Bride of the Shadow King

I stand across from Larongar in his council chamber. He bends over the table, the plume of his quill pen wafting as he signs his name in triplicate.

Part of me is appalled at the ease with which he does it. How almost carelessly he makes those signs which attach his name to the agreement between our peoples. I know where this ease of his stems from, however. He is human. The written word, though valuable to him, does not compel him. He can break his word at any time and not suffer any dreadful consequence. Not in this life, at least.

As for me? I am of Eledria. I am trolde. I am fae. Yes, I am also human, but that part of my blood is not strong enough to make me immune to the power of written magic. Once I put my name to that agreement, I will be bound unto death. Should I attempt to break that binding, I shudder to think of what would happen.

We’ve established safeguards, of course. For instance, should something happen to my heartfasted bride before the marriage can be consummated, the terms of the alliance will be rendered null. The same shall be true should the marriage go unconsummated for a full lunar cycle. So many lives hang in the balance of that consummation.

A shiver quickens my blood. For the barest instant, I recall the touch of my bride’s skin beneath my fingertips when I traced the heartfasting sigil against her breast . . . But no. Now is not the time to dwell on such things. I have two weeks before Ilsevel and I will speak our marriage vows. Perhaps while she performs her Maiden’s Journey, I, too, will have time to prepare in both mind and body for our fateful wedding night.

Larongar turns the three scrolls detailing our alliance around to face me. I see the scrawl that serves as his name mark and the dotted line where my own mark is to go. “There you are, my friend,” Larongar says, fixing me with his cat’s smile. He offers me the quill, wafting it ever so gently in the air between us. “Let us sign and be brothers henceforward.”

Standing in the shadows behind me, Sul snorts. “Since when do brothers wed each other’s daughters?” he mutters in troldish.

“Shut up, Sul,” Hael hisses.

I hold Larongar’s gaze for a long moment. I cannot shake the feeling I’ve missed something, that this sly viper of a man has somehow slipped some subtle phrase into the agreement, some twist of the words that will entrap me to his will. That by signing, I will condemn my people to die in his wars, and Mythanar will be left undefended.

I cannot hesitate. I cannot show weakness.

I take the pen. It is many years now since my mother first taught me the scrawling lines that form my name, and I have had no opportunity to practice since then. But it comes back to me well enough. I write the three simple marks. Behind me, I feel the collective breath drawn by my people as they watch me perform this simple spell. A magic so different from their own. So powerful. So dangerous. That I should even be able to perform such a feat will always render me a little strange and terrible in their eyes.

I come to the end of the word—my name—and lift the pen from the page. Power simmers in the air. The power of human magic. Of written magic.

Gods on high, what have I done?

I’ve risked everything to save Mythanar.

I can only pray the risk will prove worth the reward.

“And here,” Larongar says, pointing to the copy. “And here.” I sign the duplicate copies. Then, setting the quill aside, I offer my hand. Larongar takes it, putting power into his grip, his grin wide and full of teeth. I respond with a thin-lipped smile of my own and apply a fraction more pressure. Larongar’s smile hardens, and his one eye widens. But he doesn’t let go. “Good dealings, my friend,” he says. “I look forward to the day when I may call you son. I’ve always wanted a proper son to fight by my side in these dark times.” He casts a glance Theodre’s way. “No offense.”

The prince of Gavaria lounges in a chair close to the hearth, his feet propped on a stool. “Oh, none taken, Father,” he sneers. “I much prefer to be an improper son.”

“You’re an imbecile is what you are.” Larongar turns back to address me. “And will your people stay one more night?”

I release my grip at last, noting the way he surreptitiously puts both hands behind his back, massaging his palm. “I thank you, no. My Master of Beasts is even now preparing the morleth to ride. We will set out as soon as the sun has fully set. Many thanks, Larongar, for your hospitality.”

“Hospitality, my arse!” Larongar chuckles and reaches across the table to clap my shoulder. “Thank me for fathering the prettiest little piece of maiden flesh this side of the worlds. I assure you, you’ll be doubly glad you made the bargain once you get Ilsevel home and into bed. But enough of that now.” He takes a step back from the table, raises an eyebrow, and nods to indicate my people standing behind me. “Perhaps you’ll leave one or two of those strapping warriors of yours here. You know, to begin preparing for the spring campaign.”

I chuckle but take care to show my sharp canines in a flash. “Once Ilsevel is safely ensconced in Mythanar, then will my people prepare for war. No sooner.”

“Aye, of course.” Larongar nods. “And once Ruvaen is ousted from that fortress of his, I will be only too eager to send my Miphates to deal with your . . . little problem.”

I look from Larongar to his three mages, clad in their richly embroidered robes. Their bearded faces are enigmatic. I catch the eye of the foremost among them, Mage Wistari. The old man holds my gaze, his expression positively serene. So why do I get such a strong impression of unadulterated hatred?

