24

The Wrong Family Tree

Morning light pulls me out of a dreamless, deep rest, and I find myself opening my eyes to the ceiling I’d stared at so much last night. I feel like all I’ve done for weeks now is open my eyes to something new. I frown, taking in the way I’m sprawled across the bed. Usually I sleep in a ball on my side and facing the door. If I can put my back against a wall, even better. But I’m not doing that. I’m laying on my back, arms flung wide, vulnerable…and rested.

And I’m in my room in the Shadowood.

That can’t be right. The last thing I remember was talking with Reven in that clearing. I frown harder. I was sitting on a chair made of…shadows? How did I get back here?

Oh hells, I’m pretty sure I fell asleep. Maybe even in his arms. I squeeze my eyes shut and groan, because it dawns on me that each night of our journey here, I didn’t sleep until I knew he was there.

That’s a big problem.

I yank a pillow on top of my face and groan louder.

“How do you feel?” The familiar voice has me staring with horror into the underside of my pillow.

Setting it carefully aside, I slowly push myself to sitting, pulling my braid over one shoulder before lacing my hands in my lap primly. “You scared me.”

Reven lounges in the chair in the corner of my room. Completely rested. Shaved, even. He’s dressed already, in what I would describe as the more casual, working clothes of a huntsman, with a long-sleeve shirt, breeches, and leather boots, though still all in black. I guess someone who uses shadow the way he does would blend in better in black. The top of his shirt is unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled back, and he appears completely male in a way that I find disturbing.

He stares back, utterly serious and unapologetic.

“Sorry,” he offers.

Scratch the unapologetic part. My eyebrows reach for my hairline. “Was that an actual expression of regret?”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Embarrassed is more the case. I stay perfectly still and quiet, the sense of being prey dropping over me. Which should have happened last night, come to think of it. At some point, were there shadow teeth? I blame how tired I was.

“By being in your room,” he explains, frowning a little at my nonresponse, sharp gaze sweeping over me. Missing nothing. “How do you feel?” He repeats his first question when I stay quiet.

I clear my throat. “Confused.” Actually, confused doesn’t begin to cover it. “How did I get here?”

“I carried you back.”

Well, hells. I’ve never liked any whiff of helplessness, one of the few things Omma taught me that stuck. That isn’t something I am ever allowed to be. Not if I want to make it longer than my eighteen years in this life.

I search Reven’s face for any sign that I’d said something I shouldn’t have last night in the clearing. But, as usual, that stony countenance gives nothing away. Actually…wait. There’s a hint of amusement in his expression. Just a twinkle. Is he enjoying this? Jackass.

But that’s gone as quickly as I spotted it when he says, “You shouldn’t seek me out like that. Especially at night.”

If the words weren’t a warning, his tone would be. Pure rancor.

I should probably shiver or something. I don’t, though. “Why?”

“Just promise me you won’t do it again.”

I stare at him. Some promises I just can’t make.

His hands, still on the armrests, curl into fists. “We need to talk.”

Which is not an answer, but maybe he’s going to finally give me one. Not here, though, where I’m still sleep tousled and shaken with the sudden worry that I might have talked in my sleep and blown everything.

He must read my expression, because his lips press together ever so slightly. “Get dressed and meet me outside.”

Like this is going to be any normal day.

I give a sharp, single nod, and he gets to his feet, even such a simple move rippling with his power. At the door, he hesitates, looking back at me, and I think maybe disappointment swirls in his eyes. Only he leaves before I can be sure.

Quickly, I dress and re-braid my hair, which had turned into a straggly mess overnight. Outside, Reven is leaning with his forearms against the balcony, looking out over the Shadowood, almost content. As much as I’ve ever seen, certainly.

Stop thinking you know this man. These conversations with myself are becoming an unfortunate habit.

Instead of talking, he leads me down the tree’s staircase, once again positioning himself between me and the drop. It catches me off guard. Will I ever get used to these moments of chivalrous behavior from him, given the way we started?

Breakfast, I learn, is served community style at a series of long tables carved from the fallen body of one of the massive trees. The residents of the village all take turns preparing, serving, and cleaning up after meals, Reven informs me. I can also tell, by the plethora of startled glances tossed at Reven—not me, I’m pretty sure—that he doesn’t usually join them.

The meal is simple—thick pancakes of wheat spiced with cinnamon, then lathered in honey and served with dates and fresh milk. It’s so like the food from Aryd that I feel a smidgeon of home, the emotion toasting me from my core outward.

I turn my head to find Reven watching. But instead of being wary, I can’t contain a wide grin. “Was this all for me?”

