Bride of the Shadow King
: Chapter 9

The pressure feels as though it will crack my skull in two.

I roll onto my side, clutching bedclothes to my chest, drawing deep breaths and holding them as long as possible before letting them out in long gusts. It helps. But only a little. Gods, I should have known better than to linger so long at the feast! The accumulation of all that emotion has left me weak, trembling. I’ve already vomited up everything I ate. My throat burns and my mouth tastes foul, and still my body is wracked with dry heaves.

A little knock on the door. “Fairie?”

It’s Ilsevel.

I cannot answer. I can only lie here, holding my breath, hoping she will go away.

The door creaks behind me. Just a little. I feel my sister’s hesitation as she peers into the dark chamber, lit only by near-dead coals on the hearth. “Fairie,” she says softly, “are you awake?”

I close my eyes, counting my heartbeats. Hoping, praying.

“I just wanted to thank you. For being with me tonight.” She’s silent for a few moments, as though considering her next words. “You were right. The Shadow King wasn’t as bad as I feared. Maybe . . . maybe it will all be . . .”

She leaves that last thought unfinished. A moment later, the door clicks shut again. The pressure of my sister’s feelings leaves the atmosphere, and I let my breath out in another long, shuddering exhale. At least now I know that whatever resentment I’d felt from her in the banquet hall wasn’t directed at me. Thank the gods. I would hate to cause my sweet Ilsevel pain.

Groaning, I roll over and stare up at the canopy of my bed. For some moments I simply lie there, waiting for I’m not sure what. For the pain to pass. For sleep to claim me. For the feelings whirling in my head to still.

For the image of silvery pale eyes set beneath a broad, noble brow to fade.

With another groan, I push back my blankets and sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. A wave of dizziness passes over me. I brace myself until it rolls on by. My limbs feel weak and shuddery, but I rise, stagger across the room to the wash basin. The water inside is filmed with ice. I break it with my elbow, then splash cold droplets on my face, rubbing my eyes. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. My skin crawls, my stomach churns, my limbs ache. When one of these fits takes hold of me, there’s nothing to do but ride it out. I’m trapped. A prisoner in my own body.

Oh, how I long for the cold mountain air of the convent! For the relative peace and calm of that life, separated from all the intrigues of court. “Soon,” I whisper, my breath puffing out in white vapors. “It will all be settled soon. Then you’ll go back where you belong, and all this will be nothing but a memory.”

A memory . . . a beautiful, almost illicit memory . . .

My gaze catches on a mound of fabric draped over the back of a chair. I don’t recognize it at first. Then it comes to me: Vor’s cloak. I stare at it for some moments, chewing my dry lower lip. On impulse, I snatch it up and wrap it around myself. Pulling a fold of cloth over my face, I breathe in deeply. That scent of dark earth and sweet spice fills my nostrils, creeps into my head.

The fog clears; the pain dissipates. Not entirely. But enough.

“Oh!” I sigh, sinking into the chair. “Oh, gods, thank you!”

I sit there for I don’t know how long, inhaling his scent, exhaling relief. When my mind is finally clear, I pull back the cloth and look at my bed once more. I should try to sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day. I need whatever strength I can gather.

Instead, I rise, pulling the cloak a little tighter around my body. It’s the work of a moment to replace a pair of tall boots. Then I’m slipping from the room, making my way through the cold, dark passages of Beldroth. No torches are lit or lanterns hung at this hour of the night. I meet no one as I go. The whole castle seems to be caught in a dreamlike stillness.

I replace the door I seek and step out into the courtyard. The night sky is heavily overcast, and the air holds the scent of snow. Brisk winter winds pinch my cheeks, but Vor’s cloak is warm. I pull the hood low over my face and hasten across the paving stones, making my way to a small door set in the far wall. It is unlocked, and I pass through into a garden sheltered within the walls of the castle itself. It’s not expansive—a low hedge maze, a series of pale stone walkways, a few fruit trees, now dormant. A pond in the center is frozen over with a dark glaze of ice.