It’s a relief to leave that council room behind. We’ve spent too much time there over the last three days. There were moments when I feared we’d come all this way for nothing, that the tentative structure of friendship we’d labored to build was about to crumble around our ears. Now, at last, the mission is accomplished. I’ve signed. There remains only to take my bride, make her mine, and seal the alliance upon my marriage bed.

We step into the apartment suite that has been our home these last several days. It feels empty and echoing now, cleared of our gear. “Gods!” Sul says, pulling a chair back from the central table and flinging himself into it. “If I have to hear the word consummation one more time, I swear I’ll go mad. Don’t get me wrong—I consider myself a consummate consummator. But something about that word makes it all sound so sordid. Why can’t they simply say, ‘Once you’ve given the young lady a right proper grundling, all will be complete’?”

“Shut up, Sul,” Hael growls, then turns to me. “Do you require anything, my king?”

What I require is space to get my thoughts in order. What I require is assurance that I’ve made the right decision, that I’ve not just doomed good men and women to die with the flick of a pen. What I require is a bride I can trust, can bear to spend the rest of my life with.

“Are our people ready to travel?” I ask.

“Soon. Will you come to the courtyard?”

“I’ll wait in my room.” So saying, I cross the space and step through the door into my personal chamber. “Let me know when all is prepared. I wish to leave the minute the sun has set.”

The door shuts firmly, blocking out their faces. I can still hear Sul’s voice on the far side. “Have I offended your delicate sensitivities, beloved Hael? Is grundled too blunt for you? I’m sure I can come up with a more palatable alternative if given proper inspira—ow!”

“Keep your tongue between your teeth, or I’ll hit you harder next time.”

“I can think of other places I’d rather put my tongue—ow! All right, all right! Juk, Hael, don’t hand me such opportunities if you don’t want me to take them!”

Their voices fade as Hael chases Sul from the room, leaving a ringing silence in their wake. I let out a long breath and turn to face the bedchamber. I’m not sure what to do. My belongings are already packed, and I’ve nothing with which to occupy myself. Would that we were already on the open road! But it’s impossible to get the morleth mobile before sunset. So we must wait. Just a little longer. Then we can put this whole gods-blighted world behind us. Until we’re summoned back to fight.

I look down at the leather-and-silver scroll holder I carry. My copy of the agreement, to be safeguarded in Mythanar. Physical evidence of the contractual spell that already holds me in its grip. Will it be worth it?

A morleth bray sounds from beyond my window. I stride across the room and peer through the leaded glass. Shadows fill the courtyard below, and I watch people drag our mounts out into open air. They do not like manifesting in physical form in this world and protest mightily, hawing and braying and snarling viciously even as saddles are loaded on their backs and bits shoved between their teeth. Amid all that commotion, I should not have noticed a flicker of movement from the tail of my eye. But I turn my gaze sharply, searching out the same little door I’d seen open four nights ago.

A slight figure steps into view. A figure wearing my cloak.

Faraine.

My heart springs to my throat. I’d thought she was gone. I’d thought she’d already been sent from Beldroth, for I haven’t so much as glimpsed her nor heard a whisper of information about her since our last meeting. Yet there she is, her hooded head turned toward the noise and activity on the opposite side of the courtyard. She sidles unseen along the wall, making for the entrance to the garden.

I watch her go, considering. Then, giving in to a foolish impulse, I push my window open and climb out. No one sees me as I descend the outside of the castle wall. No one would even think to look up here, and it’s easy enough for me to keep in the shadows as I make my way down. My fingers and feet find secure holds in the dead stone, and an old vine offers a little support, though I know better than to trust it with the whole of my weight. In less than a minute, I reach solid ground. Taking care not to draw my people’s attention, I follow in Faraine’s footsteps, sticking close to the wall until I reach the garden door. I duck my head and step through.

It’s strange . . . I was just here yesterday for the heartfasting. I walked these same paths on my way to one of the most important moments of my life. Yet somehow today the atmosphere brims with so much more significance. Those skeletal trees casting their claw-like shadows beneath the setting sun are studded with jewel-like bulbs of green, ready to burst into bloom. I feel the life in them as I couldn’t before. I feel the song of their roots humming in the soil. The air is full of expectation and renewal.

Faraine sits on the same bench where last we spoke. I cannot see her as clearly by the sun’s fading glow as I could by moonlight, but I would recognize her form anywhere, even wrapped in the thick folds of my cloak.

