Bride of the Shadow King

There are no windows in this cell. Not that it matters. Perhaps if there were some hope of sky to be glimpsed, I would wish for one.

As it is, I know my view would only consist of more stone. All those folds of endless rock, layer upon layer, built up over eons. All those carved and twisting passages through which blind rivers flow. All the heat and suffocation, all the cold and the damp, all the incalculable mass. Perhaps there is no sky. Perhaps this bulk of stone is all there is, forever and ever. Perhaps I am to be crushed to death, my bones pulverized to dust. Perhaps . . . perhaps . . .

The horror comes over me slowly, like a swelling wave. When it hits, it breaks me. I am a mere ball of huddling, burbling madness. But even in that madness there is no relief, for I am not mad enough to lose my mind entirely. I have enough understanding to recognize my own gibbering, to feel shame. But I have no ability to surface now that the wave has taken me. I can only be carried by it, tossed on its merciless currents until at last, tired of me, it deposits my bruised and battered soul on the shores of self-awareness.

I let out a long, shuddering breath. The horror has passed. I feel weak, tired. My body shakes from dry heaving, and my throat and chest burn with bile. I push sweaty hair out of my face and manage to pull myself upright. My hand searches for my crystal pendant. But no. It’s gone. They took it from me.

I lean my back against the wall, drawing and exhaling long sighs. The room in which they’ve placed me is small, maybe ten feet across, furnished with nothing but a low cot. A dim lorst crystal hangs from the stalactites overhead, slowly brightening over time to illuminate the room. It’s already much brighter than it was when they first placed me in here. Not that it makes much difference. The contrast between this cell and the Queen’s Apartment couldn’t be starker. How far I have fallen in just a few short hours!

Then again, I could be dead. In fact, I’m still not entirely convinced I’m not dead. Had I not placed my head on that block? Had I not felt the change in the air as the ax head began to fall?

But Vor saved me.

He leaped across that wide, empty space and caught the ax as it descended.

I groan, burying my face in my hands. Gods on high, what does it mean? He’d ordered my death. Only to change his mind in so dramatic a fashion! I wouldn’t believe it if not for the evidence of my own head still firmly attached to my body. Shivering, I press a little harder into the wall and wrap my arms around my stomach. What is my fate to be after all? I cannot imagine. Vor may have decided I should live for now, but for how long?

The sound of a heavy door swinging open catches my ear. I look up, heart leaping. Light flares in the passage beyond the bars of my cell. Are they coming to fetch me? Will I be dragged back to that scaffold, faced with the block and the blade yet again? If so, I’m not going like a shivering mouse, gods help me!

I push off the cot and stand at the bars, craning my neck to look down the passage. A trolde guard approaches, carrying a small blue lorst light in one fist. Behind him hastens another, smaller figure.

“Lyria!” I gasp.

She peers around the trolde’s shoulder, meeting my gaze. Her eyes flash. With a quick step, she skirts around the trolde, who grunts and lets her by. In a few quick paces, she reaches my cell, gripping the bars and staring in at me. Her mouth works, and she draws several breaths before turning to bark, “I was promised a private audience with the princess.”

The guard regards her through half-lidded eyes. Slowly he nods.

“Open this door then. Let me in.”

The guard raises an eyebrow.

Lyria curses and makes more angry demands, all to no avail. I’m not convinced the trolde even knows what she’s saying. At last, however, when she asks if we may at least speak in private, he shrugs and retreats up the corridor. We watch until he steps out the far door, shutting it behind him with a clang that rings along the stone wall.

Lyria whirls to face me again. “Here,” she says, taking hold of my hand. She pries open my fingers and drops something in my palm. “Take this.”

It’s my crystal. “Where did you find it?” I ask, surprised.

“It was sent to my chamber.” Lyria snorts, looking through the bars at my cell. “Gods, Faraine! What a nasty little hole! It’s a good thing you’re used to your sparce convent living. They’re keeping me in nicer quarters. I guess no one said to have me tossed in a dungeon, so they just stashed me back in the room they’d prepared for me. Someone slipped this under the door. I didn’t see who, and when I called out, no one answered.”

