Bride of the Shadow King

I’m given a quiet room in which to towel off following the ceremony. I never realized just how cold the marriage pool was! Not an experience I ever want to repeat. Gods willing, I never will.

I pause a moment, head bowed, listening to the murmur of people just outside the door. All the onlookers have come down from the galleries above the ceremonial pool. They’re filing on their way to the feasting hall now, where they will make merry until Ilsevel and I appear. Tradition dictates the revelers remain until the bridal appearance, however long that may take . . . with the understanding that the longer it takes, the greater the cause for celebration.

I clench my hands in the towel as I pull it from my head into my lap. I stare down at my tight fists, then close my eyes. The image of my bride clambering out of the pool appears in my head. The way the fabric clung to her curves, leaving nothing to the imagination. The hard knots of her nipples protruding through the thin, wet fabric. Gods! I should hate myself for this surge of arousal. The poor thing was so cold, so small, so shivering. So exposed before all those watchful eyes. No, I’m a beast even to begin thinking of her as anything other than someone in need of my protection.

And just a few minutes from now? When I visit her chamber?

She still deserves my protection.

“I won’t hurt her.” The words slide through my teeth, as solemn as any vow. “And I won’t frighten her.”

But I know too well how tentative this alliance is. I must send Lady Lyria back to her people tomorrow lusterling. And when I do, she must bear witness that the consummation has taken place.

I shake my head and bury my face momentarily in my towel. Why would anyone ever want to be king? Such a hopelessly impossible role for anyone who ever sought to be a good man.

A knock at the door. Before I can answer, it opens, and Sul sticks his head in. “Brother mine, are you hiding?” He smirks. “Has that puny little bride of yours got you trembling in your boots? Or perhaps you fear your mouse will turn into a wildcat the moment you’re alone with her. Have no fear! Say the word, and I’ll personally stand outside your door, ready to burst in and save you at the first cry for help! Though have a care, I’m liable to burst in at any cry, and that might be—”

His voice is muffled by the towel hitting him dead in the face. I rise and stand before my brother, looking him in the eye as he yanks the towel away, grinning at me. He sees my expression, and his grin freezes.

“Hear me, brother, and hear me well,” I say. “Whatever else happens tonight, you will do nothing to bring either shame or embarrassment to my wife.”

Sul’s brow tightens at the emphasis. Then his slow smile returns. “What wife, brother? You have no wife yet. Not according to the contract drawn up with the girl’s father. If you want to secure this alliance, you better get to it. Sitting around moping isn’t going to save Mythanar. Or do you want to wait until another stirring sends a swarm of cave devils crawling into the city?”

I grab the fresh garment prepared for me, a silken shirt with gold collar and cuffs, belted at the waist. My skin feels tight and hot, and though I don’t like to admit it, other parts of me are responding with anticipation of the hours to come.

Hoping Sul won’t take one look at my face and read the truth of my physical state, I turn to him. “All right. Let’s get on with it then.”

Sul flings open the door and shouts to the waiting warriors standing outside. All of my people—Wrag, Toz, Grir, Lur, and even young Yok—clad in their feasting finery, drinks already in hand, egged into bawdy cheering by my reprobate brother. I step out among them, grinning as they clap me on the back and wish me well. At a signal from Sul, they heave me onto their shoulders, despite my roared protests, and carry me through the palace halls, their voices echoing against the stone. It’s all in good fun, of course. I myself have participated in similar antics with members of this very circle following their own wedding swims.

The difference being that those were all love matches. Every one of them.

At last, they set me down before the door of the Queen’s Apartment. Hael is there already, waiting for us. I stagger unceremoniously, nearly falling into her, but pull myself together. I cast them all a grin, determined to keep the moment as light as possible.

“Your bride is ready for you, my king,” Hael says. Her voice, at least, is sober out of all those present. Lady Lyria stands at her elbow too, glaring daggers at me. I can’t tell if she’s protective of her cousin or . . . what? I avoid her gaze.

“Three cheers for our king!” Sul shouts, lifting a fist.

The others answer, their voices ringing: “Rhozah! Rhozah! Rhozah!”

“Go on, King Vor!” Wrag shouts. “See if you can make her shout half as loud!”

I turn to speak to him, but Sul claps me by the shoulder and pivots me forcibly toward the door. “We’ll be waiting for you on the other side,” he says close to my ear, “ready to greet our new queen.”

With that, and a little push between my shoulder blades, I’m through the door. It shuts solidly at my back.

All is suddenly very still. Hushed.

I stand in place, staring into the room. The room I have taken such pains to prepare for my human wife. The human wife even now waiting for me. I glance at the bedchamber door. It’s open just a crack, revealing nothing of the interior.

Drawing a long breath, I step to a table where stand an ewer and chalices. I pour two servings of pale, sparkling liquid. Traditionally a trolde couple would drink krilge together, but I know that brew would scald my bride’s tongue. Definitely not how I wish to begin our first marital encounter. So I had an imported Lunulyrian brew prepared instead. It will be strong for a human, but not unmanageable.

I carry the chalices to the bedroom door. Then, squaring my shoulders, I nudge it open with one elbow and peer inside.

My gaze first goes to the bed. Empty.

Movement draws my eye to the window.

There she stands, silhouetted by the dimness glow. My heart swells in my throat. She’s a vision. Ethereally beautiful, like some delicate angel descended from the high heavens into this dark world of earth and stone. She does not belong here, but oh! how the heart does long to take hold of her and make her stay! The fabric of her gown is flimsy and light, sheer enough that I can see the pinkness of her skin right through it but folded in such a way as to provide a titillating sort of modesty.

