Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Magic born of the infection is immeasurable. Unfathomable. It owns no loyalty—keeps no rules. For some, it carries great, unyielding power. For others, darkness and degeneration await.
Magic born of the infection is immeasurable.
W e did not take the main stairwell out of the castle but rather the winding servants’ passage, our steps hasty until we reached the small wooden door to the gardens. Outside, the full moon cast eerie shadows through the mist, the garden wraithlike as it caught the autumn breeze.
I followed Ravyn down the same path we’d trudged the day before, careful of my step. When a screech owl sounded above my head, I jumped, moving closer to Ravyn as he led us through the bramble, the path wrought with shadow.
The ruins of the ancient castle looked even stranger by night. They sat, nestled by mist, absorbing moonlight.
At the edge of the cemetery stood the stone chamber, its window dark and ominous.
The Nightmare’s gaze alleviated the darkness around us. Go inside , he murmured.
“We’re going there?” I whispered, Ravyn’s steps sure as he led us past the looming yew tree.
“Yes.”
The chamber had no door, only the one window. Ravyn swung himself over the lip of the window, his movements graceful, practiced, as if done a hundred times before. A moment later he was inside.
He leaned over the sill and held out a hand to me.
I hesitated. There was something magical inside the chamber—I could sense it, the sudden pang of salt in my nose distinct. Roused from the depths of my mind, the Nightmare sprang forward, so abrupt I nearly lost my footing.
Go inside , he urged.
I took Ravyn’s hand and he guided me over the stone windowsill. My feet hit soil, and for the half second it took for my eyes to adjust, everything was perfectly black.
The chamber was a square. Moonlight flickered from above, the wood ceiling atop the chamber rotted out—fractured. I could see the shadow of branches above, the yew tree watching us through the broken wood ceiling.
In the center of the room, there was a tall, broad slab of stone. My breath caught in my throat and I looked around, this time in earnest.
I recognized the room: the ivy-laden walls… the fractured wooden ceiling… the stone in the center of the room.
All that was missing was the armored knight perched upon it.
This is the place , I gasped. The room from my dreams.
Yes , the Nightmare called, his voice shifting like a ghost on the wind.
What is it? Who was the man seated atop the stone?
A place of time—a man of fault. Both fueled by rage—both buried in salt.
Ravyn and I approached the stone in the center of the room. “When I was a boy,” Ravyn explained, “I liked to play here.”
I shivered. “Rather terrifying place to play, isn’t it?”
His eyes found mine. “Perhaps.”
I poked through my mind, demanding an explanation—a reason why he’d shown me this place in my dreams. But the Nightmare stayed silent, waiting, watching.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
Ravyn withdrew his hand from his cloak. “I’ll show you.”
He placed his palm upright in the center of the stone slab, moonlight dancing along his skin. I didn’t see the small silver blade—drawn from his belt in a sudden, fluid motion. I didn’t see much at all. He was too quick.
Before I could even blink, Ravyn’s hand was covered in blood.
“What are you doing?” I cried.
He pocketed the knife, a cut slashed across the flesh below his thumb. Blood dripped down the lines of his palm to the stone beneath. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice shockingly even for someone who’d just wounded himself. “Watch.”
Breath caught in my chest as Ravyn turned his palm onto the stone, the world and the Nightmare behind my eyes suddenly still. Then, out of the depths of the stone—bright and true—emerged several unmistakable beams of light.
Providence Cards, hidden in the depths of the ancient stone, unlocked by blood.
Ravyn’s blood. Infected blood.
Magical blood.
The center of the stone, once dark and impenetrable, became clear as water. I could see through it, like looking through a door. Deep within its depth sat the Providence Cards, stacked, hidden, and waiting.
I fought the words. “How—how did you…?”
Ravyn smiled, reaching into the hollowed-out center of the stone and grasping the stack of Providence Cards.
Their colors vanished—snuffed out by Ravyn’s touch. I watched, fascinated, as he laid them out across the stone, color and brightness returning one by one as he let them go.
Prophet, Maiden, Chalice, Golden Egg, White Eagle, and the newly acquired Iron Gate.
“Your collection,” I said, my eyes lost in the colors. “Your father showed them to me.”
“And this is where we hide them,” Ravyn said, patting the stone.
“How on earth did you discover this hiding place?”
