Bride of the Shadow King

They say the Between Gates simply appeared one day. That was five hundred years ago now. Our world has never been the same since. No one knows from whence they came or who built them. There are legends aplenty of course—all elaborate and complicated and contradictory, possibly each containing a small piece of the truth but never the whole.

Peering out the carriage window at the enormous arch dominating the landscape, I cannot help thinking it must be of fae make. The engineering involved in that construction is simply so far beyond anything I’ve ever before seen. Then again, aren’t the fae notoriously incapable of making things of their own? So perhaps not fae then.

Perhaps it’s trolde engineering.

The gate stands in a broad empty plain, incongruous and eerie. A white wall extends as far as the eye can see on either side. Is it truly that endless or merely glamoured to appear so? I wonder if it’s possible to go around the wall and if anyone has ever tried. Going over it seems impossible—it’s so tall and sheer. One would have to fly. I spy a flock of starlings passing overhead and watch to see if they vanish once they cross over the wall. But they don’t. They fly on and away through red-streaked sky.

Our party rolls to a stop directly before the gate arch. The Shadow King and his people have not yet arrived, but that’s no surprise. No doubt they will time their appearance for after sundown.

People set to work at once, making ready for the meeting. A pavilion is set up. When I am finally let out of the carriage, groaning and stretching my sore back, they bustle me inside. Lyria joins me and helps me peel out of my travel gown, down to my shift. Then she pinches my chin between her fingers and turns my face from side to side. “The spells seem to be holding. You’ve stayed away from water?”

“Yes.” After three days of hard travel on lonely roads, I’m definitely feeling the worse for it. “How am I supposed to go through with a wedding night if I stink like an unwashed pig?”

Lyria clucks and pulls something from the depths of her voluminous sleeve. It looks like a bottle of scent, but when she undoes the stopper, my nostrils are assaulted by a strong whiff of magic. “This will help,” she says and douses me from head to toe. It leaves behind no scent but more of a sudden absence—as though all the topmost layers of aroma clinging to my body have been peeled away, leaving simple, unobtrusive cleanliness beneath.

“That’s better,” Lyria says, then sets to work scrubbing my bare limbs down with a dry cloth. It’s rough work, and I feel ill-used. But by the time she’s done with me, my skin is soft and glowing in the lantern light.

Lyria helps me dress in a gown of blush pink covered in delicate beadwork. The billowing sleeves are gathered by three silver bands, one on my upper arm, one at my elbow, the other close to my wrist. The effect looks like wings, and the soft fabric flutters with the barest movement.

“Why the bother?” I ask, as Lyria fastens the last silver band around my left wrist. “Trolde tradition dictates I must be stripped of all my worldly belongings and enter my husband’s world with only those gifts he has given me, right? If that’s the case, what’s the use of dressing me up like this?”

Lyria grunts. “You’re a princess. Larongar can’t very well turn you over to your new master in a dirty old travel gown, now can he?” She fastens a beaded veil to my hair, then steps back, looking me over. “That’ll do. Now you wait here. When the trolde arrive, they’ll send one of their women in to strip you down, inspect your body, and help you into whatever garment they’ve brought for you. I’ll be on hand for the whole procedure to make certain nothing goes amiss. Don’t worry—she won’t sense the magic. Some of those runes I planted in your face were also disguises on those reeking Miphates spells.”

Up until this moment, I’d never considered the possibility that this whole ruse could come undone here and now. My stomach knots despite Lyria’s reassurances.

I’m given a chair to sit in. And I wait. Lyria leaves me at some point, and Klaern takes the opportunity to slip in, poking and prodding my face as though it belongs to a statue, not a person. He mutters viciously over Lyria’s witch magic, only to cringe like a scolded dog when she catches him at it. She holds the door flap open and orders him out with all the dignity of a queen. He casts her a dirty look, which she answers with a simpering smile. Then, lifting her eyebrows at me, she steps out behind the mage, leaving me alone again.

Time crawls by, one moment listlessly pursuing the next. I wish Lyria would return. Or Theodre or even Mage Klaern. Anything would be better than being left with my own thoughts. At least, from behind these curtains I detect only the vaguest impressions of the simmering mood without. All that roiling anxiety mingled with occasional spikes of true fear. The trip from Beldroth put us all on edge. Over the last three days, I’ve had an eyeful of just how bad this part of the country has been hit by Prince Ruvaen’s forces. This territory is much too near his stronghold to be safe. But it’s the only Between Gate in all of Gavaria. It’s not as though we have any choice.

