Chapter 26

Chapter

Twenty-Six

ANDRIN

S omething was wrong.

Panic clawed at my chest as I paced in front of the Edeloak. Othor’s staff lay abandoned on the ground. The ancient tree loomed above me, its leaves stirring in a soft, warm breeze. But the rustling lullaby offered no comfort. Something was wrong. It had to be.

I stopped abruptly, my gaze locked on the spot where Othor had vanished. He’d said nothing, given no sign of intent. He just dropped his staff and left, stepping into the shadows at the base of the Edeloak seconds after Rane and Mirella winked out of sight.

Why would he risk it? The Edelfen’s shadows waited, ready to pounce. They would tear him apart if he faltered. Where the fuck had he gone? And why? The questions churned in my mind, feeding the gnawing panic that rose like bile in my throat. Helplessness followed, bitter and suffocating. I couldn’t follow. Couldn’t go after Rane and Mirella to make sure they were safe.

If I left Autumn, the Edeloak would die.

The thought rooted me to the spot, its weight as heavy as the ancient tree above me. I clenched my fists, willing myself to think, to act, but there was nothing I could do. I was bound here, trapped by duty and necessity.

The staff nestled among the grass and dead leaves. I started toward it?—

Othor tumbled into the King’s Grove, landing hard on his shoulder with a pained grunt. Before I could fully absorb his sudden appearance, Rane staggered from the shadows with Mirella in his arms.

Light erupted around them, flooding the grove with brilliance like a dozen suns shimmering at once.

“Help me!” Rane cried.

Blinded, I lurched forward with my arms outstretched. “What happened?”

“Here!” he gasped, stumbling into me. He babbled, his voice hoarse as he cradled Mirella between us. “She’s the Kree. Othor stabbed— H-He had something to do— Oh gods, she’s dying, and I don’t— I can’t?—”

“Give her to me,” I said sharply, taking Mirella. She stirred, opening her eyes and gazing up at me. A knife lodged between her breasts, the blade buried to the hilt. Bright red blood mixed with shimmering gold, the colors mixing and soaking her gown.

Acting on instinct, I raced to the Edeloak and deposited her gently on the soft ground. My hands trembled as I pressed my fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. It was faint, the flutter like a hummingbird’s wing. Golden blood pumped from around the knife’s hilt, drenching her bodice. It coated my hands, gold soaking the cuffs of my jacket and smearing over the sigils around my wrists.

“I don’t know what to do,” I rasped, the confession shameful on my tongue. “What do I do?”

Her hand, weak but steady, found mine. “Andrin…”

I brushed her hair back from her forehead, tears burning my throat. “I’m here. Rane and I are both here.”

Behind me, the sound of a struggle broke the fragile silence.

“Tell me what you did!” Rane roared. A second later, he slammed Othor against the tree and pressed a knife to Othor’s throat. “Tell me how to fix her, or I’ll cut your fucking head off!”

Hatred burned in Othor’s eyes. “She can’t be fixed. She’s a vessel, nothing more.”

Rane screamed, the sound soaked in frustration and anguish. He pressed the knife deeper, and blood trickled down Othor’s neck.

“What are you talking about?” Rane demanded. “What’s a fucking vessel?”

Magic flowed over my skin, warm currents ruffling my hair and whispering around me. Mirella stared up at me, her golden eyes the same shade as the blood pumping from her chest.

“Andrin…” she whispered.

Leaves drifted around us, tumbling and dipping toward the ground. Mirella’s eyes shimmered, tiny golden rivers flowing through her irises.

Awe spread through me. Only half aware of what I was doing, I looked at the Edeloak. Then I looked at my hand coated with Mirella’s golden blood. With magic whispering in my ear, I pressed my palm to the tree.

Light spread up the trunk. One by one the leaves lit up, faces emerging. My ancestors appeared, their gazes solemn as the record of Autumn’s people spread from branch to branch.

The Edeloak’s glow spread over the King’s Grove. Still pinning Othor, Rane looked up, his face bathed in shimmering golden light.

