elm leaned on the mantel once more and inspected his fingernails, as if he’d already grown bored. “She’s all yours,” he said to his uncle.
Fenir Yew folded his hands on the table. “Why don’t you start by telling us about yourself, Miss Spindle.”
I tried to ignore the pain in my cheek. Gone was the impulse to hurt myself.
In its place, I felt an urgent desire to be truthful—earnest. I shot Elm a narrow glance, the Scythe spurring me to reply.
“I was born twenty years ago in Spindle House in Blunder,” I said.
“But I only lived there until I was nine.”
“When you caught the infection and moved to Hawthorn House?”
I nodded.
“Your father was the Captain of the Destriers,” Fenir said, his brow low. “Why did he not report your fever?”
I had anticipated the question. “He felt I was a danger to his second wife and their children, so he sent me away.” My voice hardened. “But he did not wish to see me die.”
Elm continued to pick at his nails. “Who knew Erik Spindle had a heart?”
Fenir ignored his nephew. “Why did he place you with the Hawthorns?”
“My mother and my aunt were very close.” I paused. “Though I suspect the fact that Hawthorn House is in the wood, out of sight, greatly appealed to my father. He offered my uncle coin.”
Jespyr leaned forward. I did not miss the surprise in her voice. “Erik paid them to take you in?”
It sounded so pitiful, said aloud like that. I had little stomach for pity. “He paid my uncle,” I bit back. “My aunt had no price.”
“Fond of coin, old Tyrn,” Elm muttered.
Fenir watched me, weighing my words on a scale I could not yet fathom. “You’ve lived with the Hawthorns for many years. You must know how your uncle came by his Nightmare Card.”
My stomach coiled. “I don’t. That is—I was a child. I only recall that when he returned with it, his sword was bloodied.”
Fenir blinked. “A child? How long has Tyrn had the Card?”
I grimaced. “Eleven years.”
A collective gasp filled the cellar. “That Card is worth a fortune,” Jespyr cried. “Why on earth would Tyrn Hawthorn hold on to it so long?”
“He was waiting for the right price,” Morette Yew said, her long, dark hair falling over her shoulder. “And now, with his daughter betrothed to Hauth, Tyrn’s bloodline will inherit the throne.”
My stomach dropped. So cold—so calculating. And I realized, though I had spent the majority of my life in his house, I hardly knew my uncle.
Deep and rough as gravel, Ravyn spoke from the shadows. “I have a few questions.”
Elm straightened at the hearth. Gone was the look of boredom, his face lifted by a fox-like smile. His green eyes shifted between me and the Captain of the Destriers. Whatever he anticipated, it seemed to promise a good time.