Bride of the Shadow King

If someone had told me mere hours ago that I would, before the night’s end, find myself riding on the back of a great, spined, nightmarish brute, wrapped in the arms of a magnificent, blue-skinned warrior king, I’m sure I would have laughed out loud. I’m not a romantic. I never have been. I’ve spent the better part of my life avoiding such powerful and problematic emotions. Yet somehow, I find myself suddenly playing the role of a heroine straight out of a ballad!

After the first interval of riding, the initial shock begins to wear off, and I’m better able to comprehend that which takes place around me. The trolls are talking in their rough, rock-grinding language. The man riding at the king’s right hand is particularly chatty. I study him with covert glances, trying to get a clearer impression of him. He looks a lot like the king, with a similarly shaped brow and strong jaw. He’s taller and paler, however, and his skin is only faintly blue.

Once he looks my way and catches my eye. Just for an instant. But in that instant, I get such a jolt of suspicion, it turns my stomach. I look away quickly and avoid his gaze going forward.

The rider to the king’s left is the one he called Hael. I can’t get a clear sense from her, for she has my brother riding behind her, and his anxiety is so potent, it dominates everything around him. Still, if I push through Theodre’s storm, I can just catch a sense of something strong emitting from her. Worry, if I’m not mistaken.

“Are you comfortable, princess?” The king’s voice startles me. He’s been quiet for some time.

I shiver a little at the sensation of his breath against my skin but quickly master myself. “Faraine,” I say. “Please, my name is Faraine.”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, “And you will permit the familiarity?”

I wince. How could I have forgotten? The fae hold names as precious and dangerous. To give one’s name to a fae can be a deadly mistake. But I can’t very well take it back now, can I?

“Yes, please.” I hope my voice doesn’t betray the tension in my gut. “I’ve been living away from court these last two years and have grown disused to titles.”

“In that case, you must call me Vor.”

“I’m not sure I could.”

“And why not? If I’m to call you by your name, it is only fair you should grant me the same kindness.”

“My . . . my father would not be pleased.”

“Your father is not here.”

Well, that’s true enough. But I feel the distance between me and Beldroth Castle shrinking with every step of this powerful beast I ride. Soon I’ll be back under my father’s stern and disappointed eye. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

Hastily, I switch tacks. “And what of your people? How would they feel about such informality?”

“Shocked and horrified,” he answers at once. “Which should be a sight to behold, so you really must indulge me.”

A laugh burbles from my lips before I can swallow it back. “Very well,” I say, trying to recover my dignity. Then add “Vor” for good measure. It’s a strange name, so harsh and abrupt. Which doesn’t seem to suit him at all.

I lapse back into silence. I really shouldn’t be enjoying myself this much. Following the attack on the carriage, the death that surrounded me, the fear and the terror, my mind should be a wreck. Such a deluge of sensation would ordinarily leave me incapacitated for days. Yet here I am, head clear, pain free. It’s strange and incredible. I want to hold onto this feeling as long as possible.

The Shadow King reins his creature to a halt. We’ve come to a rocky promontory overlooking the valley below. In the distance, just visible under moonlight, stand the high towers of Beldroth. My heart lurches at the sight. I’m not sure whether I feel dread or homesickness or some strange combination of the two. While I miss my sisters, home has always been a place of pain for me. Life at Nornala Convent is lonely and dull, but I’ve enjoyed relative peace there compared to the turmoil of my father’s court.

“Is that our destination?” Vor asks.

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

I turn, trying to glimpse his face. He seems contemplative, possibly even a little uncertain. He glances down at me, catching my eye. “This is my first time traveling to the human world,” he says. “It seems very strange to me, building a fortress like that out under the open sky. To my eye, it feels dangerously exposed. Tell me, what should I expect upon reaching your father’s house?”

I hesitate. I must tread carefully here. “I suppose that depends. What do you expect?”

Once more I get a prickling of uncertainty from him. “Your father has promised me feasting and friendship. His messages have been . . . effusive. We have both stated our hopes of securing an alliance, of lasting peace and brotherhood between Mythanar and Gavaria for generations to come.”

Marriage. He’s referring to a marriage. He doesn’t have to say the word for me to know what he means.

“Well,” I continue, choosing to be direct in my answer, “if that is what’s promised, I believe there will be plenty of food and drink and merrymaking. I’ve seen my father host potential suitors before.”