All at once, the faces disappeared—and a vision of Walto Lornlark took their place. He moved across the oversized leaves, each one displaying the same imagery.

Walto was youthful, my sigils gleaming around his neck and his eyes sheened the same blue as mine. He hurried down a path in the Embervale, pausing to look over his shoulder. After a moment, he continued down the path, eventually arriving in the King’s Grove.

My breath caught, and I realized what was happening. The leaves tell us things if we care to listen. Before the shadows took over the Edelfen, the trees recorded history. Now, the Edeloak told me Othor’s history—and treachery.

The vision continued in the leaves above me, a hundred miniature Othors stepping from the shadows in the King’s Grove with a long, wicked-looking knife in his hand. He and Walto met beneath the Edeloak, their voices low.

“Are you certain?” Walto asked, a nervous aura around him.

Othor gave him a hard look. “We have a deal, Lornlark. Don’t forget it. You uphold your end of the bargain, and I’ll uphold mine. Understand?”

Walto’s mouth twisted. “How many more times do I have to say it?”

Othor faced the Edeloak. Spreading his arms, he chanted in the Old Language, filling the King’s Grove with magic. Dark shadows gathered, building and twisting. The wind whipped faster, tossing the Edeloak’s branches. Screams tore through the air. The Edeloak groaned, shedding leaves as the tempest built.

Othor’s chanting grew louder, rising above the howling wind. The shadows thickened—and then streaked toward Walto.

He flinched, but Othor grabbed his shoulder and held him in place. He chanted louder, his grip unyielding.

Walto’s scream tore through the grove as the sigils around his neck disintegrated, their magic siphoned away. Othor released him. Pale and trembling, Walto staggered, clutching his chest.

“It’s gone,” he gasped, his voice raw with disbelief.

Othor didn’t respond. Instead, he turned back to the Edeloak. Expression grim, he raised a knife and plunged it into the tree’s center. Light burst from the gash, illuminating the men’s faces. Wind whipped Othor’s hair and robes. Golden blood splattered his hands as he stepped back from the tree.

“Now!” he shouted.

Chest heaving, Walto reached into the wound and wrenched a massive, pulsing jewel from the tree. The size of a human brain, the Kree shimmered in his hand, its golden blood spilling to the ground. Walto turned toward Othor with a triumphant look. The Kree pulsed, and Walto’s expression fled, replaced with one of pure agony. He screamed as his hand smoked.

Othor moved quickly, wrapping the Kree in a heavy cloth. As he pulled the bundle away, Walto’s severed hand fell to the grass.

Distant footsteps rang out, followed by muffled shouts.

Othor shoved the bundled Kree into Walto’s arms. “Go!” he shouted over the wind. “If they catch you, they’ll kill you!”

Walto turned and disappeared into the shadows. Darting a look at the path, Othor spun and raced from the King’s Grove.

The vision on the leaves swirled, the images shifting. Now, Othor stood over me as I knelt before the Edeloak. Rot spread up the bark, black fingers crawling toward the knife wound that weeped golden blood. Staff in hand, Othor chanted as I plunged my fingers into the dirt. Sweat poured down my face. Othor reached his free hand down and gripped my shoulder.

“Almost there, my king. Let your magic flow into it.” He chanted in the Old Language, his deep voice conjuring a warm breeze and a rush of magic.

The rot stopped spreading. Lifting my head, I panted as the sigils around my neck thickened. For a brief moment, golden light flared in my eyes.

The vision changed. Now, the leaves displayed a slightly older Walto. He paced a richly furnished study, his golden fist clenched at his side. Othor stepped from the shadows in a swirl of robes.

“Let me see it,” Othor snapped, rushing forward with his staff in hand.

Scowling, Walto went to a bookcase and pulled a book from the shelf. A hidden door opened, revealing a large metal box with an ornate lock. Walto carried it to his desk, withdrew a key, and lifted the lid. He and Othor peered into it, their faces illuminated by a rich golden glow.

“How much longer?” Walto demanded.

Othor shut the box. “I can’t be certain. Andrin is strong. It could take a while.”