I make my way to the pond and take a seat on a stone bench. Down under the ice, turtles and fish lie slumbering in hibernation. There’s a sleepy sort of peacefulness in the air. The shrubs and trees around me are skeletal and stark, their branches edged in frost. They look dead, but if I close my eyes, I can almost feel the life in their centers, just waiting for the call of spring to summon them awake.

I tuck my arms around myself. “Goddess,” I whisper through gritted teeth and lift my gaze from the dark, frozen pool to the sky above. Heavy clouds limned with moonlight roll by overhead. “Nornala, Goddess of Unity, giver of life and love . . . what am I to do?”

I wait. In silence. In expectation. In hope.

But I already know the answer. There can be only one answer for the likes of me. I will support Ilsevel. I will serve my king and my country. And when I’ve done all I can with my limited abilities, I will return to the convent and live out the rest of my life in seclusion. My gods-gift will have fulfilled its purpose, calming Ilsevel long enough for her to realize the Shadow King is a good match for her. Beyond that, I’m no longer necessary. Not here. Not anywhere.

Is this then to be the sum total of my existence? Hiding? Trying not to cause trouble? Trying not to get in the way, to be an inconvenience to those who feel obliged to care for me. What kind of life is that? Gods above, I feel as though my skin is crawling with my spirit’s need to break free! To fly, to soar. To escape.

I sit on that bench, gazing up at the sky. My chapped lips move, breathing out strands of frozen air. “Like a phoenix,” I whisper.

“Faraine.”

My heart leaps to my throat, pounding hard enough to choke. I whirl in my seat, the hood falling back from my face. A tall, pale figure stands on the path behind me.

“Forgive me,” the Shadow King says. “I do not mean to intrude upon your reverie.”

“Oh!” I let out my breath in a rush. My heart seems to drop from my throat to my gut, thudding hard. With an effort, I replace my voice. “Oh, no! You’re not an intrusion. Not at all.”

There’s just enough moonlight to illuminate his smile. He takes a few steps nearer. “May I sit?”

I nod and slide to one side, making room on the bench. He perches on the edge, his hands on his knees. He’s still wearing the open-fronted tunic from the feast, with the metal collar across his shoulders and the braided belt at his waist. The silk front gapes, offering a clear view of his muscled torso. I realize I’m staring and look away quickly. Instead, I focus my gaze on his hands, on those surprisingly long, graceful fingers.

“Are you cold, Your Highness?” I ask abruptly. “I . . . I did not mean to steal your cloak. Would you like to have it back?”

He turns another smile my way. His eyes are strangely bright, glowing with their own inner light. It would be disconcerting if it wasn’t so beautiful. “I don’t feel the cold,” he says. “And I’d rather you didn’t freeze on my account. But tell me, Faraine: are we no longer the friends we were?”

“Your Highness?”

“There. See? You’ve done it again.” He tilts his chin, looking at me from beneath his puckered brows. “My name is Vor. Remember?”

“Oh.” I turn away quickly, focusing my gaze on the ripples frozen into the surface of the pond. “We are no longer travelers on the open road. Here in Beldroth, certain decorum must be maintained.”

“Even when there’s no one around to care?”

“Especially then.”

“Ah.” He goes silent, considering. Then: “Very well, princess.”

We say nothing for some moments. I wonder if I should rise, make some polite excuse, and leave. But what kind of excuse can I offer for being outside in this frigid air at this hour of the night? Everything I come up with sounds foolish in my own head. So, I hold my tongue.

“It’s more barren than I anticipated,” the king says suddenly. He waves a vague hand. “I’d heard tell of human gardens and their bountiful colors and aromas. This isn’t what I’d envisioned.”

A small laugh springs to my lips. “It is winter, after all.”

“Is that right?” He looks curious. “I seem to remember something about that. About . . . seasons.”

“Do you not have seasons in Mythanar?”

