Bride of the Shadow King

Umog Zu and Lord Gol, one of my ministers, stand at the top of the palace stairs as we ride our morleth through the city and into the palace courtyard. I pull Knar to a halt, dismount, and toss the reins to a waiting groom, then mount the steps quickly, taking them three at a time.

“Is she here?” I demand. “Princess Ilsevel, is she safe?”

“Yes, yes, the girl arrived all in one piece,” Lord Gol says with a dismissive wave of one hand. Though a chief member of my council, he voted staunchly against this marriage. He would have been just as happy if Ilsevel had been lost somewhere on the journey. “And what of you, my king?” he continues, his disapproving expression shifting to one of solemn concern. “Captain Hael told us what happened. How many cave devils were there?”

“Too many,” I answer shortly. “But I won’t discuss that now.” I turn to the priestess standing silent and dignified, her eyes closed, her fingers forming the holy sign of the diamond before her sternum. “Umog, is all prepared?”

“The yunkathu waters have been sanctified,” she replies, without opening her eyes. “The witnesses have gathered, and the Song of the Deeper Dark is ready to be sung. Go prepare yourself quickly, my son, for all wait upon you.”

“Right.” I turn and look down the steps to where Yok is just now helping Ilsevel’s cousin off his morleth. “Lady Lyria!” I call.

She picks up the hem of her gown and climbs the stair to me, huffing and puffing, for the steps are built for beings far taller than she. When she reaches the top, I take her hand and offer it to Gol. “This is my bride’s cousin, Lady Lyria. She is to bear witness to the ceremony so that she may carry word of its completion back to her people.”

Gol offers the lady a studiously blank look. She raises her eyebrows, turning from him to me. “What’s happening?” she asks in her own language.

“Lord Gol will escort you to the yunkathu hall,” I say, “where the ceremony will take place anon.”

“Not before I’ve seen my cousin.” Her words are sharp, her eyes hard as flints.

“Ah.” Of course. What a cad I am. Of course, she must be concerned about Ilsevel. “You will see her just before the ceremony,” I promise. I turn to my minister. “See that the lady is brought to the inner chamber so that she may meet her kinswoman before she enters the waters.”

Gol opens his mouth to begin what will no doubt be a prolonged protest. I don’t wait around to hear it. Pivoting, I sidestep him and Umog Zu, dart through the door, and make my way swiftly to the bathhouses. The last thing I want is to enter the wedding waters while covered in the grime and gore I accumulated battling cave devils. A servant helps me remove my clothes and hastily scrubs down my limbs and torso before helping me into the apparel prepared for my yunkathu—a sleeveless silver garment with an open front and a pair of close-fitted trousers held in place by a four-braid belt. It’s simple attire, but for this part of the wedding events, I need nothing more. I’ll change into proper finery for the feast after . . . after . . .

Gods, I can’t think about that. Not yet.

Sul finds me just as the servant finishes securing my belt. He stands in the doorway, hair dripping from his own bath, clad in a long robe with heavily embroidered sleeves. His bare chest, scrubbed clean of Lady Xag’s blood and woggha saliva, shines pale and smooth as a polished stone. He looks me over.

“Well?” I demand. “I’m sure you have some clever quip to make. Best get it over with now. I’m not waiting around.”

Sul shakes his head. Then he sighs. “Your wedding day, brother.”

My wedding day. I set my teeth and nod.

“Tell me,” Sul continues, “are you satisfied? Are you . . .? I hardly know what I’m asking. Are you happy?”

It’s not what I would have expected from him. Not in this particular moment. It’s certainly not like Sul to express any tender feeling or sympathy. The events of the day must have struck him harder than I thought.

His question is still there, hanging in the air. Waiting to be answered. “I am king,” I say, inclining my head slightly.

He holds my gaze a moment. In the depth of his eyes, haunting sorrow lurks. For a moment, I’m back in Dugorim with him—back on the ledge above that death drop, watching in horror as Lady Xag pitched, fell. What we witnessed today will linger with us both for the rest of our lives.

Somewhere not far off, the wedding drums begin to beat.

“Ready?” Sul says.

“Yes.” I nod and pull back my shoulders. “For Xag.”

A spasm passes over Sul’s face. He hardens his jaw and echoes softly, “For Xag.”

The Kathu Grotto is a sacred space, hallowed over ages of ceremony and tradition, wrapped up in legend. It’s a cave hidden behind the Yun Falls, illuminated only by small blue lorst crystals growing naturally from the walls and ceiling, which cast a moody light upon the scene.

