Bride of the Shadow King

The slosh of water echoes hollowly against the surrounding stone walls. We have long since left behind the enormous open cavern beneath the lorst crystals and entered a narrow waterway in a tunnel scarcely wide enough for the barge to pass through. Hael deftly guides the craft from her place at the prow, using some steering mechanism I don’t understand. A glowing crystal suspended in a delicate silver frame illuminates the trolde woman’s gleaming muscles as she fights the river current.

“Hold on, princess,” she tosses back over her shoulder. “It gets rough in here.”

I sit numbly in the middle of the craft on a chair which seems to have been bolted to the boards. It’s cushioned and richly draped in silks, a proper throne intended for a sovereign quite a lot larger than me. At Hael’s command, I grip the arms. And just in time! The barge bucks suddenly as the current turns aggressive. Despite Hael’s determined steering, we bounce off a boulder, rebound, hit the opposite wall. I choke on a scream. I can see next to nothing, which makes it all seem much wilder and more dangerous.

Then, with a stomach-churning dip we are expelled from the tunnel and into another cavern. The river calms, turns gentle and languid, lapping the stone shore. More lorst crystals glow here. Not as numerous or bright as those above the village but enough that I am no longer blind. I look around and catch my breath. The cavern roof is like a vaulted chapel ceiling, high, arched, and jagged. The walls on either side of us are strange, carved by the river into undulous sheets layered in variegated colors.

Still gripping the chair, I crane my torso to peer back at the tunnel exit rushing with churning white water. How in the worlds do barges travel back along that way to reach the village? Perhaps another waterway flows the opposite direction? I cannot imagine learning to navigate these treacherous grottos and fissures.

Though I’m not cold, my body shivers uncontrollably. I wish I could pull the silk drapes on the chair up and around my bare shoulders. Just now, however, I can’t seem to pry my tensed fingers free of the chair arms. What has become of the others? I can’t believe I left them behind to face those monsters alone. Not that I could have been much help. Not like Lyria. Good goddess above, who knew my half-sister could fight like that? What exactly has she been up to in the years since her exile from Beldroth?

“Are you all right, Princess Ilsevel?” Hael asks from the prow. The trolde woman stands at ease, but her face is still severely lined with tension.

I nod, then manage to rasp, “I’m unharmed.” Shuddering, I force my lungs to draw a full breath. “What were those things?”

“Cave devils.” Her voice is grim.

I want to question her further. Something is wrong here, something more than the attack. There’s an unsettling, sour sensation wafting out from Hael’s soul. Stronger than mere fear. It’s more like desperation.

Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it back. How many more such dreadful beings live in this strange, dark realm? Are attacks like this an everyday occurrence? Did those monsters have something to do with why the trolde village was so terribly silent and empty?

I close my eyes. And suddenly, I’m back in Vor’s arms, wrapped in the safety of his embrace. I wish I could have stayed there, stayed with him. What will happen if my bridegroom doesn’t survive to the wedding?

No. I won’t think like that. I bow my head and pray for Vor, for Lyria, for the young trolde soldier. When those prayers run out, I try to pray for myself.

We travel by water for some miles through a bewildering series of caverns and tunnels. Sometimes, I glimpse villages bustling with activity beneath the lorst crystal glow. Pale troldefolk pause in their business to watch us pass. They stare at me with mingled fascination and apprehension. Do these people, living away from centers of political activity, have any idea who I am? I must seem very strange to them, traveling in the royal barge with only tall Hael as escort.

We pass through a final tunnel, this one illuminated by glowing green growth that looks like a combination of fungi and flower, I’m never quite close enough to see for sure which. Before I can decide, the tunnel opens into the most massive space yet.

“Princess,” Hael says, turning to me once more. “We’re nearly there. Look!”

I am looking. I couldn’t stop looking if I wanted to.

The city of Mythanar rises before me, vast and white and shining beneath the radiance of a million lorst crystals. At first glance, it looks like a single, vast stalagmite, completely carved from natural elements. At second glance, I become aware of all the beautiful arches and buttresses, the carved handiwork of generations of brilliant minds and gifted hands. Light fills the tiered streets—luminous glows of a thousand colors that make the pale stone shine like a dream.

