Greythorne Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Part Two

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Part Three

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  Acknowledgments

  More Books from HMH Teen

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Copyright © 2020 by Crystal Smith

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhbooks.com

  Map art by Francesca Baerald

  Cover illustration © 2020 by Chantal Horeis

  Cover design by Celeste Knudsen

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Smith, Crystal, (Crystal Campbell), author.

  Title: Greythorne / by Crystal Smith.

  Description: Boston ; New York : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2020] | Series: Bloodleaf trilogy ; [2] | Audience: Ages 14 and up. | Audience: Grades 10–12. | Summary: As the people of Achlev struggle to survive the instability fueled by Dominic Castillion, Aurelia is determined to save them and her loved ones at any cost.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019029206 (print) | LCCN 2019029207 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328496317 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780358246312 (ebook) | ISBN 9780358376620 (international edition)

  Subjects: CYAC: Fantasy.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.S644636 Gre 2020 (print)

  LCC PZ7.S644636 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019029206

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019029207

  v1.0820

  To Carma—

  For reading every draft,

  no matter how rough

  Part One

  Conrad Costin Altenar, eight years old and the ascendant king of Renalt, was humming to himself in time to the creaks and jolts of his carriage. It was an old Renaltan folk song, meant to be sung in a melancholic minor key: Don’t go, my child, to the Ebonwilde, / For there a witch resides . . . Everyone knew the first verse, but he much preferred the lesser-known second, which described a phantom horseman:

  Don’t go, my child, to the Ebonwilde,

  For there a horseman rides.

  His stallion’s mane is silver flame

  With night-black coals for eyes.

  Don’t go, my child, to the Ebonwilde;

  Please stay here warm in bed.

  If you see him, child, in the Ebonwilde,

  You just might lose your head.

  As Conrad hummed, he fiddled with a new toy: a pointed puzzle box with nine sides and a series of intricate buttons and latches that had to be pressed and turned in just the right order to open a hidden compartment with a prize inside. It was from his sister, Aurelia, an early gift for his upcoming coronation, now only two days away. Convinced the box concealed candy, Conrad had been poring over it for the duration of his Renaltan tour. He wanted to have it figured out before the excursion reached its end, and though Greythorne—the final stop and chosen location to begin his coronation procession—was only a few miles away now, he was sure he could have the puzzle cracked and the candy consumed before they pulled onto the drive.

  As he concentrated harder, his humming tapered off.

  Push, turn, twist, twist, tap, and then . . .

  Nothing.

  “Bleeding stars,” he cursed before glancing around the empty carriage to reassure himself that no one had heard. But his only companion was his own reflection, which gazed back at him from the mirrored panel on the other side of the carriage.

  Onal, the crotchety old woman who’d spent the last five decades serving as the royal family’s physician and most trusted adviser, always said foul language was a clear sign of a weak mind. It was something of a joke, however, as she possessed an impressive vocabulary of vulgarity of her own and made liberal use of it. But while she was above reproach—mostly because no one ever dared reproach her—his own behavior was being closely observed and chronicled. That’s what this tour had been all about: showing the people of Renalt that their young king was capable and ready to lead. They’re looking for reasons to remove you, Aurelia had warned at their parting. Don’t give them any.

  He wished that she could have accompanied him on this venture, though he knew it was better that she was keeping her distance. If he wanted the people to accept his rulings, they first had to accept his rule. Best not to remind them of his ties to a blood witch suspected of bringing down Achleva’s capital.

  Not that Aurelia was too frightened to face her detractors; she wasn’t afraid of anything. Not intolerant townsfolk or falling cities or blood spells or being alone. Not even the dark.

  He gulped and found himself moving the carriage curtain aside to peer up at the black clouds gathering in the sky above. A storm was coming and, on its heels, nightfall. He sent a mildly remorseful prayer up to the heavens: Most Holy and Merciful Empyrea, I’m sorry for swearing again. Please let us arrive at Greythorne before it gets too dark.

  He didn’t used to be afraid of the dark, but in the last months, it seemed like the blackest nights heralded the bleakest events. It was in the dark that Toris had tricked him into betraying Aurelia; it was in the dark that Lisette was torn from him, never to be seen again. And it was during the darkest night he ever knew—the night of the black moon—that his beloved mother took her last breath.

  Nothing good ever happened in the dark.

  A deep, rolling rumble of thunder rattled the floorboards, and the carriage suddenly slowed to a stop. There was a knock at the door. His appointed regent, Fredrick Greythorne, poked his head in and yelled over another slow groan from the sky, “A storm is coming, Majesty. This road has been known to flood in heavy rain.”

  Fredrick’s brother and new captain of Conrad’s personal guard, Kellan Greythorne, was waiting behind him. He said, “We can push through or find higher ground off the path until it blows over.”

