One Dark Window

I glanced up at him. “What about you, Captain? Are you too nice for your own good?”

He watched me, something I could not read flashing in his gray eyes. “No, Miss Spindle,” he said. “I’m not nice at all.”

The air around me thinned. I blinked, trying to stave off the darkness, like a child fighting sleep. Promise me you’ll help Ravyn. Promise me you’ll save Emory.

It’s time, dear one, he purred, lulling me to rest.

Promise!

He sighed. I promise to help the Yews in all their endeavors.

I closed my eyes, a final whisper escaping my lips. The story—our story. The Nightmare’s and mine. “There once was a girl,” I said, “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 last thing I heard before I was buried in darkness was the Nightmare’s silky laugh, wicked and absolute. The girl, the King… and the monster they became.

The Spirit has no forgiveness, no pardon to lend. She calls out our names, neither kin, foe, nor friend. She watches the mist like a shepherd its sheep…

And pays those she snares with the great, final sleep.

To be wary is to be keen—

Keen of those who may use magic for wrong.

To be clever is to be wise—

Wise not to use the Cards too often.

To be good is to be reverent—

Reverent of balance—of the salt in the air—of the Spirit of the Wood.

Be wary. Be clever. Be good.

“I told only those who were imperative to the task.”

“So everyone except me and the magically disturbed woman?”

“Disturbed?” the Nightmare and I called at once.

Soft sway the leaves of the willow tree fair,

Its reeds are thus gentle, bended in prayer.

No switch shall be crafted from branch, stalk, or bark.

Its canopy waits, respite from the dark.

So, too, I demand, the Physician must be.

His words whisper soft as breeze through a tree.

From the white spring flower to the depths of his root,

His wisdom is pure, his healing absolute.

Practice restraint, and know it by touch.

Use Cards when they’re needed, and never too much.

For too much of fire, our swords would all break.

Too much of wine a poison doth make.

Excess is grievous, be knave, maid, or crown.

Too much of water, how easy we drown.

But it felt incomplete, my collection yet whole. And so, for the Nightmare, I bartered my soul.

I put a hand to my mouth, fingers shaking. My voice came out hollow. “But that would mean I absorbed your soul when I touched the Nightmare Card. Which makes you… the Shepherd King.”

A growl, a sneer—oil, bile. His voice called, louder than it had ever been, as if he was closer. Stronger. Finally, my darling Elspeth, we understand one another.

I shouted into the chasm of my mind. Enough, Nightmare! Tell me the truth. Who is that man? Why do I keep seeing him?

He is a vestige of the past, haunting the chamber he built for the Spirit of the Wood, nothing more than a memory of a man who once was. His voice grew harder. A man I once was.

He slid his knife along the heel of my palm. I gasped, watching a trail of red beads escape the nigh-invisible cut Ravyn had just dealt. He pinched my flesh, pulling more blood to the surface. “Just a small cut,” he murmured. “Nothing too deep. No need to scar these beautiful hands.”

If there was pain, I hardly felt it. Something else was stirring in me. Not quite pain; an ache.