Two Twisted Crowns: Part 1 – Chapter 7

tone stood steadfast against the storm. It jutted out of the mist, its towers orange with torchlight. By the time they reached the drawbridge, Elm was soaked through his jerkin.

Thunder rumbled above charcoal clouds, nightfall close on their heels. When the guard raised the gates, Elm steered his horse to the west side of the bailey.

Two grooms hurried forward, their gazes wide when they spotted Ione.

Elm dismounted and turned into the bailey. He walked ten paces before he realized Ione was still in the saddle. Her yellow hair was dark with water, clinging to her in long, heavy cords. Tremors traveled up her legs and into her spine, racking her entire frame. Her lips had gone blue, and her dress—stained with blood and soil—clung to her skin. She looked like a storybook mermaid, washed ashore after a storm.

“Trees,” Elm muttered. He reached to hand Ione off the horse, but her body was rigid and he was forced to wrap an arm around her waist and lift her off the animal.

When she leaned onto his shoulder, her breath blew like winter wind across his neck.

“Next time we ride,” he gritted, setting her on bare feet, “wear a damn cloak.”

She looked up at him through wet lashes. “I d-doubt there will be a n-next t-t-time, Prince.”

When they got to Stone’s fortified doors, the guards opened them without question. Elm stomped into the castle, dripping rainwater along wool carpets and stone floors. Behind him, he could hear Ione’s teeth chattering, nagging at his last raw nerve.

He jerked his head toward the grand stairwell. “Five minutes to get you warm, Hawthorn.” He glanced at her bare feet. “Unless you’d like to lose your toes in the dungeon.”

They only managed ten steps up the stairs before a voice called from the landing above. “Renelm.”

Elm swore under his breath and looked up. Tried to smile at the Destrier. “Linden. Getting better every day, aren’t you?”

If Hauth was capable of genuine connection, Royce Linden was the closest thing he boasted to a friend. They carried themselves with the same menacing gusto, two bulls on the brink of a charge. Brown eyes shadowed under a crude brow, Linden wore the Destrier cloak like a threat.

But the cloak did nothing to hide his barely healed scars. Scars Elspeth Spindle had unwittingly carved into him weeks ago on Market Day.

Elm’s eyes traced the jagged lesions that stretched from behind Linden’s ear to the hollow of his throat. “You’ll never be a looker,” he said. “But that wasn’t exactly in the Cards, now was it?”

Linden mouth stayed a tight line. He stopped at the stair just above Elm, leveling their heights. “You’ve not come to see your brother.”

Elm dropped his smile. It was exhausting, playing nice. “I’ve been busy.”

Linden peered over his shoulder at Ione. “So we’ve finally caught one of the bitch’s kin.” His eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t she be on her way to the dungeon?”

Elm shifted, blocking Ione and her bloody dress from Linden’s view. He reached back and caught her arm. “Soon enough.” He took the stairs two at a time, pulling Ione behind him. “Give Hauth our best, should he stir.”

The sting of Linden’s gaze followed them up the stairwell. “Th-that was s-s-stupid,” Ione said. “Y-you sh-should j-just t-take me to the d-dungeon. H-he’ll think—”

“Royce Linden is the least of your worries.”

On the fifth landing, Elm led them across the galley to the velvet-draped wing where the royal family lived. Every few moments he would stop and listen, waiting for the deep timbre of Ravyn’s voice to enter his mind.

But the only sounds that reached Elm were the sharp flurry of his own thoughts and the ruckus of Ione’s chattering teeth. If Ravyn was in the castle—if he was using his Nightmare Card—Elm was left out of the conversation.

“Hurry,” he said, throwing himself at the door with the fox carved into the mahogany frame. His swollen fingers were clumsy at the latch. When the door swung open, he ushered Ione in with a shove.

“What—”

“Quiet.” He closed the door abruptly. “This hall in crawling with Physicians.”

Ione rushed to the hearth, the fire well tended. A small moan escaped her throat as she hunched next to the flames, firelight dancing over her skin. She reached her hands as close to the heat as she dared. “Is he g-going to live?” she said. “Your b-brother?”

Elm couldn’t lock the door. Ravyn kept the castle keys on his belt, and Elm had lost his personal key ages ago. He pulled the hickory chair that had been in his room since boyhood and leaned it up against the door, its legs creaking a feeble complaint. “I haven’t consulted a Prophet on the matter,” he said, fumbling with his clothes.

His belt fell with a clang. Next off was his soaking cloak. His jerkin and tunic were harder to strip, but not as difficult as his undershirt, wet silk clinging to the lean lines of his stomach and back. When he was free, he wore only his wool pants.

He dropped his wet clothes in a heap on the floor and kicked off his boots, grabbing a flagon of wine from the table.

“Here,” he said, crouching next to Ione at the fire. “It’ll help with the cold. Drink.”

Ione’s gaze flashed across Elm’s skin, over his shoulders and down his chest, finally landing on the flagon. Her blue lips drew into a line.

“Do you see any poison up my sleeve?” Elm demanded, gesturing at his bareness. “It’s just wine.”

When Ione still did not drink, Elm brought the flagon to his lips and swallowed deeply.

The wine slid down his throat, planting small fires on its way to his stomach. “See? Still breathing.” He held the flagon out once more. “Now drink.”

Ione took it, lifting it to her lips. Elm noted the slope of her neck—the way her bottom lip hugged the flagon’s mouth.

He turned away and tossed another log on the fire.

Toes inching out from beneath her dress toward the flames, Ione said, “Something tells me it wouldn’t be too great a hardship, poisoning me, if you wanted to. You seem the type who would resort to poisons.”

Elm snatched the flagon back and took another pull. “You don’t know a thing about me, Hawthorn.”