I bite my lip. Then, hands trembling, I slip the chain around my neck and breathe a sigh of relief to feel the crystal resting against my heart. Already, the faint vibration in its core soothes my frayed nerves.

Lyria looks at me contemplatively, her eyes narrowed. “You did something to me,” she says. “Didn’t you? On the scaffold, I mean. One moment I was ready to go out in a blaze of glory, and the next . . .”

I meet her gaze. And offer nothing.

She pulls a face. “They all said the gods gave you a curse, not a gift, on the day of your christening. But I’m starting to think they were wrong. Maybe the gods knew what they were doing after all.”

She reaches through the bars again and clasps my hand. I wince. I know she means it as a comforting gesture, but anxiety needles from her palm into mine, sending shocks of pain through my awareness. I want to shake her off, to retreat. But that’s not what she needs right now. So instead, I squeeze her fingers back.

“I’m leaving soon,” she says.

“What?”

She nods. “They’re sending me back through the Between Gate. I’m to be escorted out of Mythanar within the hour. By Prince Sul, of all people. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t try to murder me along the way! But the king has commanded I bear a message home to Larongar, so perhaps I’ll survive.”

“What message?” I ask, half afraid to hear the answer.

“That you’re alive. That you are, for the time being, safe in Mythanar.” Lyria hesitates then adds, “That you are not Vor’s wife. Not yet. He has a month to decide what to do with you before the contract is rendered null. I’m to promise Larongar an answer before the month is out.”

An answer. A decision. For my life.

“I don’t believe he’ll kill you,” Lyria continues, reading my expression. “There’s no benefit for anyone in your death. And you can be sure Vor will be watching for whatever benefit he can salvage from this mess. He may even marry you yet.”

“So he may,” I answer dully. And lucky me, I get to wait around hoping he decides to make me his bride after all. This man who nearly killed me.

Lyria reaches through the bars to take my hand again, squeezing with what I’m sure she believes is comfort. “You did everything you could, Faraine. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“Thank you, Lyria.” Somehow, I manage a fleeting smile. “Thank you for defending me.”

She shrugs and grins back. “It was my job.” Then, to my great surprise, she reaches through the bars, catches my shoulders, and pulls me to her in an embrace. An upswelling of affection rolls out from her. It’s like standing on a trash heap and inhaling an unexpected breath of perfume. It catches me off guard. In that moment, I cannot help how my own heart gives a sudden throb in response. After all, she is my sister. Perhaps not in the same way Ilsevel and Aurae were. But a sister, nonetheless.

We cling for some moments, each knowing this is likely the last time we will ever set eyes on one another. When I release her, Lyria will go. Off to face the perils of her return journey and whatever future my father has planned for her. I, meanwhile, will be left behind in this dark world of rock and shadow. Alone. Utterly isolated. Without a friend in the world.

I hold on a little tighter and whisper, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Of course you can!” Lyria’s arms squeeze me almost painfully. “You can do anything. You’re so much braver, so much stronger than any of the rest of us. You always were, you know. Now is your time to prove it.” She steps back then, looking into my eyes. “You were born to be a queen, Faraine. Show these people the truth. Make them see what you really are.”

I swallow hard. I wish I had a final word for her, some way to express what I feel. But all I can manage is a softly spoken, “Be safe, sister.”

She nods. “And you.”

In another few moments, she’s gone. Vanished back down the corridor and out through the far door. Off on adventures I cannot join. I wonder how long I’ll be able to hold onto the memory of her face? Or will she—along with Ilsevel and Aurae and all those I once loved—fade into the darkness of this world and be lost?

I return to my bed, perch on the edge. Opening my palm, I look down at the crystal. It glints in the lorst light. So familiar and yet so strange. I grip it tight, press it to my chest, and close my eyes. Deep down, I feel the vibration in its core. And beneath my bare feet, an answering vibration in this stone floor, running up along the walls and across the ceiling overhead. So faint, so very faint. Am I imagining it? No. It’s real. I’m almost certain.

Finally, I breathe out a long sigh, lie down on my side, and draw my knees up to my chest. For what feels like hours I watch the lorst crystal suspended from the ceiling overhead. It flickers, shines, fades . . . fades . . . fades . . .

Goes out.