Bride of the Shadow King

I pause within the shelter of the doorway to look back down into the yard. The Shadow King stands close to my father, so tall and solemn and beautiful.

I’m suddenly reluctant to leave his vicinity. For the last few hours, I’ve luxuriated in the calm of his atmosphere, so inexplicable and so welcome. Now, parting from him, I reenter the world I’ve always known—a world of dissonance and pain.

So, my gaze lingers. Longer than I should allow it to. He wears a chainmail shirt after the fashion of his people, bright silver with sharp points that give an impression of dragon scales. It fits him perfectly, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow taper of his waist. Tall boots hug his legs up to the knee. He is all muscular athleticism mingled with eerie beauty.

How strange he looks, standing here in the setting of my childhood. The familiarity of these surroundings emphasizes his otherworldliness, and he holds himself with such dignity, a commanding presence. The contrast with my father is stark. King Larongar’s life is defined by constant striving. He won his throne by blood and battle and has held onto it with the tenacity of a bulldog. He is a powerful man, impressive and deadly.

But Vor . . . his whole bearing is different. I’ve seen his prowess in battle and don’t doubt he is my father’s superior when it comes to pure brawn. But unlike my father, he has nothing to prove. He carries himself as one who was simply born to command.

My mouth is dry. I swallow hard, forcing a lump down my throat. Gods, what am I doing, standing here in the shadows, admiring this stranger? A stranger who, if my father has his way, will very soon wed my sister.

My sister.

Enough dawdling. I have a job to do.

Pulling back from the doorway, I gather the Shadow King’s cloak close around me and hasten through the familiar passages of Beldroth. It’s quite dark at this hour of the night, with precious few torches lit to guide my footsteps. But I grew up here and know the way so well, I could walk it in my sleep. I meet no one. Those of the household who are awake are busy with last minute preparations for the king’s guests. Thus I proceeded unheeded and unhindered to the east tower and open the door to the stairwell.

A ringing voice echoes down to me: “I don’t care if he’s the son of the Goddess of Love sprung to life! I’m not coming out of this room until he’s gone.”

I press my lips together. Apparently, someone has carried word to Ilsevel of her prospective bridegroom’s arrival. I’d hoped to be able to break the news to her myself. Oh well. Nothing for it now.

I pluck the hem of my skirt out of my way and climb the spiral stair. My legs and back are so sore after the long ride on the shadowy monster steed. These last two years of quiet life at Nornala Convent have left me sadly out of condition. But, puffing and panting, I make my way to the top of the tower and the little landing outside the topmost chamber door. Lanternlight gleams, and I shield my eyes against its glare, squinting to discern the two figures standing before me.

One of them turns to me and lets out a little gasp before flinging herself into my embrace. “Oh! Fairie! You came!”

“Aurae, darling, is that you?” I pull back, trying to discern the face of my youngest sister in the combination of shadows and lantern glow. Enormous fawn eyes gaze up at me with hopeful anxiety. “Gods above, how you’ve grown!” When I left Beldroth two years ago, Aurae was a gawky girl of fifteen, stick-thin and all elbows and knees. Blossoming womanhood has softened her frame just enough that one can see the beauty she truly is, with her thick chestnut hair and heart-shaped face.

Aurae holds my hand tightly, refusing to let go even when I surreptitiously try to shake her fingers free. Fear and concern ripple up my arm, mingled with a sudden burst of unexpected relief. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says. “It’s been awful, you don’t even know! Father told Ilsevel she would have to marry the troll king, and Ilsevel yelled at him. In front of the entire court! I thought I would die. Then she tried to run away. Took a horse and left in the dead of night and got all the way to the Cornaith border before they caught her. They dragged her back, but then she locked herself in this tower and has refused to come out. That was a week ago now.”

“In other words, typical Ilsevel drama.” Another voice speaks from behind my sister. Another woman. Like Aurae, she is clad only in a nightgown with a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She holds a lantern in one hand, and its light gleams on her spun-gold hair, highlights her high cheekbones and the bridge of her dainty nose.

