Page 3 of The Shadowbound King

Gritting my teeth, I moved into the study. It was unchanged, its walls lined with precious books. A chandelier hung from the center of the wood-beamed ceiling. Colorful tapestries depicting knights charging into battle occupied the spaces between the bookshelves.

And my father sat behind his desk, which was as large and intimidating as I remembered. My father was large and intimidating, too. His dark hair swept back from an unlined forehead. His velvet jacket stretched across his broad shoulders. A thick golden chain studded with precious gems rested on his chest. More gems decorated the rings on his left hand. His right, which he’d lost in battle, was made of solid gold and cast in the shape of a clenched fist. Worth a king’s ransom, he’d commissioned it from a craftsman in Saldu Kuum. The villagers of Purecliff had a saying:“Woe betide the man who earns the wrath of Lord Walto’s fist.”Plenty of men would have been stymied by the loss of a hand. My father had turned it into an advantage.

Sunlight streamed through the large windows behind him, the buttery rays gilding his golden hand and the firm planes of his face. He looked great for his age, and he might have been handsome if not for the glower he wore like armor.

“Come,” he ordered, using his flesh-and-blood hand to point at one of the two chairs positioned in front of his desk.

Irritation spiked, but I obeyed, perching on the edge of a chair. I bent and arranged my skirts, using the gesture to catch my breath after the long walk. When I looked up, my father watched me with piercing blue eyes. A map spread over his desk, the parchment brown with age. The Covenant was a thin, uneven dotted line separating Ishulum from Andulum. Purecliff nestled among the mountains, its battlements decorated with tiny flags. For a second, a wild impulse urged me to lean forward to see ifthe map showed a miniature version of me facing off with my father.

He sat back in his chair and rested his velvet-clad forearms on the cushioned armrests. The rings on his left hand flashed in the sunlight. “I didn’t give you permission to return to Eftar.”

I folded my hands in my lap. “No. You didn’t.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “And yet here you sit.”

“My apologies.”

Silence stretched, animosity filling the space between us. After a moment, he curled the fingers of his left hand around the arm of his chair.

“I heard you encountered some difficulty with the new Lord of Coldvalley.”

Memories of heat and light flooded my mind.No escape. No darkness.I’d been careless in Nordlinga, stepping through shadows in an effort to gather information for my friends. When the enemy caught me, they’d known exactly how to ensure I couldn’t leave their dungeon.

“The former Lord of Coldvalley,” I said, pleased when my tone was as cool as my father’s. “Lorsten Hallerson is dead.”And he’ll never use light against me again.

The animosity in the air thickened. My father gripped his chair. “You acted foolishly, putting yourself in harm’s way.”

Anger rose swiftly, its heat obliterating my reserve. “You meanyouput me in harm’s way. I begged you not to send me to Nordlinga. But you didn’t listen. Fortwo years, I lived in the bitter cold. You sent me North to nurse Prince Sigurn’s father?—”

“I sent you North to wed Prince Sigurn!” my father growled, smashing his golden fist on the arm of his chair. He leaned forward, his eyes glittering. “I gave you clear instructions, Mirella. You were to wed Sigurn and join our house with Nordlinga. But as always, you decided to disobey me and do exactly as you please.”

I couldn’t recall when I first realized my father hated me. Like breathing, it had always been a constant in my life. When I was young, the servants had whispered that I killed my mother.She was a big child,they murmured when they thought I couldn’t hear. Too large for the poor, sweet Lady Ondine to deliver.

A physician had traveled all the way from Rogue’s Run to cut me from my mother’s stomach. According to the servants, I was the image of my mother. I had no way of knowing if their assertions were true. My father had taken down her portraits, and he forbade the household to speak of her.

His lordship grieves, Aedith had once told me as she brushed my hair. She’d lifted a handful of the bright red waves, her eyes soft and sad.It’s such a pretty color. Just like your lady mother’s.

I understood my father’s pain. But I’d never understood why he punished me for something beyond my control.

I held his gaze now, anger threatening to choke me. “I didn’t disobey you, my lord. As I’m sure you’re aware, Sigurn crossed the Covenant to wed Queen Liria of the Winter Court and her consort, King Ronan.”

That particular turn of events still made an odd sensation prickle over my skin. Try as I might, I couldn’t picture the large, battle-hardened Sigurn bedding the Winter QueenandRonan Morendiel…together. But Sigurn had been frost-touched, his life secretly entwined with Lord Ronan’s for years. The scandal had been the talk of Purecliff when I returned, and the servants had peppered me with questions about Sigurn abandoning the throne of Nordlinga to live in Ishulum with his new wife—and new husband. But I had little information to offer. Sigurn had always treated me kindly, but he’d never taken me into his confidence.

I also knew better than to speak of the elves around my father.

Anger glinted in his eyes. “That travesty of a marriage would have never happened if you did as I ordered and convinced Sigurn to take you to wife.”

Bitterness settled around me like a heavy cloak. My father had never said it explicitly, but his instructions prior to sending me North had been clear: I was to wed Sigurn Brighthelm by any means possible, including sharing his bed until he decided to make an honest woman of me.

Unfortunately for my father, I drew the line at prostituting myself for the family name.

“You’re right,” I said. “I couldn’t charm Sigurn to the altar. Maybe I should have rolled myself into a carpet and had his knights deposit me at his feet.”

Something dangerous flashed across my father’s features. “You make light of a serious situation, girl. The stakes are higher than you could possibly know.”

“I understand the stakes. But I stand by my words. Sigurn didn’t love me.”

“Love matches are for peasants,” my father said, and I bit my tongue against the impulse to argue. By all accounts, he’d loved my mother deeply.

---