Bride of the Shadow King

Hael leads me from the vaulting stone hall with its shadowed galleries and unseen onlookers. It’s a relief to escape all those watching eyes. Like shrugging off an invisible burden.

My whole body trembles. If I’m honest, it’s not so much to do with the cold—although I am frozen straight through after that icy plunge, I scarcely note the numbness in my extremities. My mind is much too focused on what comes next.

The bridal chamber.

Lyria trails behind us, muttering under her breath as she struggles to keep up with Hael’s quick pace. No one else seems to be joining us on this particular trek. A soaking wet, shivering bride is permitted some dignity, at least. I cling with one hand to the thick blanket Hael gave me, my other hand gripping my necklace. I’d not worn it in the pool, remembering how Vor had reacted when he saw it. Instead, I’d slipped it into Lyria’s hand just before entering the water.

Which meant I was open to receive the full force of Vor’s surging feelings. Feelings which started out as nothing more than anxiety and tension, but which, partway through the swim, as we passed beneath that bruising waterfall, transformed abruptly into something unexpected. An exultant delight, thrilling with promise and purpose, that sang from his soul. That song struck me so hard, I nearly gasped at the sheer joy of it. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.

I wanted to respond.

I wanted to let my own heart echo his song back to him in joyful harmony. My body, my being filled up with light and warmth and eagerness and—

And then I remembered. His song wasn’t for me.

Hael stops abruptly. I’ve lost track of the passages and stairs we’ve climbed, and blink blearily at the tall stone door before me. There’s no visible latch, but Hael pushes it open, revealing a sumptuous chamber within. It takes me a moment to realize why the sight looks so odd. Then it strikes me: the furnishings are all human. Beautiful chairs and lounges, a tall painted screen before the hearth, little tables and ornaments, all of luxurious taste. Utterly unexpected in such a distinctly troldish chamber of stone, illuminated by hanging lorst crystals.

“This is the Queen’s Apartment,” Hael says, waving a hand for me to enter. “King Vor had it fitted out specially for you. He wanted you to feel at home.”

I step inside, my jaw dropping as I look around. The curtains in the windows are trimmed in Valaayun lace, so intricate, so expensive, it must be worth a king’s ransom. The rug under my feet is an Urivarian import, woven with intricate sacred symbols of all seven gods. It’s big enough to cover more than half the floorspace. Everywhere I look, I spy some other beautiful item, all works of human craftsmanship. I cannot say I feel at home, because it’s all so much nicer than anything I’ve ever known. My father could only dream of such riches back in Beldroth!

“It’s beautiful,” I say, turning slowly in place.

Hael nods and indicates a door on my right hand. “There is the adjoining passage to the King’s Apartment. All concourse between these two rooms is strictly private, of course. But tonight, he will come through the main door, escorted by his attendants and other witnesses.”

I nod. Of course, there must be witnesses. And afterwards, both Lyria and a female trolde called the uggrha will inspect my body to make certain everything has transpired as it ought. An indignity I will suffer gladly rather than having onlookers for the consummation itself.

Hael steps across the chamber and opens the door at my left hand. “Come,” she bids. I obey. This door leads to the bedchamber, of course. My stomach tightens. At least my nervous tension has warmed my cold blood, though I still cannot seem to stop my knees from trembling.

Lyria hastily steps to my side, facing Hael. “I will help the princess prepare for her husband.”

Hael narrows her eyes. “The king has asked me to stand in as the princess’s murzol. It is my duty to prepare her.”

“Yes, and I’m her next of kin. It is my right and privilege.”

The two of them stare each other down, as though each believes force of will alone can make the other spontaneously combust. I’m caught between them. I can’t very well urge Hael to comply without seeming as though I’m fighting the practices of the troldefolk. But I don’t dare tell Lyria to stand down. If the disguise spells were affected by my plunge in the wedding pool, I can’t risk discovery. Not now, not when we’re so close to . . . to . . .