“Really?” His tone alters slightly. “I understand King Larongar has three daughters. Has he secured marriages for either of your sisters?”

“Not yet.”

Vor is silent for a moment. He spurs his creature back into motion, and the party continues down the mountain road. At length, he says, “Where do you stand in the family? Your brother is the eldest, am I correct?”

His interest is disconcerting. In the space of this ride, he has already asked me more personal questions than Prince Orsan did over our entire month-long courtship. Part of me wonders if I should be offended or distrustful. Another part cannot help enjoying the attention. I must remember that he’s simply gathering information. He’s a strategist, and he wants to be prepared before he enters into negotiations with my father. That is all.

So why do I get such a strong sensation of . . . warmth from him?

“I am the second-born,” I say. “After me are two younger sisters, Ilsevel and Aurae.”

“Indeed?” Vor goes silent again, considering. While my gods-gift does not enable me to read another’s thoughts, I can almost feel him realizing I am the one my father tried to marry off to some suitor in the past. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me that the marriage did not succeed.

I swallow hard and quickly say, “You have a great pleasure ahead of you in meeting my sister, Ilsevel.”

“Is that so? And why is that?”

“She is widely considered the most beautiful woman in all Gavaria. To that virtue, she adds many accomplishments: dancing, riding, hunting, fine needlework. Her wit is unmatched among the ladies of court, and she is peerless in both humor and charm.”

“You seem very proud of this sister of yours.”

“I am. She is the darling of my heart.”

“High praise, I’m sure.”

“The highest I can bestow.” I look down at my hands, at the strands of black mane twisted between my fingers. “And, of course, there’s her gods-gift to consider.”

“Gods-gift?”

“Yes. Did you not know? The children of King Larongar were all blessed by the gods with extraordinary gifts on the day of their christening. Ilsevel was bestowed the gift of song. There is no voice in all the kingdom that can rival hers, and she plays all instruments brilliantly.”

“In that case, I look forward to many enjoyable performances.” Vor goes silent. I try not to but can’t help reaching out with my senses to discern what he’s feeling. His emotions are complicated. I’m not certain I could name them.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” he says suddenly, “what gift did the gods bestow upon your brother?”

“Oh, couldn’t you tell?” I grin. “His gift is beauty.”

Vor is silent for several paces. Then, “I can’t decide if you’re teasing.”

I laugh outright at that, drawing a few suspicious glances from the riders around us. “No, indeed! Among our kind, Theodre is considered quite devastatingly beautiful. He always has a string of doting lovers sighing after him wherever he goes. I understand my father hoped he’d be given a war-gift, which would have been more useful to the crown. But my brother definitely enjoys his gift to the fullest.”

A low chuckle rumbles in the Shadow King’s throat. The sound sparks against my senses, heady as a sip of strong wine. “You’ll forgive me, but I struggle to imagine that.”

“Well, you’ve not yet seen my brother in his element.”

“True.” I can feel the next question rising to his lips. He holds onto it for some while, but I know it’s coming and brace myself. “If I may be so bold,” he says at last, “to ask about your gods-gift?”

“You may ask.”

Another moment’s hesitation. Then, “But you won’t tell me.”

“No.”

“In that case, I will hold my tongue.”

We continue in silence for a little while. The rolling gait of the king’s monster steed is almost soothing beneath the starry sky. It’s a far more comfortable mode of transportation than the carriage. If I close my eyes and let myself forget the hideous appearance of the creature on which I ride, I could almost imagine I was carried on a warm and gentle wind. Combined with the inexplicable calm radiating from the Shadow King, I find myself lulled and peaceful. I could almost drift off into sleep, my head cushioned against a firm, broad shoulder.

“Gods damn and blast!” Theodre’s voice erupts suddenly, disturbing my calm. “Your hilt is digging into my stomach! Gods save me, I cannot be expected to ride all the way to Beldroth in such a fashion! I demand you pull this beast up at once and adjust your weaponry, woman!”

A low chuckle rumbles in my ear once more. “Beauty, eh?”

I smile. “Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all.”

“Not troldefolk beholders, I fear.”