I start toward her. My feet seem to choose for themselves to step into the yellowed grass rather than tread the gravel path and alert her to my presence. I don’t yet know if I’m going to speak or if I will simply draw as near as I dare before retreating. Wind stirs the trees and shrubs, making the branches rub against one another in a mournful susurrus. She shivers and pulls my cloak a little closer around herself. I stop. I am but a few paces from her. Still she does not know I am here, apparently lost in her own thoughts. Should I call out to her?

No. I shouldn’t. Only yesterday, I spoke vows of faithfulness to her sister. I should turn around. Return to my people. Mount my morleth and ride from this place, banish this woman from my memory.

I take a backward step. My foot lands on a stick, which breaks with a loud crack.

Faraine whirls in place. Are those tears streaking her cheeks? Her eyes widen, her mouth gapes. Then hastily she wipes her face with the back of her hand, drawing a shuddering breath as she stands.

“Your pardon, princess,” I say, holding out both hands. Gods, what a cad I am, intruding on her privacy like this! My tongue keeps wagging, filling the silence with my excuses. “My people are preparing for travel, and I chanced to see you from my window. I thought you’d gone already. Back to the convent.”

“Oh. No.” She drops her chin, her cheeks flushing pink. “No, I promised Ilsevel I’d stay until her journey begins. I leave tomorrow.”

“Yes. Of course.” I stand there awkwardly. With every second that passes, I feel more the fool. And yet I linger.

Suddenly she looks up. “Your cloak,” she says, and fingers the embroidered edge of the garment, her mouth opening and closing with indecision. Then she pushes the hood back, unfastens the clasp, and slips it from her shoulders. Underneath, she wears that same gray gown she wore the night I danced with her. It fits her figure well, modest but not unshapely. I still remember the way the contours of her body felt when she sat before me on Knar’s saddle, wrapped in my arms. She takes a step toward me. Cold wind pushes hair back from her face, and she shivers. “Here,” she says, holding out the cloak in a bundle.

I place my hand on top of hers. “Keep it, princess. I wouldn’t want you to freeze.”

“I couldn’t. It doesn’t belong here.”

She withdraws her hands, and I have no choice but to grab the cloak or let it fall to the ground. I look down at the folds of dark fabric and the silver threads depicting a dragon that forever chases its own tail.

My throat tightens. I look up, almost surprised when I catch her eye. She stands a mere three steps back, her arms wrapped around herself, shivering. But she feels as though she’s miles away, out of reach. Yet I must reach her. Somehow. I need for her to understand . . . what?

“Princess,” I say, finding my voice with an effort, “I hope you believe me when I tell you I have every intention of treating your sister well.”

Those strange eyes of hers hold my gaze. I cannot read the expression in their depths. But my heart twists with sudden pain.

“Ilsevel is . . . She is special,” she says. “I don’t mean just her gods-gift. She is, in herself, one of a kind. Brave. Loyal. Stronger than she yet knows. She deserves . . .” Her lashes drop, hiding her gaze from me. I watch the way her white teeth bite at her full pink lip. Then, with a little shake, she lifts her head, her expression firm. “She deserves kindness. And respect.”

“She will have both. I swear it.”

“She deserves love.”

I am silent. The words simply will not come, no matter how I try. My pulse beats in my ears, counting away the seconds. Still I have not spoken. And she’s waiting. Waiting for my answer.

“By the Eye of Aneirin shall I hold myself to these vows,” I say at last, my voice low, almost a growl. “From this day until the sundering of death.”

She lets out a tightly held breath, blowing soft white strands of air before her lips. For an instant I hear a note of song humming in the air between us. It’s simple and singular, but I feel the underlying complexity, the intricate and infinite possibilities of melody. It calls to me with a longing I’ve never before felt. I’m hungry for that song, almost desperate to know all that it could become.

Then she blinks. The song is gone. Even the memory of it fades, vanishes. With a nod, she ducks her head and starts up the path that leads past me. She will not speak, not even to say goodbye. She is going, soon will be gone. I will never see her again.

“Faraine.”

She stops. She is a mere step away from me now, her gaze fixed ahead on the door in the far garden wall. But I cannot let her go. Not without something, some acknowledgement of what neither of us dares speak.

I reach out and catch her hand. She starts to pull away, but before she can, I bow at the waist and lift her knuckles to my mouth. A ripple of shock rolls out from her at the brush of my lips against her skin. Her head turns sharply, and once more I meet her gaze.

I want to speak her name again. I want to hear her speak mine.

Without a word, she withdraws her hand, tucks her chin, and flees. I cannot pursue her. I cannot call out to her. I can do nothing but watch her go.

“By the Eye of Aneirin,” I whisper. “I shall hold myself to these vows. I shall.”

She vanishes through the door. It shuts behind her, a loud and final thunk in the still, cold air. I let my breath out slowly.

Then, with a swirl of dark fabric, I don my cloak, fasten it at my throat, and pull the hood up over my head. Time to leave this world behind.