Walto raised his golden fist. “Just like you weren’t certain about this ? I’m crippled!”

Othor raised a brow. “Ease up on the dramatics, Walto. If I can give you eternal life, I can restore your hand.”

Walto’s eyes darkened. “Why don’t you focus on becoming king first.”

“I’ll return when I’m able.” Othor moved toward the shadows. “Forget our bargain at your peril, Walto.”

The vision changed. Now, an older Walto stumbled through the door of a darkened bedchamber. An older woman in a bloodstained apron turned from the bed, where a redheaded woman lay against the pillows. Pale and shivering, she blinked open bleary eyes.

“Walto?” she rasped. Her rounded stomach heaved as she gave a hoarse sob, sweat beading her brow.

The aproned woman bobbed a curtsy in Walto’s direction. “Has the doctor arrived, my lord?”

“Yes,” he said. “Now, leave us.”

The woman hesitated, her gaze going to the pregnant woman. “But ? —”

“Out!” Walto ordered. “I want to be alone with my wife.”

Gasping, the woman gathered her skirts and rushed from the chamber.

Walto crossed to the bed and took the woman’s hand. She gazed up at him, love shining in her eyes.

“Is the doctor coming?”

Walto nodded as he released her hand. His golden fist winked in the dim firelight as he used his good hand to withdraw a small square of white cloth from his jacket. “Don’t worry, Ondine. Everything will be over soon.” He pressed the cloth over her mouth and nose. She struggled, her eyes flaring as she screamed behind the cloth.

Walto grimaced, then winced as she scratched at his hand. Her legs scissored under the bedding, dislodging the sheet and exposing her swollen belly. When she went limp, Walto tossed the cloth aside. Breathing heavily, he went to the corner and returned with a leather bag. He flipped it open and withdrew a knife. For a moment, his expression wavered. He looked at the woman’s face, his mouth trembling. Then he wrenched his gaze away. Eyes grim, he cut into the woman’s belly.

The vision skipped. Now, Walto staggered to an empty cradle with a limp newborn in his bloodstained arms. He placed the child among the blankets, then picked up a bundle. Tucking it in the crook of his elbow, he used his good hand to unwrap a shimmering Kree. The jewel was smaller and dimmer now, the once brilliant jewel reduced to the size of a walnut. Black rot climbed up one side, suppressing the Kree’s golden glow.

Lips trembling, Walto began to chant, the Old Language awkward as it spilled from his lips.

The Kree’s light intensified. Walto’s hair stirred as a breeze picked up. With a trembling hand, he put the tip of the knife to the baby’s chest. Closing his eyes, he pressed the blade deep. Blood spurted.

The vision skipped.

Now, Walto thrust the Kree into a gash in the infant’s chest. Nothing happened. Walto hung his head.

Suddenly, light burst from the cradle. The baby jerked, then stretched her mouth wide and wailed. The bloody wound in her chest blazed with light and then sealed itself. Joy suffused Walto’s face as he lifted the child, who opened her eyes, revealing bright golden irises.

The vision changed, images swirling and reforming.

Now, Mirella trailed behind a hard-faced Rane as they entered the courtyard. Nobles stared, the whole Embervale turned out to watch Rane parade Lornlark’s daughter past the people he’d wronged. Pale and bedraggled, she kept her head high as Rane tugged the shadow tether, making her walk faster to avoid tripping and falling.

Othor pushed through the crowd, shock and relief flaring in his eyes before he blinked, quickly smoothing his features.

The vision changed again. Mirella gazed up at the Edeloak with moonlight puddling at her feet. Othor moved behind her. He lifted a hand toward the tree, and a soft, golden light built in his palm.

“The leaves tell us things if we care to listen.”

Light spread up the tree, revealing the faces of the elves within Autumn’s family tree. Near the bottom, Mirella’s portrait appeared.

“You are part of Autumn,” Othor said in her ear. As she gazed at the tree, he pulled a knife from his sleeve. “Your blood connects you to Ishulum.” He pointed to a patch of brown grass at the bottom of the tree.

Mirella frowned.