Heat creeps to my cheeks. For a moment, I can’t say if it’s embarrassment on my brother’s behalf or . . . something else. The question suddenly springs into my head: if this majestic and otherworldly king doesn’t consider my gods-gifted brother beautiful, what must he think of me? I’ve never been much concerned with thoughts of my own attractiveness. Standing between Theodre on one hand and Ilsevel on the other, I know myself to be rather dull and pale. Worse still, my physical limitations keep me from venturing out in company more than absolutely necessary, so I’ve had little opportunity to develop either charm or wit. Whenever Prince Orsan tried to lead me into a bout of flirting, my senses were always so overwhelmed, it was all I could do to make any sense of his words. I never did learn the knack of a well-timed barb or a mischievous toss of the head. Not that it mattered. Orsan pursued me for my title and position. And even that wasn’t enough to win him over in the end.

As for this man? This king? He’s meant for better than the likes of me. So why should I care what he or his kind think of my appearance?

“Troldefolk,” I say, latching onto a chance to shift the conversation elsewhere. “You’ve said that word before. Is it the proper name for your people?”

“Yes,” Vor answers. “It is what we call ourselves. Why? Did you think we were trolls?”

His tone is teasing, but I sense a hint of disdain. I wince, remembering my brother’s blatant use of the word. “I’ll admit,” I say, “I was told the King of the Trolls was on his way to pay his respects to my father.”

“And you’ve been envisioning a big slab of knuckle-dragging rock, no doubt.”

“Well, a few of your party do rather meet that description.”

“True, true.” For a moment, I fear I’ve offended him. When I search his feelings, however, I don’t detect any irritation. Instead, there’s an undercurrent of sorrow I don’t understand.

I’m still trying to decide if I dare ask more searching questions when he continues in a heavier voice than before: “Over the last few generations, a change has occurred among my people. More and more trolde children are born with rock hides. As though the stone from which we were carved in the Dawning of Time seeks now to reclaim our flesh and souls.”

I glance sideways at Captain Hael, who has shifted my brother to sit in front of her and has her arm wrapped around his waist. She’s so tall and powerful, he looks positively childlike by comparison. For the most part, she boasts the same pale beauty as most of the others in this party, but I’d not failed to notice the hard, gray, lumpish skin which creeps up her neck, partway up her jaw and the right side of her face. Her right hand is similarly rough-hewn and twice the size of her left.

“Does anyone know what causes it?” I ask, hoping Vor will take my question as interest not rudeness.

“No one knows for certain,” he responds. “But there are theories. Our priestesses call it the dorgarag.”

“What does that mean?”

He considers. “It’s difficult to translate into your tongue. Perhaps the best word would be the return. In trolde lore, our god is Morar tor Grakanak, the God of the Deeper Dark. We believe he carved the original trolde man from a slab of obsidian and the original trolde woman from a black diamond. When he breathed life into them, the stone fell away, revealing the supple flesh beneath. But their hearts were still stone, and to stone they must someday return. Thus our priestesses believe the Deeper Dark is stirring, summoning all troldefolk to return to their true and original state of stone.”

His voice is heavy, ominous. Whatever his priestesses may teach, he does not sound like a man of faith speaking of hoped-for salvation. “And what do you believe?” I ask softly.

I feel the swell of his broad chest at my back, then the gust of air as he releases the deep breath from his lungs. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. I am Lord Protector of the Under Realm. It is my sacred duty and honor to defend my people.”

For just an instant, a strong emotion emanates from his core: fear. It’s sharp and quick, like the swift stab of a knife. Ordinarily, such a stab would cause me to cry out and crumple over into myself. This time, however, though I sense it with perfect clarity, it does not hurt me. Strange.

I turn my head, trying to catch another glimpse of the Shadow King’s face. It’s hard to see much from this angle and under moonlight. What does he fear exactly? My first impressions of him in the midst of battle were of total confidence and unshakable conviction. But something must be driving him to leave his own world and seek this alliance with Gavaria. What does he think my father might give him? Because I can’t imagine he’s traveled across worlds for the sole purpose of pursuing a human bride. There must be something more at stake, something I don’t understand.

The road before us begins to level out. We’re already leaving the mountains behind. How many miles have we traveled in such a short time? The monsters move so smoothly, I’d not noticed their speed until now as we spill out into the open plain. Beldroth Castle stands a good two miles distant, perched on a rocky promontory.