A pool runs straight through the middle of the space, cutting it cleanly in two. Sul and I stand on one side. On the other stands Lyria, accompanied by Yok. She paces along the water’s edge, her face a mask of hard lines. When I appear, she shoots me a swift, wary glance. Odd—up until this moment, I’d believed Ilsevel’s cousin supported this match. Perhaps she’s not so keen to see her kinswoman married off to a trolde after all.

I stand and wait, tense with anticipation. Beyond the Yun Falls, I can just discern the murmuring of a hundred voices gathered in the outer hall. The wedding guests. My court, my people. Spectators at the performance of my life.

Resentment pricks my heart. If I were any other man, a man who made his own choices for his own reasons, I wouldn’t be standing here now. I wouldn’t be waiting for Ilsevel to appear on the other side of this pool. No, if I were free to choose as my heart willed, it would be another face I looked for now—

No.

Don’t think of her.

Never again.

Ilsevel.

Ilsevel.

Ilsevel.

As though my thinking her name somehow conjured her, my bride appears. She steps through the opening on the far side of the grotto, guided by Hael into the lorst light. She doesn’t seem to see me but instead lets out a little cry and runs immediately to Lyria, throwing her arms around her. Then she draws back, and they exchange words in hushed tones I cannot hear over the waterfall.

I drink in the sight of her. She’s not wearing a veil anymore; it was ripped from her head in the fracas with the cave devil. I’m sorry for that, knowing it was part of her people’s tradition. But I’m also glad. It gives me a chance to study her face, to remember those features which had faded from recollection over the last few weeks. Seeing her now, memories return to me—that thick chestnut hair, that determined jaw and wide mouth, quick to smile, quicker still to frown. Those dark eyes and the way they sparked with defiant laughter when we danced. Dark eyes. Not the bi-colored gaze I’d thought I glimpsed in the midst of mayhem back in Durgorim. I had most certainly imagined that sight. Such a fool.

But I won’t be a fool any longer.

Slowly, my gaze travels from her face down lower. She’s wearing a traditional troldish wokh for the ceremony: a loose-fitting gown that reaches all the way to her ankles. It’s rather shapeless, but the material is thin enough that the lorst light shines right through it, revealing much of her slender, graceful figure. A rush of heat floods my veins. Soon, very soon, I will be expected to explore that figure much more intimately. My throat thickens.

I turn away. Sul is watching me, but I won’t meet his eye. I wait until Umog Zu’s voice echoes suddenly from beyond the waterfall: “Vultog drag kathu. Tog Morar tor Grakanak.”

Let the two enter the one water. By the God of the Deeper Dark.

The assembly gathered echoes in a dull roar: “Morar tor Grakanak.”

“Gods go with you, brother,” Sul whispers.

I draw a slow breath. Then I move to the pool’s edge. It’s too deep to step down into, so I sit and ease myself in. Gods, it’s cold as ice! Couldn’t they have found a hot spring for this purpose?

The sound of frantic whispering catches my ear. I look up to see Lyria and Ilsevel exchanging tense words. Hael approaches, speaks sharply to them, but they hold each other’s hands and won’t look at her. Ilsevel’s expression, lit from below by the lorst crystals, is frightened. My heart sinks. Is she going to refuse at the last moment to make this plunge with me?

As though giving in to an argument, Ilsevel nods suddenly and steps away from Lyria. She draws herself up straight as her slow footsteps carry her to the edge of the pool. Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before she looks down at her feet. I watch her draw another shaky breath, then sit and put her feet in the water. She hisses through her teeth, shocked by the cold. Slowly, she slides into the pool, grimacing, nostrils flaring. The water is up to her chest. Her eyes go very wide, and the wokh gown floats out around her body, making her look like some sort of watery ghost.

Umog Zu’s voice echoes through the falls: “Let the two join hands. By the God of the Deeper Dark.”

“Morar tor Grakanak,” the assembly choruses.

I hold out my hand. Ilsevel glances up at me again. Just for an instant, just long enough for me to see those dark eyes of hers shimmering with fear in the lorst light. Then she focuses her gaze on my fingers. Wading to me, shivering hard, she takes hold of my hand.

“It’s all right, Ilsevel,” I say. “I’m here. I won’t let go of you.”

She nods, still without looking at me. Slowly, we turn to face the waterfall. She has been briefed on the ceremony, hasn’t she? To be safe, I lean a little closer and speak into her ear so she can hear me above the water, “I will do my best to pull you along after me. Kick your feet and keep your head under until you touch the far edge of the pool. It’s a bit far, but I’ll get you there. I promise.”

She nods. Her breath comes in short, quick pants.

“Let the two give themselves to the Dark,” Umog Zu intones. “Let them sink into the waters of oblivion, losing Self in the name of Oneness. Blessed by the Deeper Dark.”

“Morar tor Grakanak.”