“No. Beneath the earth, we are not subject to the whims of weather or the turning of the sun. We organize our lives according to the cycles of Vagungad instead.”

“And what is . . .” I hesitate before making an attempt. “What is vah-goon . . .”

“Vagungad? It is the holy cycle of our god. When the cycle is at its lowest, my people spend periods of time in deeper darkness, near to the stone from which we sprang. When the cycle is at its peak, however, we live closer to the light and are more animated, as it were.”

“Is there any light underground?”

“More light than you can imagine. More light, more color, more life. More everything.”

The passion in his voice stirs my blood. Even my frozen fingers and toes are suddenly warm. “I struggle to imagine it. When I think of being underground, I think of . . .”

“What?” His tone is encouraging.

“Well,” I admit slowly, “I think of a tomb. Cold. Dark. And dead.”

He is silent for a few breaths. Have I insulted him? I should say something, replace some way to take back my ill-thought words. Before I can gather my wits enough to speak, however, he says, “I wish I could show you Mythanar. At urz-va, the high point of the holy cycle. Then the jiru blossoms are in full bloom, and the urzul crystals sing, and the Living Light is at its peak. Troldefolk love the dark, but . . . well, I am not pure trolde blood. I carry human blood in me as well, so perhaps that is why I love the urz-va more.”

His words paint such sensations in my head. Not visions, for I have no way of envisioning the strange things of which he speaks. It’s more like color and music, all blended into one, weaving together in impossible patterns. I close my eyes and let myself revel in the feeling, the sweetness of tantalizing longing it instills in me.

Then I frown. “You have human blood?” I open my eyes and catch his gaze on me.

“Yes.” He blinks. “Did you not know? My mother was human.”

“Oh! Then marriage to a . . . a . . .” I stop, uncertain I should continue.

He finishes for me. “Marriage to a human is not so strange to me after all, no. Though I confess, I replace this manner of bartering for a bride more than a little unsettling.”

I manage a small smile. “Is marriage bartering not a trolde pastime then?”

“No, indeed. Traditionally, marriage matches are made during the marhg.”

“And what does that mean?”

“The Hunt.”

I draw my head back and raise my eyebrows. Vor laughs outright. “It’s not what you’re imagining! Loving pairs who desire to wed participate. Back in the First Age, there was perhaps an ominous twist to it all, and in the wild, trolls practice a more feral version of the marhg. But in civilized Mythanar, it’s all much more polite. Men arm themselves and give their desired brides a head start into the tunnels outside the city. At the sound of the zinsbog, the chase is on. A couple that comes together too easily is said to be weaker. The longer and more arduous the hunt, the more successful the marriage match. At least according to tradition.” His teeth flash in the pale moonlight. “Somehow, no bridegroom ever fails to chase down his quarry. And it’s all highly entertaining to observers.”

I snort. “I suspect Ilsevel would be better suited to such a form of courtship.”

“Yes, I did get that impression of your sister.”

We lapse back into silence. As though the image of Ilsevel has suddenly come to sit between us on that little bench. I clear my throat softly. “I trust Ilsie sang for you this evening. Did you enjoy her performance?”

“Why, yes. She did.” Vor adjusts his seat as though he’s suddenly uncomfortable. “She took me by surprise. You’d told me of her gods-gift, of course, but I wasn’t aware how such a gift could manifest.”

“Are there no gods-gifts among your people?”

“No, indeed. Not among troldefolk nor any of the fae, as far as I know. If I understand it right, gods-gifts are meant to be a pacifier from the gods to humans, whom they made less magical than their fae counterparts.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

Vor chuckles. “I’m afraid I’ve insulted you. Please, take no offense. It is a simple fact that fae are born with magic in their blood, whereas humans are not. So, the gods-gifts are more unusual and more powerful as a result.”

I duck my head, hoping he cannot see the flush staining my cheeks. Heavens above, but his laugh is such a dangerous thing! I could so easily learn to crave the sound. “I thought trolde were not magical like other fae,” I say hastily to cover my embarrassment.