Her mouth quirks to one side. “Welcome home, princess,” she says and drops a curtsy as elegant as though she wears courtly finery. “How was life in exile? Did you do penance for failing to snatch that greasy Prince Orsan? I heard all about it in Hagmer. It was the talk of the season! Never thought of you as a scandal-maker. You gave us all a nice surprise.”

My brow puckers. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“How silly of me!” Her smile grows broader and colder, her pale eyes like chips of ice. “Of course, why should you remember? Lyria Arakian, at your service.”

Oh. A stone drops in my stomach. I recognize her now. This golden-haired beauty is officially the daughter of Lord Arakian, one of the preeminent members of my father’s council. She looks very like her mother, the beautiful and vivacious Lady Fyndra, quite a favorite at court. In fact, she would be the absolute picture of her mother. Except for her eyes. Those she gets from Larongar.

It’s common knowledge that Fyndra has been the king’s mistress these past twenty years at least. I’d heard rumors that Lyria was not Lord Arakian’s natural child, but as Lyria herself was sent away from Beldroth at a young age, there was no way to prove the claim one way or another. Now, seeing her for the first time as a grown woman, I cannot deny the connection. She is my father’s daughter. My half-sister.

Our gazes lock in the flickering lantern light. We’d been friends once, long ago, when we were both very small. In this moment, however, I feel nothing of that old friendship between us. Her eyes spark with animosity so vicious, I half-wish I could turn and flee back down the stair.

Instead, I stand my ground. “Ah yes. Of course, I remember you. And when did you return to court, Lyria?”

She shrugs. “Oh, hadn’t you heard? Following your disastrous little dalliance with Prince Orsan, no one from Gavaria is welcome in Cornaith. They tossed me out on my ear! King Gordun has withdrawn aid from the south border, and the fae are sweeping in unchecked. That’s why Larongar is rushing this alliance through with the trolls. He needs fresh support and soon, or we’re done for. Which means our Ilsie is going to have to get over her quibbles and marry this troll king, like it or not.”

“Do you think you can help her, Fairie?” Aurae breaks in. Her eyes are so large, so anxious and soft. “Ilsie’s only opened the door three times in the last week, and that’s just to let me in with a little food and a spare chamber pot. She dropped the first pot out the window on the heads of the guards Father sent to bash the door in. Now Father won’t let me bring her anything.”

“How long since she last ate?” I ask.

“Two days. She says she’ll starve before she comes out.”

I catch Lyria’s eye. One of her fine-shaped eyebrows rises slowly. “I fear,” she says, “the princess suffered under the delusion that because she’s the king’s favorite, he won’t use her for his own gain the same as the rest of us.”

“Lyria!” Aurae gasps.

“What? We’re all thinking it. I’m just the only one not afraid to say it.” Another wave of resentment rolls out from her, hitting me hard. I can feel a headache coming on fast. I need to get through this quickly before I’m completely incapacitated.

Pulling free of Aurae’s clutching fingers, I approach the door. Lyria steps to one side, swinging the lantern and making our shadows dance about the small space. I stand for a moment, my lips pursed, then press my ear to one of the panels and close my eyes. Even through the wood, I can feel Ilsevel’s roiling rage.

“Ilsie?” I call softly. “Can you hear me?”

“I’m not coming out, Faraine,” Ilsevel’s voice growls just on the other side of the door. “I’m sorry they dragged you all this way for nothing. I’m not coming out, and you can’t make me.”

I glance back at Aurae and Lyria. They watch me closely. Aurae’s brow is puckered. Lyria’s mouth quirks in a half smile. I chew the inside of my cheek, then face the door again. “Why don’t you let me in, Ilsevel? We can talk better face-to-face.”

“Don’t try that on me!” Her voice snaps like a guard dog defending its porch. “I know what you’re thinking. You’ll get hold of my hand, and you’ll make me feel all warm and calm and peaceful, and I’ll start thinking, Oh, why have I been so resistant to letting myself be bartered off like a piece of livestock all this time? How insensitive of me! The next thing I know, I’ll be married to a gods-spitting troll and dragged away to his lair, wondering how in the seven secret names I let myself be talked into it.”

