Bride of the Shadow King

I’m not certain why it had to be Theodre to escort me back to Nornala Convent. I suspect Father needed a reason to send him away from the gaming tables of Beldroth and out of his sight. “Make yourself useful for once in your gods-blighted life,” he’d snarled.

“I’ve already made myself useful once,” Theodre responded with a toss of his golden hair. “I don’t see why I should have to go on being useful to everyone.”

Father then threatened to cut him off from the royal coffers without a penny if he didn’t do as he was told. Thus, I once again find myself in the close confines of a carriage with my brother. I don’t believe we’ve spoken more than three words to each other the entire way.

When we come to the place where our carriage was attacked, I’m almost certain Theodre holds his breath. He doesn’t look out the window but sits twirling his rings one after another, almost like a prayer ritual. I pull back the curtain and peer out at the road, now clear. The carriage was long since fetched away, the bodies and weapons removed. I’m not sure by whom. The air still carries the residual emotion of all the deaths that took place here, but it’s faded enough not to cause me pain.

I close my eyes . . . and can almost see the Shadow King as he was that night, mounted on his dark beast, his sword curving in a deadly arc. I can almost feel his great arms wrapped around me, the beat of his heart just behind my head. Strange, how a moment of such carnage and fear could also contain some of life’s sweetest sensations. A mystery. One I shall never fully understand.

Our journey proves blessedly uneventful, with no sign of unicorn riders or other fae activity. Perhaps word of the alliance with Mythanar spreads already. Even someone like Prince Ruvaen would hesitate to cross trolde warriors. We pass the same burned-out village I’d glimpsed on the way down, and I’m pleased to see signs of restoration already taking place. I hope the people will be able to reclaim their lives and livelihoods, that all of Gavaria will soon recover from the terrors wrought by the fae and enter an age of prosperity.

As for me? I will live my days quietly behind stone walls. Dreaming of silver eyes set in a proud, beautiful face.

“Welcome home, princess,” Mother Norlee says when the carriage rolls to a stop in the abbey courtyard. I climb down the block step, smile in response, and look around at the familiar buildings: the chapter house and refectory, the sisters’ dayroom, and the path leading to the kitchen garden. All exactly as I left it a matter of days ago. Why does it feel as though I’ve been gone for years? Mother Norlee’s word choice echoes dully inside my head: Home. I suppose this is the closest thing I have to a home anymore. Beldroth certainly doesn’t qualify. But I can’t pretend to feel any particular sense of homecoming.

Sister Maggella helps me carry my few belongings back to my room. She doesn’t bother with a greeting or telling me I was missed. I’ve always maintained a polite distance from her and the other sisters. To allow myself to be drawn into their friendship would be to open myself up to their emotions and the pain those emotions inevitably bring. Nornala Convent is my shelter. It’s also my seclusion.

So Maggella drops my belongings on the bed, bobs a brief curtsy, and leaves. I stand just inside the doorway, looking around at the bare little chamber. The bed. The oak coffer under the window. A hutch and chair. There is no fireplace at which to warm my feet or hands. Nothing but a single silver candlestick and a stump of tallow. If I’m cold, I can make my way to the dayroom to enjoy the big fire kept burning there. Usually, I choose to avoid that crush of human interaction, wrap myself in the wolfskin rug, and pray for the weather to turn.

I sigh and sit on the edge of the bed. There’s no point in removing my travel cloak—I’ll only start shivering and need to put it on again within minutes. My gaze trails idly across each familiar item in the room, then on to the small square window. It overlooks a view of the Ettrian Mountains. If I stand on tiptoe, I can just glimpse the valley of Gavaria far below.

I don’t bother looking. My life is here now. And soon the events of the last two weeks will fade into memory, and memory will fade into impressions. Just now, it all feels so present, so near, so real. But it won’t last.

I reach under the folds of my cloak, find my crystal, and grip it hard. “There will be a light,” I whisper, closing my eyes and seeking the pulse in the crystal’s heart. “There will be a light in the end.”

It’s almost a prayer. But I don’t think any god is listening.

The days settle back into their old familiar patterns.