Her stance is defensive. One of her hands is clenched in a fist and pressed against her swiftly rising and falling breast. And I’m ogling her. Standing in the doorway, staring at her like a hungry beast.

Hastily, I clear my throat and look where I think her eyes must be behind her veil. “Ilsevel. I hope you were given some refreshment upon your arrival? I know you must have been tired.”

She draws a little breath before answering, “I . . . Yes. I have eaten. And drunk.” A pause. “I have been well cared for.”

“Good.” I hesitate, then lift one of the chalices. “May I enter?”

She nods. I step into the room. That’s one barrier down at least. Now what? I hold out the drink to her. “Here. I thought you might like this.”

“What is it?” Her voice is pitched low.

“Qeiese. A Lunulyrian drink, generally considered palatable to humans. It’s traditional in Mythanar for a husband and wife to . . . to toast the dimness hours ahead.”

She silently approaches me. When she walks, her skirt parts, revealing the length of her leg all the way up to the thigh. I try not to look, try to concentrate on her face, what I can discern of it. She’s trembling. Is she afraid I’m going to grab her? Hurt her? Is she preparing to spring back, to fling herself out that open window?

Finally, she’s before me. She stretches out her arm, takes the cup. I lift mine and gently touch it against hers. “To the union of our houses, our people, our worlds,” I say. “May Nornala smile upon us tonight and always.”

“Blessed be the Goddess of Unity,” my bride whispers. She holds the chalice under her veil to take a sip. Then she coughs and sputters hard, turning away.

I blink, surprised. “I’m so sorry! I saw you drink qeiese at Beldroth. I thought you had a taste for it. Perhaps this is stronger than you are used to.”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and offers the chalice back to me, still sputtering. Then she shakes her head, and to my surprise I hear a soft laugh emerge from under that veil. “Well! This is not an auspicious beginning, is it?”

The tension holding my shoulders taut eases at the sound of that laugh. Though, I must say, she sounds very little like the girl I danced with in Beldroth. If I didn’t know any better, I would say she sounds like—

But no. I’ve made my vows. Never again will I think of another woman. Only her. This woman before me. My wife. My Ilsevel.

I take the two chalices and set them down on a table near the bed. The bed. It seems suddenly rather large and ominous. And even without looking at her directly, I am painfully aware of Ilsevel’s lithe shape beneath that gown. I close my eyes, fighting against the fire in my gut. I am a man, after all. I cannot help the urges of my body.

But I can absolutely help what I do with those urges. I will not let them control me.

Inhaling slowly, I face my bride once more. She stands where I left her, one fist pressed against her heart again. Is she trying to cover her exposed skin?

I lick my dry lips. “I want you to know, Ilsevel, that I have no intention of hurting you. Not tonight. Not ever.”

She regards me silently. Perhaps she doesn’t understand.

“What I’m trying to say is, we need not do anything now that you are not prepared to do.”

“It is our wedding night.” Her voice is very soft.

“I know.”

“The alliance . . .” She leaves the unfinished thought hanging between us.

“The alliance is important to me,” I acknowledge. “But so are you. I want you to be happy here in Mythanar.”

She seems to consider this. “My cousin must verify the consummation before her return.” She pauses and then adds, “My father will be expecting her.”

“A messenger can be sent in her stead, explaining the delay.” She starts to protest, but I hold up one hand. “I don’t think it fair that an arbitrary deadline should dictate our private actions.”

A long, silent moment hovers between us. Only the distant hum of music rises from the feasting hall far below, underscored by the throbbing beat of drums.

“But,” she says at last, “this deadline isn’t arbitrary.”

It isn’t. I feel the terrible pressure of the alliance weighing on me. The needs of my people, my kingdom, my world. The chasm slicing through Dugorim village, the bodies broken on stones below. The stink of raog poison rising, filling our nostrils. It must be stopped. I must use whatever means possible to stop it.

And yet . . .

I look her in the eye. Though I cannot see her face clearly through the veil, I hold her gaze. “Ilsevel, you are to be queen of my people. But you are also my queen. You and you alone shall guide and dictate your desires to me. It will be my honor to act accordingly.”

Another silence. So full of unspoken things. Fears. Longings. And everything in between. I stand there beside that bed, looking at this woman, this stranger, to whom I have just bound myself, heart and soul. And I wait.

She takes a step.

My heart hitches in my chest.

She takes another step. And another. I clench my fists, arms straight at my sides, like a soldier bracing for battle. My eyes long to devour her body, the way the skirt parts, revealing her shapely legs. Even as I refuse to look down, I cannot help the intense awareness of her flooding my senses.

She stands in front of me, peering up at me from beneath her veil. “May we . . . Would it be well with you if we lowered the lights?”

“Of course!” I answer a little too fast. I speak a word of command that makes the crystals dim, casting the room in deep shades of purple and blue. But I can still see her. The shape of her pale form, standing before me in the shadows. The olk dust from our ceremony shimmers across her forehead and breast.

Slowly, she slips the veil from her head, drops it at her feet. She lifts her chin. Her eyelids are lowered, as though she cannot bear to look at me directly. Instead, she fixes her gaze on my chest. Raising one hand, she rests her palm against my heart, covering the shimmering olk dust mark. After a breath, she removes her other hand from her breast, baring a view of that plunging neckline and the delights it reveals.

I know what she is waiting for me to do. I hesitate. Then, moving cautiously so as not to startle her, I rest my palm against her own shining sigil. Her heart is galloping, keeping pace with mine.

Her lips move in a gentle whisper: “Will you kiss me, my king?”