“Ready?” I whisper.

She nods.

Then we plunge under the water. I hadn’t realized how bright it would be, how vividly the submerged lorst crystals would glow, lighting the way. I push off with my feet, dragging Ilsevel along behind me. She’s struggling already. She’s probably never swum before in her life; most humans don’t as a rule. I kick harder, compensating for her.

We reach the waterfall. I feel the pressure of pounding water coming down on top of us. A shock ripples through Ilsevel, but her grip on my hand only tightens. I haul on my arm, dragging her after me. How terrifying this must be for her. But she’s not protested. Not even once. My bride is very brave.

Perhaps I can learn to love her. Truly love her. Any woman who would go through all of this without so much as a murmur of protest must be a worthy queen.

We’re through the falls now, on the far side of the pool. In full view of the witnesses in gallery seats above. How many times have I sat in those same seats, watching this swim performed? How often had I imagined what it would be like to enter that pool myself, to swim beneath the Yun Falls, dying to my old self and reemerging new?

A vibrating hum fills the water around me—the song of urzul crystals, plucked from their gardens and planted here fresh for the ceremony. Their song creates a cocoon of light and sound that wraps around my bride and me. And I feel it—something inexplicable taking place. Something mystical. The hum enters my body, works down into my bones, runs through my hand into hers. Soon both our bodies vibrate to the same frequency, joined in this song. Who we were before this moment no longer matters. We have died to those selves. When we emerge, we will be reborn as one. Yun, as we say in troldish. United.

A strange realization comes over me as I feel that vibration passing from me into Ilsevel and back again. I know now what I had not believed possible before: I will never think of another woman again. From this time forward, there will be no one for me but her. This girl. This woman. My yun, who shares the song of my bones. Ilsevel.

“Ilsevel.” My lips form her name under the water, blowing out a stream of bubbles, the last of my air.

Then my fingertips hit the far wall of the pool. I hear Umog Zu’s voice above the water, and though I cannot discern the words, I know them by heart: “Uvulg tor ugdth. Hirark! Yuntog lorst.”

Now have the Two died. Look! The One rises.

“Morar tor Garkanak!” the assembly rumbles as I pull Ilsevel up beside me. She finds the wall, grips its edge, and we both emerge in a surge of water and foam and gasping breaths. My heart soars with the newness of the song playing in my body. Does she feel it too? Has she experienced what I just have?

I try to catch her eye. Ilsevel wipes hair out of her face, water streaming. She turns farther away, shaking her head. I cannot tell if she is purposefully avoiding my gaze or not.

Umog Zu seems to manifest from the darkness, stepping into the glow of two great lorst crystals placed at the head of the pool. “The Dark has claimed,” she declares. “The Dark has delivered. The Dark has made new.” She raises her old hands, painted all over with sparkling olk dust so that they draw every eye. “New life from the water rises, in the name of the Deeper Dark.”

“Morar tor Grakanak!”

I climb out of the pool, then turn to help Ilsevel. She’s so short that I’m obliged to grip her under the arms and pull her out, setting her on her feet beside me. Small and shivering, she takes a step back. Her wet gown clings to her body, revealing the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. Hastily, she crosses her arms and turns fully away from me.

Lyria leaps forward, gasping as though she’s just sprinted around the waterfall to meet us on the far side. She hastily drapes what turns out to be the beaded lace veil over Ilsevel’s head. So, it wasn’t lost after all. A funny sort of modesty, considering the state of the princess’s wokh gown.

Hael steps forward next, however, and wraps a thick blanket around my bride’s shoulders. Sul is there only a half beat slower with a blanket for me. I avoid my brother’s gaze and turn with Ilsevel to face the high priestess one last time.

Umog Zu holds a bowl of olk dust in her hand. Her pale eyes move solemnly from me to Ilsevel. “Tog Morar tor Grakanak,” she intones one last time.

“By the God of the Deeper Dark,” the assembly echoes.

The priestess sticks her thumb in the bowl, then smears its contents across my forehead and heart. She performs the same gesture over Ilsevel, then takes our hands and joins them. “Yun,” she says, “greet your people.”

I turn and look up at the assembly, gathered in the stone gallery seats. The lorst light does not reach their faces, but I can see their hundreds of shadowy forms and feel the weight of their gazes. I lift my bride’s hand high, showing all that we are united.

The hall erupts in cheers. The sound echoes and reechoes across the stone, until it seems to me that it will fill all the Under Realm. Let every rock, every cave, every dark and crawling thing, let the fire at the very heart of this world know that Vor of Mythanar has taken a wife. And he will save his people.

Triumphant, exultant, I turn to smile at my bride. But her head is ducked low beneath her veil, and she will not meet my gaze.