I’m not part of the inner life of the convent. I am not studying to take my vows; I remain apart from the hierarchies of the sisters. I attend prayers and services, always keeping well to the back of the chapel. My meals I take in private, and when cold drives me to the dayroom for warmth, I sit behind a little screen that offers at least some protection from the emotions seething around me. Most of the younger nuns think me arrogant and vain because I will not sit with them. Only Mother Norlee and a handful of the older sisters are aware of my gods-gift and the anguish it gives me. But gods-gifts are not spoken of out loud in a place like Nornala Convent.

It’s lonely being back here. But I’m thankful for the loneliness. I’d not realized just how much pain built up inside me while back in Beldroth. As the days slip by, one after another, I feel it seeping out of me once more. Along with the pain go other sensations: longing, excitement, eagerness, hope. Such feelings don’t belong in a world like mine. Slowly, I sink back into blessed numbness.

One day I wake to realize I’ve been back for nearly a week. I stare at the ceiling over my head, and I don’t feel sorrow. Or resentment. Not even resignation. I feel nothing.

Eventually, I rise. I go about my morning routine. I wash my face and hands. I don my day clothes, wrapping myself in as many layers as I can. Then, while dawn light streaks the sky overhead, I hasten to the chapel, kneel, and pray for my sister as I have done every morning since my return.

I don’t think about Vor.

I don’t think about the way his mouth curved in quick and ready smiles.

I don’t think about the way his hands felt on my waist when he lifted me in the air and spun me in a breathless circle as though I weighed nothing at all.

I don’t remember the deep timbre of his voice when he said, “Would you come?”

I don’t remember any of it.

Prayers complete, I make my way to the kitchen gardens. Frost laces the ground and crunches beneath my shoes as I walk among the fallow beds. While down in the lowlands, spring is advancing, winter will linger here much longer. In places, dirty, dingy snow still clings.

Something catches my eye.

I turn slowly, almost languidly. A flash of green where there should be only gray and brown and shadow is enough to merit a second glance. There, in the corner near the wall, a long, knife-like leaf unfurls through the mucky old snow, catching a shaft of morning light. I regard it for a moment. Then, because there is nothing else to draw my attention, I step toward it. Slowly. One measured pace at a time. Upon closer inspection, I discover small white blossoms unfurling their faces to the sun. Maiden’s Tears. That’s what these are called. The earliest flowers to bloom in the higher reaches of the Ettrian Mountains.

Crouching, I gently brush the tip of one finger against the soft petals. The little blossom shivers at my touch. I wonder . . . the thought fades and is gone, then returns slowly through the dull sluggishness of my brain. I wonder how this flower came by its name. Who was the maiden? Why did she weep?

A sudden commotion erupts behind me. I frown and look slowly over my shoulder. Is that the sound of carriage wheels? There’s a cry followed by an angry shout. I rise and fold my arms, turning to face the entrance to the kitchen garden.

To my utmost surprise, Theodre appears. I haven’t seen him since the day he dropped me here. He left the following morning without saying goodbye, and I fully expected never to meet him again in this life. But here he is. His feathered hat is askew, his cloak spattered in mud and grime, his luscious golden hair in disarray across his shoulders. His eyes dart about the garden. My gray gown blends into the wall and shadows rather well, and I’m tempted to draw back further and avoid his gaze.

Instead, I lift my chin and call out, “Theodre?”

“Faraine!” he barks, his gaze snapping to meet mine. “Thank the gods, I’ve found you!”

“Found me?” I shake my head. “Where else would I be?”

He doesn’t bother to answer. He’s already striding toward me. I have only a moment to catch my breath before he’s taken hold of my hand. A shock of pure, primal fear thrills up my arm and explodes in my head. I gasp and sway heavily, afraid I’ll drop to the ground on the spot. I try to get free, but Theodre holds fast, his voice breaking through the stabbing white light: “None of your fainting fits now, Faraine! Gather your things. Do you hear me? There’s no time to waste.”

“What?” I shake my head, struggling to see him through the glare. His face is nothing but a phantom shadow, as though he belongs to another world. “What are you talking about?”

Theodre yanks impatiently on my arm, dragging me back across the garden. “The alliance. With the trolls. It’s on the verge of collapse. Father sent me to fetch you the minute word reached Beldroth.”

“Word? Word of what?”

“Why, the attack on Ashryn Shrine, of course.” He gives me a look over his shoulder. “Haven’t you heard? I should have thought the news would travel this far by now. Ilsevel’s dead. She was killed in the attack. Aurae too, or so we presume. Either way, the fate of the kingdom is in jeopardy, and you’re needed home at once.