Apparently, this waterway is only one of many approaches to the city. Bridges arch like soaring highways overhead, stretching from the cavern walls to meet the city at various levels. And at the pinnacle of the city stands what must be the king’s own palace—a lofty edifice with a central tower so tall, it nearly meets the hanging stalactites of the cavern ceiling above.

I’ve never seen anything like this. Not in my wildest dreams. The town surrounding Beldroth would be swallowed whole ten times over in a city like this. Indeed, this place could easily house all the people of Gavaria with room to spare. And this was only one of the cities under the Shadow King’s rule. He truly is a power far beyond anything I’d imagined.

And am I to be queen of such a city?

I drop my gaze, unable to take in more. Instead, I focus on more immediate surroundings. We’re approaching some sort of dam. Workers march along its upper walkway, and I see wheels and mechanisms I don’t understand, which seem to be controlling the water flow. Hael guides the barge to a landing, and dockworkers hasten to grab lines and secure it. They’re all so tall, so pale and otherworldly in their beauty. I shiver every time one of them casts a glance my way.

“Where is the king?” someone asks.

“Coming,” Hael answers with such confidence, it’s almost enough to raise my spirits. She holds out a hand to me. “Allow me, princess,” she says.

I exit the barge with more dignity than I boarded it, walking hand in hand with the trolde woman rather than slung across her shoulders. My legs shake as I struggle to reorient my balance, but Hael tightens her grip and does not let me fall. She guides me down the dock to solid ground, then says, “Wait while I summon the morleth.”

To my great surprise, she puts her fingers in her mouth and blows a sharp blasting whistle. The next moment, darkness gathers in a whorl behind her, and the ugly, toothy head of a morleth emerges. She takes it by the reins and draws it out, its hooves striking the ground in sharp percussion.

I leap back several paces. “Where did it come from?”

“From the shadow, of course,” Hael says mildly and beckons me to her. “Come, princess. It’s a long walk to the city. Better to ride.”

I find myself far less eager to mount that beast without Vor to ride with me. But Hael is sturdy and strong, and after mounting, she easily hauls me up to sit on her pack behind the saddle. Once I am settled, she yanks the morleth’s head around, heading for the nearest bridge.

An arched gate of white stone marks the beginning of the bridge. Troldefolk traveling along the highway gather in a tight knot, waiting for the gate guards to let them through. People part quickly to make way for Hael’s morleth. When some protest and hurl what I suspect are curses at her, she points to the insignia on her arm and says, “Aruk hrukta.” This is apparently enough to make the grumblers bow their heads and step back an extra pace. The gate guards take one look at her and wave her on through, saluting smartly even as they ogle me.

We pass under the arch and out onto the bridge. All the breath leaves my body in a rush.

For some reason, I’d assumed the river poured into a lake surrounding the city. But it’s not a lake. It’s a chasm. A vast chasm surrounding the city, save for where it backs up against the far cavern wall. It’s so dark, so yawning, so huge. I feel the hollow endlessness of it reaching up as though to claim me and drag me into its depths.

“It’s best not to look down,” Hael says even as she urges her morleth into a brisk trot.

I should listen to her. But of course, I don’t. I cannot resist the urge to peer over her arm, over the edge of the bridge. Oh gods! It’s worse than I thought. For it isn’t darkness that waits at the bottom of that drop. Deep down flows another river—this one a fiery red.

I squeeze my eyes shut and duck my head to where my hands grip the cantle of the saddle, praying the morleth will pick up its pace. It seems like an age before Hael speaks again: “They’re here to greet you, princess. I would advise you to sit tall. Show them your courage.”

Swallowing back a whimper, I pull my head up. We’re near the far gate now, which juts out from the wall ringing the lower tier of the city. Folk are gathered just outside the gate—any number of pale troldefolk, most of them tall and white and stern. One figure, however, looms taller than the others. He is a great stony slab of a being, with white hair hanging in thin, straggled hanks to his enormous shoulders. Unlike the others, he is nearly naked, clad only in a thin loincloth, his muscled, rock-hard body on full display. He looks something like how I once imagined trolls would be, only somehow, he’s still maintained some of the eerie trolde beauty.

Beside him stands a woman with gloriously long white hair streaked with black. She wears a headdress of shining silver like a tall starburst trimmed in dangling red jewels. Her gown is not unlike the one I wear—bare shouldered with detached sleeves draping from her upper arms, and a column skirt that clings to her curves. The black fabric shimmers with unexpected glints of gleaming red thread woven in, which calls to mind the fiery river in the darkness below.