Ione unfolded herself and stood. Her gaze lowered to her dress, the once-white fabric dark and stained. She reached behind her back, fumbling with the lacings. “I need your help, Prince. The knots have tightened with rainwater.”

“And you mistook me for your maid?”

“Don’t tell me you’re uncomfortable undressing a woman.”

Elm’s insides yanked. He didn’t move, glaring into Ione Hawthorn’s unreadable eyes, unsure if it would anger her more if he helped or refused her. He wanted very much to make her angry. Wanted to see what the Maiden would let her feel.

When he stood to full height, he buried her in shadow.

Ione’s eyes flickered over his bare chest. She turned, presenting the back of the dress, her shoulders rising and falling as she waited.

The lacing was intricate. And Elm’s fingers were swollen and bruised. A blade would have to do. He retrieved one of his ceremonial knives from the heap on the floor, then came behind Ione. When he slipped his left hand beneath her wet hair, his knuckles dragging across the nape of her neck.

It was surprisingly heavy, her hair. Dense. Long enough to wrap around his fist and tug.

Elm pushed the thought away, moving the mass of yellow-gold hair over Ione’s shoulder. With his right hand, he gripped the knife. “Don’t move.”

He tore the tip of the blade through the dress’s lacing. When the skirt, then bodice, fell to the floor, Elm bit the inside of his cheek and stepped back. “I hope it wasn’t a favorite.”

Ione stepped away. “Your father gave it to me on Equinox, after my engagement to Hauth was announced.” She glanced at the dress with marked disinterest. “Now it’s for the fire.”

The hearth was the only light in the room. Still, it was not difficult to distinguish the outline of Ione’s body, all her curves—her starts and stops—beneath her damp silk undergarment.

Elm forced his eyes back to the fire. “And the Maiden Card my father gave you? I assumed you had it tucked away in ,” he said, turning his nose at the ruined pile of fabric.

Ione twisted her hair, wringing out the last of the rainwater. “You might have searched me for it. Hauth would have.”

Elm’s mouth pressed into a hard line at his brother’s name. “Our methodologies are , his and mine.” He stole a glance at Ione, only to whip his eyes back to the hearth. “There’s a chest at the foot of my bed. Take anything you like.”

The iron hinges creaked open. Ione shuffled through his clothes, pausing every so often to run her hands over the material. “You wear a lot of black,” she murmured. “For a Prince.”

Elm said nothing. When he turned, Ione had pulled a dark wool tunic over her head. It fell past her knees, her frame lost under the excess fabric.

It was one of the garments he wore when he moonlit as a highwayman. “Here,” Ione said, tossing a fresh shirt and a velvet doublet of the same bottomless black color at Elm. “It suits you.”

Hair tousling, Elm slid the shirt over his head, dropping the Scythe in a side pocket. He shrugged on the doublet. But when he tried to tighten the lacing, the corded silk slipped through his swollen fingers.

He swore under his breath.

“My turn.” Ione stepped forward, reached for the laces—then pulled her hands back. “That is, if you’d like my help.”

Elm glared down his nose. “And to think, I didn’t even have to kill anyone for you to owe me a favor.”

The corners of Ione’s lips twitched. She wove her fingers through the laces, threading the doublet with precision. Once woven into place, she took the tails of the strings and yanked, jerking Elm forward as she closed the doublet’s seam.

“Gently does it,” he grunted. “I’m delicate.”

Ione’s eyelashes grazed her cheeks as she lowered her eyes, looping the remaining string into a tight knot just above Elm’s navel. She smelled of outside—of rain and fields. A heady, wistful smell. It made Elm feel hazy.

He pulled away. As he did, salt bit his nose, as if someone had splashed icy seawater in his face. It filled his ears—his eyes—his nostrils. He coughed, the sound of his cousin’s voice filling the dark corners of his mind.

, Ravyn called.

He took a shaky breath and turned his back to Ione.

He was already gone. Salt retreated from Elm’s senses like an ebbing wave. When he turned back to Ione, she was watching him.

He lunged for the chest of clothes, digging through it. “Take these,” he said, throwing a pair of wool socks toward her head. “It’s cold where you’re going.”

Ione caught them just before they hit her face. She held them up to the light, brow furrowing. “These are sized for a man.”

“Which I happen to be.” Elm found a pair of dry boots under his bed and shoved his foot into one, the leather stiff from disuse. “When I said you didn’t know a thing about me, Hawthorn, I assumed there was some level of comprehension—”

“I’m surprised, is all. There are no garments for women in your room.”

“Why on earth would there be?”

“I saw several pairs of stockings tossed around Hauth’s chamber when I visited it.” Ione closed the lid to the chest and perched upon it, pointing her toes as she slid the socks on one at a time. “I assumed all Princes kept women.”

Elm glowered at his boots, his swollen fingers too clumsy to lace them. “Would that I had the time.” He stood, searching his messy floor. “You’ll need a cloak.”

“I’m fine as I am.”

“You’ll lose your toes, then your fingers. Maybe the tip of your nose. Or that wicked mouth.”

“What’s my mouth to you?”

“Nothing.” Elm’s exhale shot out of him, disturbing the hair above his brow. “But it might be difficult holding up my end of our bargain if you’re in pieces.”

Ione didn’t seem to hear him. She turned her head, her back straightening, eyes on the door. Elm heard it too—the sound of heavy footfall. But before he could speak—before he could move—the latch lifted.

The hickory chair fell with a bang and Elm’s chamber door swung open.

When Ravyn stepped into the room, shoulders tight, his gaze froze on Ione. He took her in with sharp eyes that jumped from her wet hair to the black tunic she wore, then to the heap of her bloodstained dress upon the floor.

“Ione Hawthorn,” he said, his gaze finally moving to Elm. “I’m surprised to find you here.”