I blink. After all, that’s exactly what my father is hoping will happen. It’s the very reason Theodre came to fetch me personally from Nornala Convent. “If you let me in, I swear I won’t touch you. We’ll talk. That’s all.”

Silence.

“Please, Ilsevel. I’m here to help you. I’ve met the Shadow King, you see. Just last night, on the way here. Our party was attacked by fae, and he and his people saved us. I’ve spoken to him, and he’s not at all like what you’re imagining.”

More silence. Then, “Are you saying he’s not a lurching rock monster inclined to devour young maidens for breakfast?”

“Hardly! In fact, he’s . . . well, he’s rather handsome.”

“Rather handsome? Spare me these effusions, Fairie!”

“All right. Fine. He’s beautiful. Stunningly beautiful, with a physique like a demigod, eyes like distant stars, and a voice so warm it would melt even a heart of stone. Does that sound more to your liking?”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I swear, I’m not! I don’t have the imagination.”

“That’s true. You always were rather a dullard.”

“The dullest of dullards. Poetry leaves me positively cold, and I fall asleep when the minstrel starts singing.”

I wait, counting my breaths. Just as I reach seven slow exhales, my sister speaks again: “If I let you in, you swear you won’t touch me? I won’t have you gods-gifting me into submission.”

“I swear it, darling. Please, I’m going hoarse shouting through the door like this.”

Another five breaths. Then, to my relief, the sound of a heavy bolt lifting. From the corner of my eye, I see sharp movement from Lyria as she prepares to dive into action. I motion with one hand, shooting her a stern glare. Aurae quickly grips Lyria’s arm, holding her in place.

The next moment, the door opens. Ilsevel peeks out. “You’re alone?”

“I am,” I say, motioning for Lyria and Aurae to stay back.

Ilsevel opens the door just a little wider, catches me by the shoulders, and pulls me inside. She shuts the door and drops the bolt before whirling and leaning her back against it, breathing out a long sigh.

I look around the chamber. It’s a sparce space with a simple pallet bed, a fireplace with no fire, a chamber pot, and a few other odds and ends. “I see you’ve made yourself nice and cozy up here.”

My sister shudders. “It’s gods-spitting freezing. I ran out of fuel three days ago, and Father won’t let Aurae bring me more. Now he’s refusing to let her bring food either. Thinks he can starve me out.” Her eyes are deep, shadow-ringed hollows, and her cheeks are pinched, her skin, tight with cold. She’s still lovely, of course—it would take more than three days of hunger to deprive Ilsevel of her natural beauty. But she doesn’t look well at all.

“You know you’re going to have to relent eventually,” I say.

“Am I?” Fire flares in her eye. “I’m not going to let him do this to me, Fairie. Do you hear me?”

I sigh and take a seat on the one little chair by the cold fireplace, wrapping the folds of Vor’s cloak around me. I close my eyes and breathe in his scent—the aroma of deep earth and a heady spice that momentarily clears some of the pounding from my temples. Funny how even that scent is enough to bring back some small measure of the calm he instills.

I shake that thought away quickly. Raising my chin, I catch my sister’s gaze again. “There’s no use playing the martyr, Ilsevel. We’ve known all along what our lives would be. We are servants of the crown, same as everyone else. We marry for the good of the kingdom.”

“You didn’t.”

“I would have.”

Ilsevel narrows her eyes. “You know, you’ve got a point. Best to make it seem like it was his idea to back out. Do you think you can smuggle a handful of pukeweed up here? If I take it at the right time, I’ll vomit during the reception tomorrow night. I’m sure I could aim for my prospective groom.”

I give her a look. “Don’t tease, Ilsevel.”

“I’m not! I’ve never fully given you credit for how neatly you slipped the noose two years ago. Tell me, is convent life so bad as all that? Do you think the nuns would still let me ride?”

Folding my hands, I draw a steadying breath and hold my sister’s gaze. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“I believe you’ve had moments of fondness for me over the years, yes.” Ilsevel sighs and goes to her pallet bed, sinking down onto it in a puddle of skirts. “Is this the part where you tell me you have my best interests at heart?”