“Very well.” Hael’s voice is abrupt as she steps back out of the bedchamber. “Your kinswoman may prepare you. But I must be permitted to inspect the room and your person before King Vor arrives.”

“Right.” Lyria flashes a too-large smile. “Be off with you then.”

Hael tips her chin, her brow furrowed. “I said, I will need to inspect the bride and chamber before the king’s visit.”

“I heard you the first time.” Lyria waves her hand. To my relief, Hael departs with only a single glance my way. She crosses the outer room and steps into the passage beyond, closing the door behind her.

Lyria hastily pulls me into the bedroom and shuts us in. It’s fairly well lit by lorst crystals, though the light through the window is swiftly fading into trolde nightfall. Lyria pulls my veil back and makes a face. “It’s all slipping badly now. It’s a good thing you weren’t depending on that idiot Klaern’s spellwork!”

A mirror dominates the wall opposite the bed—a huge, perfectly clear glass set in a silver frame which, upon second glance, appears to be a great, coiling dragon. I peer at my reflection, momentarily shocked to see my own two eyes looking back at me. The rest still looks like Ilsevel, but it’s all gone a bit blurry around the edges. “What can we do?” I ask, prodding at one cheek.

“Don’t poke it!” Lyria pushes away my hand and scowls into the glass. “Well, you can request these lights be dimmed. There’s no guarantee he’ll comply, but your new husband strikes me as the accommodating sort.”

New husband. A shiver travels up the back of my neck. But it’s true. I’ve married him. I’ve bound my life to his—all in my sister’s name. The name which is now, in every legal sense, mine.

I shake my head, stepping back from the mirror. A little table and chair stand close to the hearth, and I sink into the seat. “I can’t do it. I can’t lie to him like this.” I look up at Lyria. “I have to tell him the truth before—”

“You finish that sentence, and I’ll put a spell on your tongue so you can’t speak for a month!” Lyria’s face falls into stern lines. “I was given one assignment when I was sent here with you: to make certain you don’t spoil everything before the alliance can be secured.” Her expression softens slightly. She reaches out, pats my hand. “Don’t you realize? You’ve gone too far now. If he discovers that Larongar has played him false before the consummation, he will certainly break off everything.”

“But what about after? He’s going to find out.” I shudder, dropping my head. “What will he think of me?”

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks of you.” Lyria’s fingers tighten around mine. “What matters is Gavaria will have the help it needs.”

With that, she leaves me to begin looking over the room. I can’t bear more than a glance around myself. A huge four-poster bed of human style but trolde dimensions dominates the space. Beyond it stands a wardrobe, which Lyria opens and rummages inside. “It looks as though they’ve had plenty of gowns made for you. I’m quite tempted to take one or two home with me, shock the court with these bawdy troll fashions! Ah. This is what we’re looking for, I think.”

She turns around, holding up a silky white gown. If you can call a garment so small and sparse a gown. Lyria chuckles at the look I give her. “Come. I’ll help you get into it. It’s got to be better than that soaking wet thing you’re in.”

That, at least, is true enough. I’m very thankful to let Lyria peel me out of the clinging wet ceremonial robe. She towels me off and helps me into the white gown. It doesn’t take a lot of help, for there are no buttons, no hooks, no ties. It’s styled in such a way to come off easily.

My throat feels dry and tight. “What am I to do, Lyria?” I whisper softly as my half-sister runs a comb through my still-wet hair.

“You mean about . . . about what’s going to happen?” She pulls a face. “I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Try to remember what my gods-blighted mother told you. And hope for the best. Vor seems like a kind man. Perhaps it won’t be so bad.”

Is that compassion I glimpse in her eyes? Probably not. Still, I wish suddenly the two of us had gotten to know one another a bit better before now. “What will happen to you?” I ask. “After it’s done?”

