Page 85 of The Stolen Throne
Still... Please, no voices. I aim that thought at Aryd’s amulet. Let me just make sure Reven is okay and then go back to bed without anything happening. Is that too much to ask?
There are several paths leading to nearby clearings and glens here. An odd sort of déjà vu hits me as I move through the forest, and I huff an unamused laugh because this feels like the first night Reven brought me to the Shadowood. I couldn’t sleep that time, either, and went wandering.
Tonight is different.
The Shadowood is frosted over now. No glowing lanterns hang from posts around the village. Only a few souls slumber in their beds rather than three hundred. After seeing this place so alive and warm, the coldness to it now is hard to stomach. All three moons have hidden their faces, so I don’t even have their silvery light to guide my way.
But I know where I’m going.
I barely make it out of the village before a rustle disturbs the nearby underbrush. Bene prowls forward, head lowered, staring at the spot. Despite the large predator standing there, a hare the color of snow emerges. She sniffs the air, nose twitching, then tries to hop around him.
As soon as she sees me, she stops, then in what might be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, gives me a bunny bow.
Bene snorts a sound that might be telling her to get lost or might be surprise. I’m not sure which.
“Do animals approach you like that often?”
I think of the sand foxes. But also, before I got trapped in the palace, there were the kirin and the death worm, and even the old she-wolf that lives in these woods. “Only in the last few months.”
He grunts another nonanswer and we move along.
Thankfully, I reach the clearing without a problem, and the knots in my stomach untie a bit. This open space with a babbling brook that cuts through the center is a break in the trees, letting starlight in. At the far end stands the Sacred Tree of Tyndra, weeping sweet nectar. While not as tall as the massive red-wooded trees that make up the Shadowood, it’s still glorious, with elegant limbs that reach out from its center and broad, flat leaves that are a brilliant shade of red in the sunlight.
Also like last time, Reven is seated in what appears to be a swirling, contorting throne made of shadow, back regally straight, only without the circle of blue glowing jedite stones around him. After hearing what those gems really are, is he not using them anymore?
He must be here to absorb more shadow, reinforce his power. Does he do this every night? Maybe this is why our time here is the longest we’ve gone without him losing control since he got me out of the palace.
If I didn’t know better, I’d relax.
A few steps closer, and I realize he’s holding something in one hand. I stumble to a halt as it glints at me in the starlight. Confusion hits me first, fluttering and swirling, followed by the sting of resentfulness. Because I know what it is.
My glass flower.
Why is he holding the gift I gave him? He cut me off. Broke us up before we could become…us. A painful sort of hope that he’s regretting that more than he’s letting me see threatens to knock me over. Asking him would feel like begging for him to want me, to hurt as much as I am. My pride won’t let me do that. Which also makes standing here in this place way harder than I expected it to be. Too many memories.
“You shouldn’t have come.” That familiar, silky voice slides through the darkness of night.
His eyes are open now, gaze trained on me.
“You can go back,” I tell Bene, who is standing at my side. “I’ll be okay.”
The Devourer gives Reven a narrow-eyed stare, then, with a snort, lumbers back toward the village. I catch Reven’s flat-lipped annoyance. He’s annoyed? Too bad.
Coming around the bend, I stop at the edge of the clearing and cross my arms in a useless gesture to either contain my feelings or protect myself from more of the same. “You’re breaking the rules, being here alone.”
“Bene knew where I was.”
“That doesn’t help if something happens.”
“I’m fine.”
I roll my eyes. “Toddlers use that kind of logic.” I pitch my tone higher like a small child is speaking. “Nothing’s happened before, so it won’t this time.”
His nostrils flare. “Are you calling me childish?”
“If the mental age fits the action—” I cut myself off. I’m picking a fight, and I know it. My frustration is not about him being out here alone. Or not directly. My problem is that I’d rather be with him. That’s what’s bugging me. Not that he broke the rules but that he’s completely alone. I hate that he’s alone. That he’s fighting whatever it is he’s fighting, and I can’t help him. He won’t let me.
“You have so many expressions,” he grumbles.