Her face is what draws my eye the most, however. It’s a very beautiful face, but hard. As hard as the stone man standing beside her. She looks as though she were carved from marble. I’m not sure there ever was or ever could be any warmth to her.

“Who are they?” I ask softly.

“The lady in front is Queen Roh,” Hael responds in a low voice. “She is the wife of the late King Gaur, and the current king’s stepmother. Beside her is Targ.” Her tone pitches a little darker. “He calls himself Umog tor Grakanak, Priest of the Deeper Dark. He is a great favorite of the queen. He has . . . influence in Mythanar.”

Though she expresses no opinion, her unease is palpable. I look again at the huge rock-hide man. His glittering eyes are fastened on me. I cannot read their expression, but I suddenly want very much to lean back against Hael, to wrap her cloak around me and hide.

Instead, I pull myself a little straighter, setting my chin. “And the rest of them?”

“Members of the king’s council,” Hael says, rattling off a series of harsh-sounding trolde names. “You needn’t concern yourself with them. They’ve merely come to gawk and serve no useful function.”

“Is there anything I’m meant to do?”

“No. Hold yourself as tall as you can, nod if addressed, and say nothing. No one expects you to speak troldish, but they will not speak human either.”

My eyebrow quirks at this rudeness. But then, it’s not as though my people had made any effort to speak the trolde language when Vor and his people visited Beldroth. It’s my turn to be the stranger. Only, unlike Vor, I do not have the support of friends at my back.

Hael rides her morleth the last few lengths of the bridge and pulls it to a halt before the gathered figures. “Grakol-dura,” she says, raising a hand in greeting.

Queen Roh’s gaze crawls over me like a spider, her expression utterly unreadable. She takes her time with her inspection, ignoring Hael. I feel waves of displeasure rolling out from her, but it’s oddly muted. These troldefolk emotions are more difficult for me to read than my own kind. I keep my head high and meet the queen’s gaze, maintaining a firmly blank expression.

At last, she turns from me and speaks a stream of trolde words of which I recognize only one: Vor. Hael answers, and they go back and forth. Then Targ, the stone man, takes a heavy step forward and joins the conversation. His voice is like a great millstone grinding. I feel as though he could crush me with mere words.

But here’s an oddness: I get no sense of feeling from him. None. Not even the barest whisper. It’s as if the rock covering his hide somehow blocks out all emotion. I’ve never encountered anything of the kind. It would almost be a relief if it weren’t so deeply unsettling. It’s very . . . cold. Like death.

Hael responds to the priest, her voice sharper than before. I hear Vor’s name. I suspect they’re asking where he is. Hael sounds cool enough, but the gathered folk exchange uneasy glances and level anxious looks my way. I wish I dared ask Hael what was happening. Better to do as she said, however, and hold my tongue.

Finally, Targ takes a step back. When he does, the others follow his lead, parting to make way for us to pass through the gate. Hael spurs her morleth into motion. We pass between the council members, the queen, and the priest, and I enter Mythanar for the first time.

I have no chance to form even a first impression of the city. No sooner am I through the gate before strangers crowd close, all reaching up to me. Hael barks, drives them back, then swings down from the saddle and lifts me off it herself. “This way, princess,” she says, and bustles me over to what turns out to be a curtained litter. She draws back the curtains, urges me inside. The space is cushioned and much larger than I need, having been fashioned for a trolde woman.

“Don’t worry,” Hael says. “I’ll be right beside you.”

Then she pulls the curtain shut and is gone. I’m caught like a bird in a cage behind fabric so dense, I can discern nothing through it but glowing lights and flickering shadows. The whole structure lurches suddenly as it’s lifted, presumably onto trolde shoulders. It’s good that I’m seated, or I would have toppled right over, for there is nothing to hold onto. The litter bearers fall into a steady rhythm, however, and the initial lurching subsides.

I fight to gather my wits. Why does it feel as though I’m a sacrifice being carried to a foreign altar? I miss the morleth and Hael. Much more so, I miss Vor. I’d felt safe in his arms. I want to believe if he were with me, he would have kept me in the saddle with him, riding through the streets in full view of his people. That would have been preferable. At least, it would be if I were truly his bride.