Ripples of unease disturb the atmosphere around me. I glance at the other troldefolk riders, all of them wide-eyed and tense-shouldered astride their great steeds. I brace myself, prepared for the pain that usually accompanies such strong emotions, but none comes. I feel it, yet it seems to pass through a filtering fog that dulls the intensity before it reaches me. I’m so surprised by this unexpected blessing that it takes me a few moments to realize the king himself is as disturbed as his companions. His jaw is tight, and I can hear his teeth grinding. “Are you well, Vor?” I ask.

He blinks, and his brow puckers with faint surprise. “Ah, yes. Of course.” After a moment, he adds, “It’s the sky. While we traveled in the mountains, it was easier to ignore, but now . . .” He shudders, the cords of his throat standing out starkly. “I find it deeply unsettling.”

I glance up at the star-strewn arc of night overhead. It’s lovely and clear, and the early spring constellations are on proud display. “Why does it bother you so?”

“Did you not know?” He catches my eye again. “Mythanar is a subterranean kingdom. By and large, troldefolk prefer to dwell under stone with a good, solid ceiling overhead.”

My brow furrows as this information sinks in. A subterranean kingdom? I hadn’t considered that possibility. It’s not good . . . not good at all. When I think about Ilsevel, my sweet, spirited sister, I think of sun and sky and wide-open spaces. She was born for the saddle, born for the far horizon. How would she fare as queen of a dark underground realm?

I shake my head, driving this thought away. No point in dwelling on things I cannot help. Instead, I turn my attention back to the rising unease in Vor. It increases with every passing moment until I feel it with every shuddering breath he takes.

I chew the inside of my cheek, considering. This probably isn’t a good idea. I should mind my own business, leave well enough alone. My world is fraught with forces about which I can do nothing. But here, in this moment . . . I am not without power.

Releasing a handful of dark mane, I slip my hand under my borrowed cloak and find my crystal pendant on its chain around my neck. I close my eyes, let my breath level out, and feel the thrumming pulse down in the heart of the crystal. My heartbeat slows to match that pulse until my body hums in synchronization.

Then, letting go of the crystal, I reach out from under the cloak and very gently place my fingers on Vor’s wrist. The moment my fingertips brush his skin, something sharp sparks between us. Ribbons of energy run up my arm to burst in my head. That first shock is painful, but as the sensation cascades down my spine and flows through the rest of my body, the pain melts away into something strange and wondrous.

Vor lets out a long exhale. Surprise flows out from him, carrying with it that simmering anxiety. In its place there is only calm.

I lift my hand from his wrist and grab a tangle of monster mane. We ride in silence, and I keep my gaze fixed on the looming towers of Beldroth. After what seems a long time, Vor’s voice rumbles in my ear again. “Did you do something?”

I blink, surprised. Was it that obvious? “Yes,” I answer softly.

A breath. Then, “If I ask you what, will you tell me?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Beldroth is closer now. Soon, guards along the battlements will sound the heralding trumpets, alerting the castle denizens to the Shadow King’s approach. Soon after, I’ll be back within my father’s house—back in that realm of existence where I’ve always been little more than an inconvenience, a bother, a disappointment. Even a liability. And the only good I can offer is to try to convince my sister to marry this otherworldly man with whom I now ride.

For some reason, I find that notion even more disturbing now that I’ve met Vor. Perhaps it’s the knowledge of the underground world from which he hails. I know Ilsevel will be unhappy buried so far from the sun and stars.

But if I’m honest, that’s not the only reason for my unease. Something else stabs at my heart, a bitter thorn I hardly dare name: Jealousy.

But no. That’s foolish. Ridiculous! Ever since my disastrous experience with Prince Orsan, I’ve learned to be grateful Father sent me away to Nornala Convent, grateful I would never again face the terror of an arranged marriage to an unknown groom. While life in the convent is certainly lonely, at least I can live there as my own person. I won’t let a chance encounter with a handsome stranger—not even one who saved my life—make me feel unhappy with my lot. I am resigned. I know my place. And when I get home, I will do all I can to comfort and prepare Ilsevel for the life ahead of her.

Drawing Vor’s cloak a little closer, I sit very straight in the saddle, determined not to rest back against the king’s chest. I grip my crystal again. The pulse in its center is faint, but when I close my eyes and focus, I can just find it. I concentrate on that pulse, drawing deeply inward.

But I cannot fully block out the sensation of those strong arms wrapped around me and the warmth of breath against my ear.