“Not like other fae,” he acknowledges. “But we have magic of our own, make no mistake. We are not for glamours so much as for influences. And unlike the rest of the fae, we can make. We have our own forms of art and craft, and in that respect, we are more like humans. Some speculate that original troldekind were the turning point of creation—the pivotal moment at which the gods turned from creating fae to creating humans. Or vice-versa. No one really knows which came first, only that troldefolk are in the middle.”

I soak in the information he imparts. My education has been so limited, my knowledge of the fae mostly comprised of rumors I’ve picked up, all pertaining to their viciousness, beauty, and cunning. Of the troldefolk I’ve heard next to nothing, and most of what I have heard has proven inaccurate.

“Your people and your ways sound fascinating.” The words slip unguarded from my lips. “I wish I could see it. Mythanar, I mean.”

“You could.”

I look up, meet his gaze.

“If all goes well with the negotiations tomorrow,” he persists. The dark pupils of his eyes dilate, becoming deep pools of midnight filled with the light of distant stars. “Would you come?”

Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Surely not. Surely I’m imagining that earnestness underscoring his voice. But oh! I long to respond to it! How can it be that a mere two days have wrought such an unexpected change in my heart? Filling me with hopes and dreams I have no business indulging.

But he’s here. Beside me. I feel the radiating warmth of his soul, clearer to my gods-gifted senses even than the beauty of his face or the timbre of his voice. I know exactly what he’s asking. My mouth opens, my lips move. My answer rests on the very tip of my tongue.

Instead, I replace myself saying: “What do you hope to gain in coming here, Vor?”

He blinks, surprised at my tone perhaps. He’d leaned in toward me but now draws back a fraction. “I should think that was obvious. I hope to gain a wife.”

“Yes, but why? Why have you come seeking here, in this world? No doubt any number of trolde women would gladly become your queen. You have another purpose in knocking at my father’s door.”

He turns from me, leans his elbows on his knees, and gazes across the winter-wrapped garden. His chest expands in a sigh. “It’s the Miphates,” he says at last. “I have a . . . a need back home. A difficulty that requires a magical solution. Fae magic won’t do, nor trolde. This requires something different. Human magic, but on a scale as yet unseen in this world or any other.”

There’s something in his voice, in his soul. A darkness which I now realize has been there all along, but which I had not recognized until this moment. It’s like a great, clawed creature, clinging to his shoulders, weighing him down. Crushing him beneath its weight.

I nod slowly. Now I understand. Not everything, perhaps. But enough. Enough to know what answer I must give.

“If you take my sister as your bride, my father will honor his agreement.”

Vor looks up sharply, his eyes seeking mine. I duck my head, focus on my folded hands. Am I betraying Ilsevel by telling Vor this? Am I securing a fate she would not choose for herself? Perhaps.

I continue, nonetheless: “My father does not love easily. But he loves Ilsevel.”

Vor is silent for some time. At long last, he lets out a breath. “I understand.”

I feel the abrupt shift in his spirit, feel how he pulls back from me. Only as he retreats do I recognize just how close he’d drawn. So, I wasn’t mistaken. He was offering me something . . . something I very much want to accept. Something I must refuse. For his sake.

We are silent for a little while. Then Vor rises. I close my eyes a moment before tilting my head to look up at him. “I will leave you now, princess,” he says, offering a short bow. “I trust I will see you again before my visit here is done?”

“Yes, thank you.” I tip my head politely. “I’m sure we shall meet.”

Without another word, he turns and starts back across the garden, following the path. I watch him go. I tell myself not to let my gaze linger. But somehow, I cannot resist what feels like my final glimpse of this stranger who has, in so short a space of time, worked such a change in my heart.

He reaches the door in the wall. Shadows close around him, obscuring him from my view. The next moment, he’s gone.

When we see one another again, he will be a different man entirely. A man who belongs to my sister.