  Conrad leaned out of the carriage. They’d come upon the hawthorn thickets that surrounded the Greythorne property. The journey was close to its end now, and how long could the storm last, anyway? Probably just a squall, summer’s last fit of anger before handing over its post to autumn. It would probably tire itself out within the hour. The obvious choice would be to just pull off the road until it did, but they were so close to the welcoming fires of Greythorne, and it was going to be night soon.

  “We keep going,” Conrad stated. “We push through.”

  “As you wish,” Fredrick said, exchanging glances with his brother, and Conrad could see that they’d both have preferred the other option. But their king had given an order.

  The horses pounded the path at breakneck pace until the rain started falling, coming down in heavy sheets. The carriage squelched through mud that, in minutes, became a mire. Conrad, bracing himself in a corner, felt the whole contraption sinking lower and lower into the sludge as the noises outside grew louder, until the cries became shouts and the carriage stopped with a heaving lurch, sending him toppling.

  Conrad scrambled back onto his seat, craning his neck to peek through the crack between the curtain and the window sash.

  There was no one there.

  The road was deserted, the horses and guards all gone. There was no rain, either; it was dry and quiet, with just the whisper of a slight wind across a hazy, red-tinged twilight.

  “Hello?” Conrad called into the empty expanse, his voice trembling. “Anyone there? Fredrick?” He gulped. “Kellan?”

  He wanted to retreat into the carriage, to huddle and hide until his men returned from . . . wherever they had gone. But what if something was wrong?

  Aurelia would never cower in a carriage and wait to be rescued. She’d be the first one on the ground, heading boldly toward the danger, letting nothing stand in her way.

  If Aurelia could be brave, so could he.

  He put one gold-slippered foot to the dirt, then the other, pulling his butter-colored brocade coat after him before abandoning it, disgruntled, on the floor of the carriage. If he was going to play the role of the hero, he didn’t want to look like a foppish fool doing it. The pointed shoes and high silk stockings were embarrassing enough. He would have much preferred to save the day while wearing the sterling mail and cerulean cape of a Renaltan soldier, or the long, dark coat Zan used to wear that made him look baleful and brooding, but this would have to do.

  Everything was unnervingly still, as if all the insects and animals were pausing to watch what he would do. He pulled the clear glass knife from its sheath—a luneocite blade that had also once belonged to Aurelia. He’d found it among her things and de
cided to make it his own; the knife was small and looked fragile, like Conrad himself, but it was actually sturdier than steel. Having it on his belt made him feel stronger, too.

  Ahead on the road, he saw something move. A trick of the strange crimson light, he thought at first, but then it moved again.

  He squinted. “Hello?” he asked the silence.

  The figure seemed to form itself from silver smoke and murky shadow, beginning as a wispy outline but quickly coalescing into a substantial, looming shape that towered over him. Conrad’s eyes widened, fingers becoming slick on the handle of his small knife as the shadow further sharpened, becoming not one entity but two.

  He was face-to-face with the characters of his silly folk song: a gray-cloaked rider atop a ghostly horse.

  If you see him, child, in the Ebonwilde, / You might just lose your head.

  “Bleeding stars!” he yelped again, swiveling on the toes of his pointed shoes and diving into the shelter of the hawthorns lining the road.

  The net of branches and their needle-like spines lashed his clothing as he plunged through them. He could hear hooves behind him, coming closer and closer with each passing second. The thick-woven thatch was nearly impenetrable even for his slight shape; it should have been impossible for anything larger. But when Conrad cast a glance over his shoulder, he saw the gray rider and his silver steed pass through the thicket like smoke through a sieve.

  As he ran, the hawthorn changed form too; soon, the thicket became a hedge that parted before him, revealing a cobblestone path. He took one corner, then another. Right, then left, then right again. It was a maze—Greythorne’s maze. And the horseman seemed to be herding him toward the old church enclosed in the heart of it. Outside the hedge, lights winked from the windows of the familiar estate, beckoning like beacons.

  He dashed forward while the horseman followed, coming closer and closer. The bells in the church tower were chiming a discordant song as Conrad swiped at the thorny tangles standing between him and the safety of the sanctorium. He strained to remember the path Kellan had taught him, turning left, then right, left again, back and forth and around again, through the twists and spirals, losing ground every time he had to backtrack after a wrong turn.

  They came to the center at the same time. The horse screamed and the rider reached out from the flying folds of his colorless cloak for Conrad as he scrambled for the sanctorium steps.

  For a moment, all stopped. Both figures were crystallized where they stood for the space of one heartbeat, maybe two, before the church bells went silent and everything—the ground, the air, the fabric of reality—seemed to splinter apart in a searing flash and a roaring pulse of power.

