Bride of the Shadow King

Hael stands at the door of the council hall, her shoulders back, her eyes forward. Her face is set like granite, her mouth a grim, hard line. Members of the house guard under her command encircle the room, standing in the shadows just outside the low amber lorst light illuminating the central table.

I sit at the head of the table, my hands on the stone arms, fingers drumming. Someone—I don’t remember who—found me a blue silk robe, which I’ve pulled across my shoulders, but my feet are still bare against the cold floor. Sul sits at my left hand, draped in his chair, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. While his pose may be languid, there’s a glint of deadly intent in his eye.

The table is shaped in a wide U with members of my privy council seated on either side of me. The seat for the queen is empty on my right hand, but Queen Roh has taken a chair several places down. Her priest is notably absent. Instead, Umog Zu and another priestess of the Deeper Dark occupy the furthest seats at the two ends of the table. They have entered into a semi-va state and will offer neither advice nor opinions. It is their job to petition the Dark to guide us in the right way. Their gentle prayersong hums like a deep river running beneath the strained voices filling the room.

I look around at the other parties present. My minsters of finance, agriculture, tradition, and, of course, war. The minister of trade’s seat is empty; that one belonged to Lady Xag. The other members wear grim faces, a stark contrast to their elaborate wedding apparel. Their voices rise and fall, speaking over one another, their words lost in a dissonant chorus. Only Sul and his mother hold their peace. Roh’s hands are folded neatly in front of her, while Sul rubs his curling upper lip with one finger.

Finally, Lady Parh, my minister of war, pounds the table so hard, the opposite end lifts several inches off the floor. “I do not see what the question is here!” she barks, drowning out the other members, who stare at her, momentarily subdued. “The humans have conspired against our king. They have defiled our holy waters, revealing themselves to be two-faced and vicious wurms. We must send them a clear message.”

“I agree.” My minister of finance nods enthusiastically. “We ought to send the girl’s thumbs back to her father in a box. Let that be a lesson to them!”

“Her thumbs?” Parh sneers. “You’re far too squeamish, Lord Gol. In King Guar’s day, it would have been her head!”

All eyes in the room swivel to me.

I blink blandly. “I am not King Guar.”

“No, indeed.” My minister of tradition offers a kindly smile that is just a little too broad. “And, under the circumstances, one would not expect you to behave as your noble father did.”

Sul sits up straight in his chair, his hand dropping away from his face. “Speak plainly, Lord Rath.” The smile he shoots my minister is even broader, even more kindly, and far more sinister. “What circumstances do you mean? Pray, enlighten us all.”

My minister squirms in his seat, his lips compressing into a line. He offers no answer.

Lady Sha, my minister of finance clears her throat gently, drawing eyes her way. “Pardon my confusion,” she says softly, “but what is the problem here exactly? The human bride is King Larongar’s daughter, is she not? Thus, the contract is binding, regardless of which girl bears the name. Why all this fuss? The alliance may move forward, as approved by majority vote of this very council.”

“Exactly!” the rumbling voice of Brug, my minister of agriculture, growls. He pounds one rock-shaped fist against the other to emphasize his point. “No fuss. No bother. Just get back in there and grundle the girl. Pardon my language,” he adds with a nod to Umog Zu. She opens one eye to give him a look then returns to her va. He shrugs and addresses me directly. “There’s no call to be delicate about it, Your Majesty. You only have to do it the once. If you find her unappealing, shut her away somewhere safe and take yourself a pretty mistress or two. That’s the way it’s done.”

Sul tilts his chair back on two legs, his foot now propped on the table edge. “This wise and noble council need hardly be reminded that if Larongar played us false once, he will undoubtedly do so again. He is human. He is not bound to the written words of the contract but may break them on mere whim. Whereas our king, should he, um, complete his marital duties, will be obliged to fulfill the oath to which he signed his mark. Which means soldiers sent to fight Larongar’s enemies. How many of you want to send good troldefolk off to die for a human king’s cause?”

“Exactly!” Lady Parh leans forward in her seat, her eyes suddenly bright. “Which is why we should have gone with my original plan in the first place—attack the humans, take their Miphates captive, and force them to give us the magic we need. Break a couple of fingers and toes, maybe kill off some of the lesser mages, and the rest will soon be compliant.”

“We are not going to war with the humans,” I answer coldly.