He shrugged. “Playing as a boy. I’d cut my shoulder on the window and stumbled in, blood on my hand. When I touched the stone… well, you saw.”
“But why is it here?” I asked, the smell of salt lingering in the room. “What is this place?”
“I don’t know. It’s old—as old as the ruins outside.” He reached into his pocket, retrieving the burgundy and purple lights—the Nightmare, the Mirror. “I found these inside the center of the stone.”
I prodded the darkness, the Nightmare. When he spoke, his words dripped like rainwater. An offering, bartered with blood. That’s how the Spirit bargains—always with blood. So the Shepherd King built her this chamber at the edge of the woods, this altar. And here, they bartered.
How do you know so much about it?
He did not answer. I ran my hand over the stone, its surface cold and rough beneath my palm.
Ravyn wiped away his blood on the sleeve of his tunic. “Others have tried to open the stone to no avail. Should something happen to me, you are the only one here who can open it. Only infected blood will unveil the chasm.”
I looked up at him. “Is something going to happen to you?”
His smile did not touch his eyes. “Not if I can help it.”
He collected the Cards once more, each surrendering its color at the touch of his hand. As he reached for the White Eagle, I grasped his sleeve and held it. I stared at the Cards in his hand—all devoid of color, save the Nightmare and the Mirror. “Why can you use only these two?”
Ravyn did not speak at first, his eyes intent on my face. Perhaps, like other things between us, he wished this secret to remain unspoken. But I held his gaze, waiting, emboldened by the stillness around us.
“I was thirteen—older than most—when I caught the fever,” he said, breaking the silence.
“But I saw no sign of magic, no new abilities. I avoided Physicians. I thought I had escaped the consequences of the infection. A year later, I was training to be a Destrier.” His tone darkened.
“But when I was offered a Black Horse, the Card would not yield to me. I couldn’t get it to work, no matter how hard I tried.
” He paused. “Hauth told Orithe Willow, who cut me with his claw and confirmed my infection to the King.”
I had never heard him speak so much at once. His voice bore the depths of dark water, smooth, unwavering. It lulled me. I traced the Captain of the Destriers’ face with my eyes, lost in his past—starved for his story.
Ravyn continued. “But like his pet Orithe, the King saw value in my infection. Without the Black Horse, I became a better fighter than the other Destriers. The Chalice did not work for me—but neither did it work against me. No one could see me in the Well Card. The Scythe cannot control me.” He paused. “That is why he made me Captain.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Every year, I lose the ability to use another Card. Only the Mirror, Nightmare, and, I assume, the Twin Alders remain.” To my wide eyes, he gave a shrug.
“Magic comes at a cost. If we do not collect the Deck and heal my infection, I will not be able to use Providence Cards at all.” He looked at me, his face shadowed.
His eyes found mine. “I rarely talk about it, save with Elm.”
My brow twisted, the words slow to come. “But he’s… he’s—”
“A Rowan.”
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll tell his father?”
Ravyn smiled. “If you knew him, you’d realize how impossible that is. Elm is loyal—to a fault.”
I thought of Ione. Or, my stomach dropping, how Ione used to be. “And he’s loyal to you, not his own father and brother?”
Ravyn paused. “Elm was a clever child. But he hated training, preferring his books. The King took displeasure in his mildness and thought him weak, leaving his upbringing to the Queen. When she died, Elm was… mistreated at Stone.” He struggled with the words.
“Hauth brutalized him. So one day I just… brought him home. My parents became his parents, my siblings his siblings. He’s wary, untrusting, but he’d die before he’d betray us. ”
There was something new, something fierce and raw, about the Captain of the Destriers. Perhaps, like me, the salt in the air had set him on edge—woken him. Gone was the unyielding expression, the unflinching austerity. In its place, deeply rooted intent.
Ravyn turned back to the Cards atop the stone. He stacked them, the colors disappearing as soon as they touched his skin. Then he reached into the stone, setting them down to rest. When his hand retracted, their colors returned.
He pulled the same knife as before from his belt and brought it to his hand.
“Wait,” I said, catching his arm. “Let me.”
His brow furrowed. “No, Elspeth.”
“I mean it,” I said. When he did not budge, I stuck out my jaw. “If I’m to know how to do it properly, you must let me actually do it.”
Ravyn’s grip on the blade did not let. He said nothing, something at war behind his gray eyes. Still, he did not give me the knife.
“Fine,” I said, turning away from him.