“No. This is the part where I tell you you’re making a mistake.”

“Right. Because you’ve met the Shadow King, and he’s gorgeous. So I should just submit to being treated like a brood mare.”

“It is a sign of maturity to accept one’s fate with grace and then to make the most of it.”

“Well, everyone knows you’re the mature one, Fairie. I’m the spitfire; Aurae is the darling. And our other sister, the one no one talks about . . . she’s the devil.” Ilsevel smiles sadly. “We all have our parts to play, don’t we?”

Fear roils beneath her bantering words. She’s doing her best to disguise how terrified she actually feels, but she can’t hold back the tide much longer.

“You know you have to meet him,” I say after a few silent moments.

Ilsevel drops her gaze. “I do.” She curses bitterly. “Much as I like to pretend otherwise, I’m not really the heroine-of-ballads type. I don’t have it in me to die for a cause.” She sniffs and rubs her nose, blinking back tears. “I am a coward after all.”

“No, Ilsie.”

“I am, though! When I heard your voice outside the door, do you know what I thought? I thought, Oh, thank the gods! Faraine is here now. She’ll talk sense into me. I think I’ve been waiting for you all along. You’re my excuse to give up.”

I frown. “Dearest, I want you to be happy. And I . . . I think once you meet the Shadow King, you’ll be surprised. I know I was.”

“You marry him, then.”

Warmth rushes to my cheeks. It’s not as though the thought hadn’t occurred to me once or twice during the ride to Beldroth. What would it be like if I were Vor’s choice? What if I were to spend the rest of my days at the side of such a man? The notion is not unappealing. The calm of his presence, even in the midst of battle, was extraordinary in itself. And during that ride, I’d found his manners and speech very pleasing. I can’t help thinking that, given time, I could come to . . . to care for such a man. Very deeply.

I play with the edge of his cloak. I’d not noticed before the fine embroidery decorating its edge. Now that I look more closely, I see a stylized rendering of a dragon, its coiling body snaking all around the hem and border. It’s fine, delicate work. Not at all what I would expect for a troll. But then, they aren’t trolls at all. They’re troldefolk. A fascinating people from a fascinating world. A world I would like to learn more about.

I shouldn’t indulge such thoughts. They’ll only lead to disappointment.

“I’m sorry, Faraine,” Ilsevel says, misinterpreting my silence. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean it, right?”

“Of course.” I smile at my sister and try to make my voice teasing, careless. “After all, it’ll be his choice, won’t it?” Then, before she can read more into my words than I want her to, I hurry on. “Please, Ilsie, will you at least come meet him at the reception? If you don’t like him, I’ll lock you back in this tower myself and swallow the key.”

“Promise?” Ilsevel eyes me closely.

“By the Goddess Nornala herself.” I make a solemn sign with my right hand. “May I suffer the indigestion of a thousand lifetimes if I fail you.”

Ilsevel picks herself up off the bed and approaches slowly. As though suddenly too exhausted to continue, she sinks to her knees and places her head in my lap. I close my eyes against the sudden flood of her emotions washing over me. Steeling myself, I touch my crystal, reaching for the vibration deep inside. With my other hand, I stroke my sister’s forehead. Slowly, I let some of the vibration from the crystal travel through my fingertips into Ilsevel.

“You’re doing it, aren’t you,” she mutters into my lap. “Your gods-gift.”

“Shhhh.” I push hair gently back from her eyes.

“I do feel more peaceful. Gods blight you.” She lifts her head, catching my gaze. “You’ll come to the reception tonight, won’t you? Only, I’m not sure I can bear to meet the Shadow King without you there.”

“I’ll be there,” I promise. Though I know the crush of people at such an event will overwhelm me, leaving my body and mind wracked with pain for days. I can’t abandon my sister. Not now. “I’ll be there,” I repeat.

And maybe, I tell myself in the privacy of my own mind, maybe it’ll all turn out. Maybe Ilsevel doesn’t need to be frightened. Maybe . . .

Maybe Vor will choose me instead.