“Oh, no,” the minister of tradition mutters. “No, of course the king wouldn’t want that!”

Sul is out of his chair and on the table in a trice. Ignoring the shouts of the ministers staring up at him, he strides its length to plant himself squarely before Lord Rath. “Speak up, Rath. What have you to say? Loud enough for everyone to hear, if you please!”

Rath’s lips twist. “I only meant that because the king is half-human himself, he may be loath to—”

Before he can get another word out, Sul plants his foot on the minster’s head, driving his face into the table. “Do you want to keep spitting that poisonous bile of yours?” he hisses, bending to plant his elbow on his knee. “Because I’m really starting to enjoy it!”

“Sul,” I bark. “Stand down—off my minister and my table.”

Growling, Sul obeys. He backs up to his seat, never breaking Rath’s gaze. The minister rubs his head, cursing and spluttering, but unwilling to voice further complaint. Not in my brother’s presence anyway.

“You’ve been very quiet, Your Highness,” Lord Gol says suddenly, turning to Roh. “You were King Guar’s consort and have served Mythanar these many turns of the cycle. What do you believe should be done?”

My stepmother raises her pale lashes at last. “The answer is clear,” she says. Her cool gaze travels around the table, taking in each council member by turn. She stops when she comes to me, her eyes round and unblinking. “The answer is clear,” she says again. “We must execute the girl and send her head home with her kinswoman as a message to the human king.”

Ignoring Lady Parh’s muttered, “Exactly!” I hold my stepmother’s gaze. A mocking half smile twists my lips, disguising the sudden plunge in my gut. “And what good would such violence accomplish?”

“It would put an end to this foolish notion of an alliance once and for all.”

At this, the table explodes into yet another storm of babble, underscored by the rumbling voice of Brug and punctuated by Lady Parh’s pounding fist. Finally, Lady Sha’s high voice manages to be heard above the rest: “But what about the Miphates? We’ll never get their support by offending Larongar so.”

“We should never have pinned our hopes for help on the Miphates in the first place,” Queen Roh responds.

“Is that so?” Brug folds his great arms. “And how exactly do you expect to combat the stirrings? To stop the destruction of our world?”

“I don’t.”

Every pair of eyes fixes on the queen. Even the two priestesses give up all pretense of va to stare at her.

“From the Dark we have sprung,” Queen Roh says calmly. “To the Dark we must return. Who are we to thwart the will of the Deeper Dark?”

“It is not the Dark which sends the raog poison rising through the cracks in the world.” Umog Zu lifts her head. The little skulls adorning her headdress rattle and shake. “It is that which dwells in the Dark.”

“And you are so sure they are not one and the same?”

“We don’t have time for this guthakug holy-talk,” Brug barks, rounding on Queen Roh. “Are you saying we all ought to just sit back and watch our world burn?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what do you propose?”

“I propose we prepare our souls for the inevitable.”

All mutters, murmurs, and growls cease. Total silence descends upon the room, so absolute one can almost hear the hum of urzul stones deep in the walls. Though I know it must be my imagination, suddenly the shadows on the edges of the room seem darker, denser. Full of living menace.

Then Lady Prah snorts. “You’ve been listening to that stone-hide priest of yours too long.”

Roh merely sits back in her seat and smiles demurely. But she’s lost her hold of the room, and the conversation carries on without her. More advice is sent my way, some presented in gentle tones, some hurled with angry force. Around and around my councilors go until the room itself spins in the maelstrom of their words.

At last, when everything that can be said has been said, they all sit back. And look at me. In the end, after all, this is not their decision to make. I and I alone must decide my bride’s fate.

I push back my chair and stand. Everyone else stands as well, respectfully bowing their heads as they await my spoken will. I look around at each of them in turn, feeling one last time the force of their earnest and mostly contradictory opinions.

“I thank you all for your wisdom and perspective on the matter,” I say, choosing my words with care. “I will retire to think upon your words. I bid you await my decision here. I won’t be long.”

Putting my back to their bubbling protests, I turn and make for the door of the nearest antechamber. I don’t have to say a word for both Sul and Hael to leave their places and fall into step behind me. I pass into the room, a fraction of the size of the great council hall, furnished with large chairs and long tables on which various charts and instruments lie at the ready. A pale moonfire burns on the hearth, casting a little half-circle glow.