I try to settle my mind, to pray. But I keep thinking, What if he doesn’t come?

Or worse still, What if he does?

My bridegroom.

Ilsevel’s bridegroom.

Gods on high, how am I going to do this?

A sudden change in the atmosphere cuts through my awareness. At first I can’t describe it, can’t quite be certain it’s even real. Then the ground beneath my feet begins to rumble. Voices outside are talking all in a muddle, and the anxiety I felt before triples in intensity. I jump from my chair, gripping the folds of my gown so hard, the delicate beadwork bites into my flesh. I want to run to the pavilion flap and peer out, but I’ve been given strict instruction to stay inside.

The rumbling ceases. Have the trolde arrived? I draw a long breath, hold it for a count of three. Then I creep to the door flap, tilting my head, listening to the muffled voices outside. Theodre’s voice first, high and nervous. Then a deep, growling trolde voice answers. Could it be Vor? I cannot discern the words.

A footstep sounds close by. With a little gasp, I spring back to the middle of the pavilion and take my seat, assuming what I hope is a composed posture. At the last moment I remember to lower the beaded veil over my face.

The door flap opens. A trolde woman appears. I recognize her—it’s the same woman who served as part of Vor’s entourage when he visited Beldroth. I don’t recall her name, but I certainly remember the stony skin creeping up her neck and the lower right side of her jaw. Despite this deformity, she is imposing and beautiful after the pale trolde fashion.

She steps inside and offers me a graceful bow. When she straightens, she pounds her chest, one fist after the other, a trolde salute. How am I supposed to respond? Ilsevel no doubt received preparation for this moment, but I’m totally lost. I merely incline my head, hoping the trolde woman cannot see how hard I’m shaking.

Lyria enters next, carrying a small box under one arm, and pulls the door flap shut behind her. When the trolde woman looks at her, she nods and indicates with a wave of her hand that she may approach me.

“My name is Hael,” the woman says, drawing near. “Captain Hael of the king’s guard. He has specially requested I serve as your lady.”

My lady? I blink. I’ve only ever heard the term in reference to a lady-in-waiting. That doesn’t seem likely, considering Hael’s warlike aspect, her armor, her sword. Perhaps she means bodyguard?

Hael turns to Lyria, who offers her the box. The trolde woman opens the lid and withdraws folds of soft, shimmering, lavender fabric. She holds it up. It’s a gown . . . though hardly like any gown I’ve ever worn. It’s a trolde gown, a single layer of clinging fabric that billows out in a long trailing skirt. No petticoats or undergarments required. The thought of wearing such a garment makes my cheeks heat.

“If you will permit me, Princess Ilsevel?” Hael says, dropping the gown back in the box. “I will assist you.”

I bite my lip. Then, with a short nod, I stand and hold out my arms. Hael begins unfastening the silver bands which Lyria only just fastened. Next she unlaces the bodice, then guides the sleeves off my arms and lets the whole gown drop in a pile at my feet. I step out of the pink, beaded mound, shivering, and Hael begins her inspection. She lifts my arms, runs her hands down my flesh, poking, prodding. It’s all very cold and clinical. Prickles rise on the back of my neck. At any moment she’ll detect the magic. I’m sure of it.

But she doesn’t.

At last the trolde woman reaches for my veil. My heart leaps. “Oh, wait—” I begin.

Before I can blurt out anything more, Lyria steps forward and touches Hael’s arm. The trolde woman turns sharply, and her hand moves to the knife at her belt. But Lyria smiles placatingly. “It’s our tradition,” she says, “that the bride’s face not be seen save by her husband until the consummation is complete. Then she is made new as his bride and may be revealed to him and to all.”

Hael narrows her eyes. “This is a human tradition?”

“Yes.”

“She is a trolde bride.”

Lyria shrugs. “But she is still human. If your trolde king is to take a human for his wife, he must accept her humanness even as she must accept his troldeness. Yes?”

Hael considers, her gaze moving from Lyria to me and back again. “She may wear the veil outside the pavilion. But first, I must ascertain that this is indeed my king’s true bride.”

The time has come. In the next moment, the lie may well be undone and the alliance right along with it. And I can’t even decide if I’m hoping Hael will see through the spells or not.

