Page 73 of The Shadowbound King

Othor shook his head. “You and I need water to live, but too much of it can kill. The Shadow Eaters can only consume so much before they’re overwhelmed. They fight a losing battle.”

The path narrowed. When a tall, vine-covered wall loomed ahead of us, I slowed. “This is the King’s Grove.”

Othor stopped in a rustle of robes. “Did Andrin bring you here?”

I couldn’t lie. Not when I’d already admitted I recognized the grove. “Just once.” Confusion gripped me. “You said you would show me my ancestry.”

He raised a brow. “You were expecting a book?”

I opened my mouth—then shut it.HadI expected a book? “Yes,” I said, “but I probably should have known it wouldn’t be that straightforward.”

Othor laughed, and the expression transformed his face, making him more youthful and handsome. He gestured toward the grove’s gated arch. “It’s anything but straightforward. But I think you’ll find it a lot more interesting than ink and parchment.”

We entered the King’s Grove, ending up at the base of the lofty Edeloak with its oversized leaves. Visions of the box and the skeleton hand paraded through my head, and I suppressed a shiver.

Othor stood beside me, his head tipped back as he stared at the tree. “The Edeloak is older than the Covenant. Every king of Autumn has stood beneath its branches.” He lifted a hand, and a soft, golden light suffused his palm. “The leaves tell us things if we care to listen.”

Power filled the air, and I held my breath as the tree began to glow. It started at the bottom and spread upward, climbing the trunk and then spreading over the hundreds of branches.

A warm breeze stirred my hair. As the light swelled, the King’s Grove glowed like it was midday. Gold raced down branches like a river rushing into tributaries. One by one, the tree’s leaves lit up, reds and oranges blazing like they’d been dipped in gold.

Then, faces appeared in the leaves. My breath caught, awe spreading through me. The Edeloak wasn’t just a tree. It wasafamilytree, each leaf adorned with an elf’s portrait. They were beautiful as all elves were, their noble features frozen in everlasting youth. Male and female, some wore crowns while others had woven vines and flowers into their hair.

Othor waved his hand. Suddenly, one network of branches shone more brightly than the others. A leaf near the top displayed a man with flowing copper hair and a stern expression.

“Emlyr Verdalis,” Othor murmured, “healer and High Priest of the Edelfen. He signed the Covenant and helped create Ishulum.”

The golden light traveled downward from Emlyr’s leaf, the blaze stinging my eyes as it sizzled to dozens of leaves. Other faces appeared as the light continued to travel, branching and forming new connections. The spectacle continued until, finally, after dozens of splits, the column of light illuminated a leaf on one of the Edeloak’s lowest branches.

My own face stared back at me. Emotion stirred in my chest, disbelief mingling with wonder and something fragile and tentative. I didn’t recognize it at first. But that was because I’d never felt it until that moment.

Belonging.

“You are part of Autumn,” Othor said at my shoulder. “Your blood connects you to Ishulum.” He pointed to a patch of brown grass at the bottom of the tree. Dead, brittle-looking leaves huddled on the ground, conjuring memories of Andrin sweating as he revealed the Edeloak’s rot.

“The land is unwell,” Othor said gravely. “No living thing can survive without a heart, and Autumn is no exception.” With a sharp flick of his hand, the family tree vanished. The golden light snuffed out, plunging the King’s Grove into shadow.

I turned, blinking as my eyes adjusted. Othor’s face was a pale oval in the gloom.

“Your father created the sickness that plagues this kingdom,” he said. “But you can heal it.”

“Me?” Understanding dawned, and I shook my head. “My gift works best on animals. And my magic has limits. I can’t revive the dying. And as much as I might want to, I can’t replace a heart.”

Running footsteps made Othor turn. Ginhad rushed toward us, his silver hair doing its best to escape its ribbon. “Apologies for the interruption, but the king and Lord Rane have returned. Andrin is injured.”

Othor was moving before Ginhad finished his sentence. “See to Lady Mirella,” he called over his shoulder.

As he disappeared around the fountain, I hurried to Ginhad. “How bad is it?”

“Some blood. A lot of cursing.”

I gathered my skirts. As we rushed up the path, a flash of silver on the ground stopped me. It was the knife Rane had taken from me the night he dragged me across the Covenant. The same blade I’d thrust into his stomach.

“What is it?” Ginhad asked as I bent. His eyes widened when they fell on the knife. “Oh.”

“It’s mine,” I said, fingering the design on the hilt. “But I have no idea how it ended up in the grove.” After a second, I held it out to him. “Here.”

He stared at the blade. Then he looked at me with clear green eyes. “If it’s yours, you should keep it.”

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