Leaving Hael to shut the door behind me, I pace up to the hearth and lean heavily against the mantel, staring into the flames. My breath is tight in my throat. I feel as though invisible claws have taken hold of me, squeezing slowly. The white fire dances, but I cannot see it. My vision seems to be made up entirely of a black box lined with blue silk. Blue to soak up the blood so it won’t be visible.

But humans bleed red. Faraine’s blood would leave an ugly stain when her head fell into that box.

No! This is foolish. No need for such gruesome imaginings. I am king. They cannot execute anyone without my leave. And I’m not about to let Faraine suffer such a fate. I may hate her for what she’s done to me, but I would not be the man I hope I am if I let such hatred drive me to act so cruelly.

Behind me, Sul rings a silver bell. I listen to the murmur of his voice as he orders refreshments. He does not speak to me until the servant returns with a pitcher of krilge. Sul pours then steps to my side. “Here, Vor,” he says, holding out a goblet. “Drink up.”

I take the cup, but do not drink. I cannot. Drawing a long breath, I turn and face the small chamber. Hael stands by the door, watchful and silent. I’m too angry to acknowledge her just now. Not after her failure to detect the ruse. Gods above! She was my first and only line of defense against such deceit. She should have seen something, some hint, some clue that all was not as it seemed. I’ve always trusted Hael, would put my life in her hands. But now? I’m not sure how I can ever trust her again.

“What are you going to do, brother?” Sul’s voice intrudes upon my dismal thoughts.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want an opinion?”

I cast him a bitter look. “Another one?”

Sul shrugs. “I simply think you should trust your instincts.”

“My instincts?”

Seven gods preserve me! My instincts are urging me to leave this room, storm back across the council hall, ignoring the cries of my ministers, and return to that dim bridal chamber. To finish what I’d started. To take Faraine in my arms, whispering her name over and over. To tear away that flimsy white gown. To pin her arms above her head with one hand, while my other hand explores her body—every curve, every valley, every warm and secret place. Stroking, caressing until she quakes and cries out in sheer ecstasy.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not sure trusting my instincts is the right call just now, brother.”

“Not your human instincts. It’s high time you acted like a proper trolde.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. Aren’t you the one always so quick to defend my trolde-ness?”

Sul places a hand against his heart. “You know I am loyal to you above all things. I will defend your right to rule with my last breath. But”—he shakes his head heavily—“it’s time you woke up and realized how precarious your rule has become. Hear me out!” he adds, silencing my mounting protest. “You’ve been so fixated on this alliance, so distracted by rumors of cave devils and stirrings and poison, you’ve not paid attention to which way the river is flowing. Lord Rath’s implications aren’t the worst of it, not by a long shot. Whispers are crawling all over the city. Never concentrated enough for me to pin down, but my spies pick up enough. As the stirrings worsen, so do the whispers. People are losing confidence in your leadership.” He drops his head, speaking his next words softly, as though afraid the very walls might be listening. “It won’t be long before word of what happened in Dugorim spreads throughout Mythanar.”

Weight seems to press upon my shoulders. The weight of rule. The weight of the kingdom. The weight of the disaster we all know is coming. Weight, which is always there, but which, most of the time, I can ignore. I can concentrate on immediate needs, immediate plans, tell myself if I throw my whole heart into my endeavors, I can outrun destiny and thwart the clutches of doom.

It doesn’t matter. The weight is always there, slowly crushing me beneath it.

I meet my brother’s eyes. Moonfire illuminates them with an uncharacteristically earnest glow. “Go on,” I say. “I can see you have a plan for how I might strengthen my rule. What is it?”

“Send her head home in a box.”

I’d just lifted the goblet, dampening my lips with its contents. At those words, I sputter, choke, spew out the mouthful to sizzle in the fire. I whirl on Sul. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. Deadly serious.” He takes a drink from his own cup then sets it down on the mantel. “That old battle-ax Lady Parh was right. It’s what our father would have done. And his father before him and his father’s father. Trolde kings are not gentle kings. They are not kindly or merciful. They are kings of stone, kings of darkness, kings of molten magma.”

I don’t want to hear this. I want to hurl the contents of my cup in my brother’s face. I want to take hold of his head and dash it against the stone mantelpiece until his skull cracks. I want to . . . I want to . . .