The trolde woman lifts my veil, her gaze running over my face. I feel her strength of will. She is determined to serve her king, to protect him in any way possible. Vor is lucky to have such a woman in his service.

As for me? My heart seems to have stopped beating.

At last Hael grunts. She lets the veil drop and takes a step back. “There is no spot or mark on this bride.”

I let out a breath I’d not realized I was holding. Before I can draw another, the trolde woman has gone, stepping from the pavilion to report to her king. The bridal exchange will proceed.

My knees give out. Lyria steps in quickly, gripping my arm, offering silent support. The touch of her hand against my bare flesh stabs through my senses. She’s afraid. Far more afraid than I realized. But when I turn and catch her eye, something else reaches me as well: an unexpected protectiveness. It’s there for just an instant. When she blinks it’s gone, replaced by her usual resentment.

“Almost there,” Lyria whispers. Though we both know it’s far from the truth.

Hael returns to help me dress in the trolde gown. A simple process compared to the layers and lacings of my own gown, but I find it very strange. The bodice is rather like a corset but fitted right against my skin with no smock beneath. My shoulders are left bare, but sheer sleeves drape from my upper arms in swaths of shimmering fabric to gather at my wrists. The skirt is full and hangs in straight folds with no underskirts to give it body. It’s so light, I fear I will soon freeze to death.

Hael seems to notice my trembling. “Don’t worry, princess,” she says, her accent strong as she sounds out the words of my language. “It is much warmer in the Under Realm than here.”

“Well, let’s get on with things then, shall we?” Lyria snaps.

Hael nods and fastens a belt around my waist. It’s set with violet gemstones that change to green when light glints across their faceted surfaces. I cannot resist running my fingers across them, admiring. Such an item would be worth a king’s ransom in Gavaria. I wonder what my father would think if he knew his daughter was presented with such a gift?

A gift intended for Ilsevel. Never forget.

Last of all, Hael places the veil back over my face. It’s not the right style with a gown like this, but I’m grateful for the little bit of covering it provides over my shoulders.

“Here, Princess,” Lyria says, stepping forward suddenly. She holds out her hand, and I’m surprised to see my crystal pendant resting in her palm with its coil of silver chain. It must have fallen off when Hael was assisting me out of my gown. I reach for it gratefully.

Hael steps in the way. “You are not to take any items with you on the wedding journey. This must be sent for later.”

My heart lurches to my throat. My pendant? Somehow it had not occurred to me I would have to leave it behind. How will I cope without it? I’ve depended on its inner vibrations for years now to help me manage the dark side of my gods-gift. My mouth opens, protests dying unspoken on my lips. I dare not fight, dare not draw unnecessary attention to myself. Not here. Not now. But if I don’t . . .

“Your tradition states that a bride may bring nothing with her that does not belong to her husband, is that not so?” Lyria speaks up suddenly.

Hael casts her a wary glance and nods.

“Well, that settles it. This necklace is from Mythanar. So really, Princess Ilsevel is taking it home.”

“From Mythanar? Truly?” Hael’s brow puckers as Lyria holds the stone up for her inspection. After a moment she nods. “I had not realized. That is an urzul stone.” She purses her lips, casting me a wary glance. “And how did you come by it, princess?”

“I don’t actually remem—”

“It was with the other wedding gifts, of course,” Lyria answers smoothly. “Your King Vor did send such a lot of them, but this piece caught my cousin’s eye out of the lot. So, you see? No reason she should not keep it now.”

Hael grunts an acknowledgement. To my utmost relief, she makes no further protest. Lyria helps fasten the necklace in place. I press my palm against it, closing my eyes as the subtle vibration purrs. Then I glance quickly at Lyria, sending her my silent thanks. Does she realize what the stone means to me? Her expression is masked in a pleasant smile, but when she catches my eye, the corner of her mouth twitches ever so slightly. She’s certainly not my friend, but she is my ally.

I stand tall as Hael makes her final inspection, circling me, adjusting the set of the gown, the laces, the way the belt hangs. She’s surprisingly finicky for a warrior. At last, she steps back and nods.

“You are ready, princess. Come. Your bridegroom awaits.” With that she opens the door flap, holding it aside and motioning for me to step through.

I look to Lyria again, searching for some support, some comfort. But my half-sister is busy studying her nails. Whatever happens next, I must face it alone.

Drawing a deep breath, I duck my head and step out of the pavilion into the night.