Turquoise eyes sharpen, turn brighter, more disturbingly focused, as he glances first at my lips, then slowly lifts his gaze to mine. “Maybe.”

All thoughts of breakfast flee as I lose myself a little in his eyes. It strikes me that, beyond sarcastic smiles—which were probably more like grimaces—I haven’t truly offered him a sincere one since we’ve met.

And I think maybe…maybe he liked what he just saw.

I gulp. I should be holding onto the fact that the only reason I agreed to come here is so he can get me back to Tabra faster. But without the buffer of my anger… I can’t explain it. I don’t want to go.

It’s like our personalities rub against each other. Before, we were rubbing the wrong way. Now…

My mind is about to tumble down a slippery slope, so I redirect the conversation back to the meal and absolutely mean to give him a demure, Tabra-worthy, “Thank you. This is very kind.” Instead, what comes out is, “This doesn’t make us even, though.”

He leans closer, voice dropping low. “What would make us even?”

“If you’d have come to me and discussed your needs like a rational leader. That would have been a start.” I pop a piece of pancake in my mouth and chew. I need the distraction.

The villagers around us go still, and some stare. What? Does no one question this man?

He ignores them. “I didn’t have time.”

“Why not?”

“The king never leaves Tyndra.”

Eidolon? Tension steals into my shoulders. What does he have to do with Reven taking me?

“Word reached me that he would be traveling to your dominion for the coronation.” An emotion ripples over his features that I might have thought was rage, but he controls it swiftly.

“Why did that mean you needed to kidnap me?”

He glances at all the curious faces around us, and his shoulders rise and fall in a silent breath. I can practically feel him shouldering the weight of their expectations. Or maybe it’s not just their expectations. The way they act around him reminds me of how lower servants or even authoritates new to the palace acted around Grandmother. Fascinated and uncomfortable and eager to please at the same time.

It strikes me that he doesn’t fit in here. With the Vanished. Despite saving them and dressing like many of them and us eating with them. He’s still…apart.

By his own doing? I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Are you done?” he asks with a nod at my food.

I glance down at my plate and blink. When had I eaten the entire thing? “Err, I guess so.”

“Come with me.”

We make our way through the village to one of the tallest, thickest trees, where a building circles its entire girth—at least a hundred feet in the air. It’s the largest structure in any of the trees, as far as I can tell.

When it’s clear that’s where we’re headed, I stifle a groan. But once again, Reven walks beside me, putting himself between me and my fear. Instead of being embarrassed, I almost smile. I still also definitely breathe a sigh of relief when we make it to the landing at the top.

Reven knocks at a door, and a woman steps out.

Perhaps in her sixties, maybe older, her creamy skin is lined but in such a way it’s difficult to tell her age. Chin-length silver hair is more responsible for the impression of age. That and a sort of old-soul kind of wisdom around her dark gray eyes.

“This is Bina,” Reven says.

I murmur a greeting. Rather than bow or scrape or curtsy, she simply nods an acknowledgment, then, with a curious glance at Reven, goes the other way around the outside of the building, leaving us alone.

Before I can ask more about her, Reven ushers me inside the room she came out of. The first thing that hits me is the musty odor of books. The second thing is excitement. My fingers itch to reach out and touch, pick them up, inhale the scent of the pages. Books are rare and precious.

The process to make books is considered long and tedious and expensive. They don’t hold up over time, not like carvings in stone, and they’re highly flammable. In Aryd, all books are kept in the Great Library, along with scrolls and parchment and a few other forms of written record.

Great is an honorary title, by the way. There isn’t much there.

At least Omma had been required to teach me to read. As a peasant, I didn’t need the skill. As a princess and soon a queen, even as a mere stand-in, I’d look foolish if I couldn’t.

Reven lights a single candle, and I find myself staring at stacks and stacks of books. Even more than I thought at first. Too many to count.

Oh. My. Goddess.

I think I must be in the Allusian heavens because this is amazing. What would he do if I grabbed the nearest book, plunked myself down, and just got lost in the words? Maybe I can find some answers to all the questions my family has had for so long.

“Where did you get these?” I ask, hardly daring to breathe on them. They look like they’d disintegrate at a puff of strong wind.

“I’m collecting the history of…my ancestor.”

“Who?”

When Reven’s chiseled face shifts to a severe somberness that reminds me of petrified wood, I know I’m not going to like what’s coming next.

“Eidolon,” he says, letting the name fall between us.

I choke. He may as well have aimed a cannon at me and fired.

His ancestor is Eidolon?

Damnation.