“Your people need to see a leader,” Sul persists. “A trolde leader for trolde people. You don’t want them thinking the humans can make a fool out of you. Humans who flout our traditions and disrespect our king should suffer his swift and brutal vengeance.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” I draw back a step. My vision narrows, darkness closing in on each side. “Stop it, Sul. Stop it now.”

He shrugs, holding up a defensive hand, palm out. “The decision is yours. You must do what you will with your bride. But your choice will change everything. For better or for worse. If you want to save Mythanar, you must secure your throne. Otherwise, we might as well let the next stirring drag us all to hell.”

Casting about, I catch sight of Hael, so silent and stern before the door. Her face is still the same careful blank it’s been since she learned Faraine’s identity. She must feel my gaze on her, however, for she shoots me a brief sidelong glance. Just a glance, nothing more.

“Vor?” Sul takes a step closer to me, his voice low, urgent. “What are you thinking?”

How can I possibly answer? I know I cannot do as he asks. I won’t even consider it. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this moment is the moment I lose everything. It doesn’t matter. I won’t harm Faraine. No matter what she’s done. No matter what she might yet do. I won’t let such a fate befall her. Not while I have life in my body.

“You’re a piece of morleth gutha,” I snarl and toss back the contents of my drink. It tastes unexpectedly sour on my tongue and burns when I swallow. A sudden rush of heat ripples through my veins like spreading fire. Lightheaded, I lean against the mantel, set my goblet down hard. I don’t quite manage to get it all the way onto the level surface. It slips from my grip, crashes to the floor and rolls.

A droning whine pierces my ear like red hot iron.

“Are you all right?” Sul’s voice echoes strangely, as though it comes from a distance.

I shake my head. The droning stops. “I’m fine.” I bare my teeth, my jaw clenched. “I’ll be better when you stop pressuring me and offer real advice.”

“I’m not offering advice. I offer nothing but my opinion. You are king. Make up your own damn mind.”

“Yes. I am king.” I draw a sharp, hissing breath. “I am king, gods damn it.”

I gaze down into the firelight. Deeper. Deeper. The flames twist together, coalescing in a writhing figure. Pale skin, dressed in white, reclining on that bed. She looks up at me, her eyes hooded, full of moonfire. Her gown slips from her shoulders, falls from her breasts. Slowly she parts her legs, wraps them around my waist, draws me to her. I feel her hands on my chest, in my hair, down my neck. I feel her warm and willing breast pressed against mine, the fiery heat of her core burning against me. Burning. Burning. Burning me.

I yank my head back, look into her face. Her eyes are black, empty voids. Her sweet pink tongue lengthens, lashing and poisonous, covered in welts. She licks my chest, and my skin erupts in oozing pustules. Her delicate fingers tracing my shoulders turn long, black, sharp, with coarse hairs bristling from each knuckle. They pierce my flesh, needle sharp points digging down through muscle, through bone, reaching for my heart.

With a cry, I leap back from the hearth and stare down at my own body. My aroused, enflamed, sweat-dripping body. Is that blood pouring down my chest from five, finger-point wounds? I pass a hand over my face, look again. My skin is clear. But I can still feel those punctures. I can still feel the trickling blood. I drag ragged gasps into my lungs. My head, my heart, my groin are on fire.

“I am king,” I rasp. Slowly I turn, face the room. Sul and Hael are both staring at me, their faces uncertain. I smile. “That demon bitch should die for what she’s done.”

“Really?” Sul blinks, tilting his head. “I’ve convinced you that easily? I was bracing for a speech on honor and mercy and—”

I push past him, striding to the door. Hael draws herself up and steps in front of me, blocking my way. She doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, looking at me. I growl, wordless, and shove her to one side. For half an instant, I feel the strength in her, how easily she could resist me. But she doesn’t. Because I am king. I am master here. My word, my will, is sovereign. Holy. Indisputable.

I burst through the door, stride back into the council chamber. My ministers scattered about the room, talking in little clusters. They all turn, and I feel the weight of their stares, the pressure of their needs and expectations. Gods, I would kill them all if I could! Maybe I will. Soon. But first . . .

I raise my arms. “I am Vor, King of Mythanar, Lord Protector of the Under Realm. I will not be mocked. Sound the drums and summon the drur. Bid him sharpen his ax. It’s time we show Larongar what becomes of those who play false with the Shadow King.”