Page 117 of The Stolen Throne
Is he back in control? “Reven?”
He shoots his other hand up, chest still heaving. “Don’t let go.”
Let go? If this is helping, I can do more than that. I wrap my arms around his middle, pressing my face to his back. Please let this make it easier for him.
His muscles ripple under my cheek as he breathes. Then he pats my hand and forces himself upright. Bringing us both to standing, he pulls me around to his side so I can see his face, determination hardening the sharp edges of his features. Lacing our fingers together, he bends a look on the barricade of foliage before us. The shadows, still wavering in the air like they don’t know what to do, suddenly shoot out from him again. Forming into a single thin band, shadow punches through the queen’s thorny tomb, and I think I hear the metallic tink of a chain on the other side. Is he trying to take the amulet?
Reven wraps his hands around the line of shadow like a rope and pulls, but nothing moves. He digs in, leaning back, the muscles of his arms and back straining the seams of his clothes.
Still no movement from the other side.
A great yell punches from him, reverberating all around me. Something on the other side gives way, and Reven flies backward. In a blink, he disappears, then reappears in a crouch.
The rope of darkness dissipates, but whatever he pulled out—something still shadowy and shapeless—floats up to the buttressed rafters. I think maybe a menacing laugh goes with it, reminding me of the temple in Tyndra, and then it’s gone, too. Reven stares up at it, chest heaving.
“What just happened?”
He doesn’t look at me. “I’m not sure.”
He’s not sure or he doesn’t want to tell me?
That’s when I hear Istrella. A small gasp, then, on the other side of her hedge, low murmurs. Loving murmurs. I can only make out a few words. Only the queen speaks.
“…time to let it go…”
“…can’t you see how this has ruined you…ruined us…”
“…return to me, my love…”
Then the soft, heart-wrenching sounds of sobbing. The king.
With a creak like leather being twisted, the prickly hedge starts to move, branches unwinding and unbending until, through a gap, Istrella’s handless wrist emerges, a black glass amulet so like mine dangling off her arm.
I reach out to take it.
“Stop.”
I snatch my hand back at Reven’s curt warning.
“We don’t know what the amulets can do.”
Right.
Visibly struggling, a small tongue of darkness retrieves the amulet from the queen. Then that pocket of shadow where I know Reven hides things appears and the necklace is slipped inside. Where Eidolon’s Shadows can’t find it, but also, I suspect, where it hopefully can’t have any adverse effect on anyone.
Smart. And maybe the most self-sacrificing, foolish move Reven could make, given the way he’s already battling evil. Carrying around a potentially dangerous amulet is only going to make things harder for him.
As the pocket closes, disappearing from sight, the darkness inside me tugs uncomfortably.
There’s movement from within the thorns and brambles. Branches pull back one by one, drawing back into the queen. She kneels before the king, who still sits on the throne, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands.
As we watch, the forced youth that had held him in thrall falls away. A groan of pain escapes his lips as he doubles over and rapidly ages before our eyes. It’s like he’s experiencing all of it at once, twitching and moaning as his body catches up with time in a process that is both fascinating and gruesome to watch. When he lifts his head, his eyes are no longer as bright, his hair not so red. There’s silver at his temples and age spots on his cheeks. He’s still a handsome man, but now he matches his queen. He stares at Istrella, searching her face, then crumples.
“Istrella,” he whispers. Then his breath hitches. “It wasn’t me.”
Tears welling in her eyes, the queen smiles and places her lips to his cheek. “I know.”
He reaches for her hands, but when he only encounters the blunt ends of her wrists, he drops his gaze to stare, stricken. His expression breaks. “The voice told me you were evil…”