She shrugs. “I suppose that depends on what goes on in here. If he doesn’t find out right away, I’ll carry back word of the completed ceremony and the secured alliance. If he does . . . who knows? He might kill me too. Send my head back in a box as a warning to Larongar.” She smiles grimly. “That’s politics for you.”

She takes a step back and looks me over, her gaze critical. The gown hangs from my shoulders by little jeweled straps, the gauzy fabric draped low across my bosom. More jewels glint amid the folds like dewdrops in fine mist. It’s light and lovely against the skin, and far more revealing than any garment I’ve worn before.

Lyria grimaces suddenly and touches my cheek, then my jaw, then my nose, murmuring. A frisson of magic tickles my skin as she tries to bolster her spell. I can tell it’s not working. Lyria shakes her head and heaves a sigh. “It’ll have to do. Just remember, keep your eyes closed as much as possible. If you can do that, the rest should hold for a few hours at least.”

I nod mutely. My half-sister looks as though she wants to say something more. In the end, however, she steps back. “I think it’s time I let that hulking warrioress in to poke and prod about the place.”

I agree, and Lyria fetches Hael. The trolde woman approaches me first, murmuring an apology as she makes me turn in place. She pats down my body, checking for weapons or poisons or I don’t even know what.

She points at my clenched fist. “What’s that?”

I open my fingers, revealing the crystal pendant, which has left deep indentations in my palm. Hael’s brow puckers faintly. “Do you plan to wear it?”

“I . . . have not decided.”

Hael grunts and moves on. To my great relief, she does not bother to lift my veil and study my face as she did back in the barter tent. With swift efficiency she inspects the rest of the room. When she opens the wardrobe and rifles through the dresses, Lyria snorts and says, “You won’t find an assassin in there. I’ve stashed him away in my pocket for future use.”

Hael shoots her a dangerous look. “Lyria, please!” I hiss. Lyria rolls her eyes and mutters a somewhat ungracious apology. But she keeps her mouth shut for the rest of Hael’s careful scrutiny.

Satisfied at last, the trolde woman approaches me. To my surprise, she kneels, takes my hands in hers, and presses them to her forehead. “My queen,” she says.

A shock rolls through me at both her touch and her voice. I’ve not been addressed as queen yet. I won’t be crowned until the feast following the consummation. This is a signal of trust from Hael. Trust I do not deserve.

She rises, her head bent. “Your husband will attend upon you shortly,” she says. “All of Mythanar will pray to the Goddess of Unity for you this dimness.”

With that, she beckons to Lyria, guiding my half-sister to the door. Lyria pauses, casts me one last look. I see the injunction in her eyes: Don’t mess this up. Our lives are in your hands.

Then they’re gone.

The door shuts behind them.

A little sob rises in my throat. I choke it back and sink down onto the edge of the bed. Realizing what I’ve done, I spring up again at once. Sitting causes the skirt of my gown to part, revealing the entirety of both legs. I clutch my crystal and step back to the middle of the room. How long will I have to wait?

Drawing a deep breath, I move to the window and gaze at the city below. Those strange white rooftops of fantastically shaped stone lead all the way to the massive wall edging that great chasm. I have a sudden weird sensation of floating. As though I and all the denizens of Mythanar are suspended over an endless, eternal drop. And one wrong move on my part will send us all plunging . . .

A sudden burst of voices sounds behind me. Trolde voices. Bursts of raucous laughter and shouts, coming from outside my chamber. I turn in place, heart galloping. There’s a sound of a door shutting. Followed by silence.

My hands are sweating as I smooth them awkwardly down the front of my pale gown. I’m still holding my crystal. Should I put it on? No, I shouldn’t. I don’t want Vor to see it, to start questioning me again about how I came by it. Should I try to stash it somewhere? No, there’s no time. I squeeze it tight in my fist.

Footsteps in the outer chamber. Drawing nearer.

I drag a shuddering breath into my lungs, then pull up my chin. Peering through my veil, I face the door. It opens softly.

King Vor stands framed in the opening.