As it is, I should be grateful. The less I see of Vor before the wedding, the better.

After what feels like forever swaying along inside that litter, I finally grab the curtain and pull it open a sliver, peering out. Just beneath me is the head of a litter bearer—a great, strong trolde man. True to her word, Hael is close by, riding her morleth alongside me. Beyond her is another litter, this one with curtains drawn back, its occupant on display. Queen Roh, reclining and resplendent.

As though aware of my scrutiny, she turns her head to look directly at me.

I gasp and pull the curtain shut again. “Gods blight!” I whisper. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have met her gaze and held it. Now she knows just how frightened I am.

At last we reach our destination. My litter is carried right up the palace steps, through the doors, and finally set down. Hael appears again, sweeping back the curtain and holding out her hand. Grateful for assistance, I climb out as gracefully as I can and emerge into a huge hall. The scale is so staggering, I can scarcely take it in. Beldroth is positively miniscule by comparison. What must Vor have thought of us during his visit? All our posturing and pride, while he himself was master of such a magnificent domain!

Hael exchanges words with the widow queen and her priest. It’s hard to say, but it sounds to me like an argument. Eventually, Hael turns to me and barks, “Come, princess. It is time for you to prepare.”

“But . . .” I glance around at the others, then back up at Hael. I feel her silently urging me to hold my tongue. So, I merely incline my head.

To my relief, Hael leads me out of that hall and into a side passage, which would have seemed large were it not for the enormity of the hall we just left behind. We proceed through a labyrinth of corridors, then up a flight of stairs. Finally, Hael opens a door and ushers me into a room full of steam. A bathing chamber—but such a bathing chamber! A pool in the center of the room is filled with steaming, scented water, illuminated by glowing purple crystals below.

My blood goes cold.

Hael snaps her fingers. Two trolde women appear through the steam, towels draped over their arms. Hael speaks to them in quick troldish, then turns to me. “May I suggest a bath, princess? You’ll want to be fresh for the ceremony.”

Lyria’s warning rings in my ear: “Water will wash those runes on the eyes away at once, and the rest will hold for no more than an hour or two after.”

“No!” My voice comes out in a burst. Hael casts me a strange look, so I hastily soften my tone. “I . . . I would prefer a simple cloth and a basin of water. And privacy.”

Hael looks as though she will protest. To my relief, however, she turns to the attendants and rattles off another string of troldish. They cast me uneasy glances but swiftly fulfill my request, fetching basin, water, cloth, and a little stand on which to set them. Then, bowing and scraping, they walk backwards from the room.

“That is all, princess?” Hael asks.

“Yes, thank you,” I answer firmly. Then add, “Privacy too. If you please.”

She bows and follows the attendants from the room. The door shuts firmly behind her.

I let out a long sigh, rolling my head back and staring at the crystals hanging from the ceiling. This is the first time in days that I’ve been alone. Yet I’m very aware of the figures standing just on the other side of that door. I dare not relax my guard, not for a moment.

It’s tricky business washing myself. I use the dry cloth to wipe dirt and debris from my face, arms, and shoulders, then dampen it slightly to cleanse parts of my body that won’t be overtly obvious should the magic wear off. How much longer will these spells hold? Days? Weeks? Hours? And more to the point: how much longer do I want them to hold? Because the moment is fast approaching when I will have to decide. Do I go through with the wedding night as planned? Or do I reveal the truth to Vor and throw myself and my kingdom upon his mercy?

It’s not Vor’s mercy I doubt, however. I close my eyes, leaning heavily against the wash table. Once more, I see the cold gaze of Queen Roh. Once more I feel the inexplicable nothing of her priest and the many faces of the council members all blended into a jumble of antagonism and suspicion. The troldefolk are not my friends. They do not care what becomes of Gavaria. They do not care that Prince Ruvaen slaughters my people like animals. We are little more than animals to them. We are worthwhile only insofar as we are useful.

Which means I must be useful.

Suddenly a great booming reverberates through the stone walls and along the floor. Like a deep-bellied roar, it echoes and re-echoes. I straighten, step away from the wash basin. That sounds like a signal horn of some kind. Could it be . . . does it mean . . .?

A tap at the door, followed by Hael’s voice: “The king has returned, princess. He and the others are back safe. You must hurry now. We need to get you dressed. The ceremony is about to commence.”