  * * *

  On the road into Greythorne, the rain ceased as abruptly as it started, and in the distance, the travelers could hear the bells of the Stella Regina beginning to chime the hour. Fredrick Greythorne checked in on his young charge to make sure he wouldn’t be frightened by the violent lurching of the carriage as they pulled it from the mud. But when he opened the door, he found Conrad fast asleep inside, surrounded by a slew of crumpled waxed candy papers, his golden hair tousled into unkempt knots and his shoes and satin stockings in dirty tatters. He had drifted off to sleep clutching his strange, nine-sided puzzle box.

   1

  My opponent was a merchant of middle age by the name of Brom Baltus who had stopped at the Quiet Canary Tavern hoping to acquire some female company and play a couple of rounds of Betwixt and Between before hauling his goods—a cartload of apples, cheeses, and fine wines—the final stretch of his route. It was to his great misfortune that he sat down at the card table with me; when I was done with him, he’d be lucky to leave with enough coin left to hitch a ride home to his unhappy wife, let alone purchase an hour or two of a Canary girl’s precious time. I’d have hated to rob them of good business, but from the smell of him, none of them were likely to mind.

  Brom leaned forward to lay down his second-to-last play. His smug grin revealed a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “Sad Tom,” he said, pushing the card toward me. “Time to up your wager, miss, or call the game.”

  I frowned at the card and its depiction of a despondent, droopy-eyed lad clutching a withered four-petaled daisy. It was a surprisingly savvy move for a man who had accidentally singed his mustache trying to light his pipe not five minutes earlier. I’d already put down all the collateral I’d planned on staking—twelve gold crowns earned over two months of careful card-game conquests—and had little left with which to improve the pot. If I failed to provide Sad Tom with something to cheer him up, I’d lose all of it, and the cart of goods besides.

  I hesitated only a moment before reaching into my pocket and retrieving the last thing of value left to my name: a fine white-gold ring set with an exquisite clear-cut stone. I hadn’t worn it for months, but somehow I could not bring myself to lay it away in a jewelry box. Even now, as I placed it in the center of the table and the stone caught the candlelight and bounced it back in a thousand rainbow shards, I felt a keen sense of trepidation at the possibility of its loss. But I had plans to keep, costly plans, and Brom’s goods would go a long way toward covering the costs.

  “Finest Achlevan jewel crafting,” I said. “Pure luneocite stone, skillfully cut and artfully set.”

  “And what makes you think it’s worth—?”

  “It used to belong to the late queen Irena de Achlev,” I said. “It’s engraved with her initials and the de Achlev seal.” I steepled my fingers and leaned forward with a cocky tilt to my head, eyes still shrouded beneath my dark hood. “Imagine what the ladies at court in Syric would pay for such a souvenir.”

  Brom’s eyes were gleaming—he knew exactly what kind of price it would fetch. Relics of the fallen de Achlev dynasty had become hot commodities among Syric’s social elite. And to have belonged to the last queen . . . the ring was worth double the pile of coins on the table. I said calmly, “Surely Sad Tom is not so sad anymore?”

  “Indeed not,” the man said with a smirk. “Wager accepted. Make your next play, little miss.”

  Little miss. If a man had placed that selfsame wager, it would have been met with suspicion. This fool would have at least asked himself, What kind of hand would warrant such an extravagant offer? But because I was a woman, and a young one at that, Brom Baltus saw the move as a signal that he’d already gotten the better of me. That he’d forced me into a corner and I’d naively cast out my last line in desperation just to stay in the game.

  What had Delphinia said? You don’t play the cards; you play the player.

  We were still two moves from the finale, but I had already won.

  I waited for Brom to settle into his self-assuredness, using my next turn to play the Fanciful Blacksmith, resplendent in his great brown beard and frilly petticoats, hammering happily away at his forge. My opponent did just as I thought he would and mistook the balance card for a schism card and played Lady Loveless over the top of it. He sat back in his seat with a sneer, certain that he’d just secured his success.

  “Lady Loveless has just sent your Blacksmith into the furnace,” he said. “Time to pay up.”

  “Ah,” I said, “but the Blacksmith stands on his own. He has no need for Lady Loveless’s approval.” I allowed myself a tiny hint of a smile. “Which means I have one more card to play.”

  I made a slow, deliberate show of turning over my last card, taking far more satisfaction than necessary in Brom’s changing expression—disinterest followed closely by chagrin, shock, and dismay—as he realized what I’d done.

  Staring up at him was the Two-Faced Queen.

  The card depicted two versions of the same woman, one with night-dark hair against a snowy background, the other with ice-white hair against a deep black wood. They echoed each other in the exact same position, as if the line dividing them and bisecting the card was a mirror. And indeed, the card itself acted like a mirror, reflecting the players’ own plays back onto them. My cards had all been balance cards, while his had been schism after schism. He had, in effect, annihilated himself.

  I plucked the ring from atop the pile of coin and twirled it around my fingertips, allowing myself a single moment of melancholy before returning it to my pocket. “Now, then,” I said, brusque and businesslike, “where shall I collect my winnings?”