“The land is unwell,” Othor said, gripping the knife. “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.

Mirella turned, blinking as she appeared to search for him.

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

“Me?” She shook her 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.”

Othor stepped close, the knife tucked against his robes.

Running footsteps made them both turn. Ginhad rushed into the grove, his expression frazzled and his hair escaping its black ribbon. “Apologies for the interruption, but the king and Lord Rane have returned. Andrin is injured.”

The vision changed again.

Now, Othor stood beside me atop the Embervale’s tallest tower. “The shadows grow longer,” he said. “And thicker.” The vision skipped, and he touched my shoulder. “It’s early yet, and the Embervale sleeps. You should get some rest.” As he turned away, his lips moved.

The vision changed, and now Othor stood with Rane. His features went uncharacteristically soft as he gripped Rane’s bicep. “After everything Andrin has done for Autumn, he deserves to be happy. You make him happy. I know you’ll make him see reason.” He squeezed Rane’s arm, then turned and walked away. As Rane stared after him, Othor’s lips moved again.

The visions faded. The Edeloak’s leaves went dark. Silence fell over the grove.

I looked at Othor, rage boiling in my veins. “You,” I rasped. “It was all you. How could you do this?”

“I did it for Autumn,” he said, venom lacing his voice.

For a second, disbelief rendered me speechless. “You gave the Kree to Walto for Autumn?”

“I gave it to him for safekeeping. I had no way of knowing he’d keep it for himself.”

Rane shoved Othor harder against the Edeloak. “You fucking idiot. You trusted a human.”

“As you have?” Othor spat. He gave a bitter laugh. “The whole Embervale buzzes with news of your”—Othor’s mouth twisted—“alliance with Mirella.”

Rane pressed the knife harder against his throat. “You don’t get to say her name, you filth.”

Othor’s gaze was steady, his smile vicious. “Once again, you think with your cock instead of your head. And you’ve infected Andrin, ensuring he does the same. I told Larinor to sell you while he had the chance. Once you caught the prince’s eye, you were bound to be trouble. But he wouldn’t listen, and you wormed your way into Andrin’s bed, convincing him to free you and the rest of the shadow spawn.”

Rane’s eyes widened. “Is that what this is about? You turned traitor because you didn’t want Andrin to free us?”

“I didn’t want a king who beds down with a slave!” Othor snarled. “Autumn deserves better. I’m a Verdalis. The throne should be mine. Walto was supposed to carry the Kree into Andulum, where I could retrieve it once Andrin weakened.”

“But he didn’t do that,” I said, grim satisfaction joining my anger. “He helped you betray me. And then he betrayed you.”

“He’s impatient and greedy,” Othor said. “And I was a fool to forget the vanity of men. Once he started to age, he panicked. He was always clever. He read everything I wrote, memorizing spells and learning magic. The Kree was dying at Purecliff, its light fading. Walto was supposed to summon me so I could save it. Instead, he found a way to keep the Kree alive.”

I looked down at Mirella, wonder and fear twining through me. How could I have been so blind? A new vision formed in my head, the image wholly mine. Mirella swung in her cage with sunlight behind her and a book in her hands. I’d been unable to keep my eyes off her that day.

She’d been haloed in light.

Now I knew she was light. The heart of Autumn beat within her.

Othor’s grunt drew my gaze back to him and Rane.

“How do we get the Kree out of Mirella?” Rane demanded.

Othor hesitated. For the first time, fear flashed in his eyes.

“How?” Rane growled, pressing the blade against Othor’s jugular. “You’re the best healer we have. Save her life, or I’ll take yours.”

Dread trailed icy fingers down my spine. I held Othor’s gaze. “If you want to live, tell me how to save her.”

Othor swallowed. “You can’t,” he said finally, his voice hollow. “If you remove the Kree to save the Edeloak, Mirella will die. And if you leave it in her, Autumn will die. You can’t do both.”

Denial blazed within me. A howl thrashed in my chest, desperate to roar until every tree in Autumn shook.

“Andrin,” Othor said, his voice hard. “You have to choose.”