Bride of the Shadow King

My place is set at the end of the family table, farthest from the light and closest to the nearest exit. Not exactly a place of honor for the king’s eldest daughter. But I’m grateful. If need be, I can slink into the shadows, observing but unobserved.

My dinner companion is a second cousin of my mother’s, nearly eighty years old, and not at all interested in making conversation with me. He asks me if I like my pretty dress, then busies himself with his meal and cup, leaving me to my own company. I eat little. My stomach churns, and my temples already throb with the pressure roiling in the atmosphere of the banquet hall. I won’t be able to stand much of this. Though I grip my crystal with all my might, I can scarcely feel its pulse through the dissonance.

Whispering a swift prayer for strength, I lift my gaze to the head of the table where the rest of my family sits. My father takes precedence, of course, with Vor on his right hand and Ilsevel just beyond.

I try not to let myself look too closely at the Shadow King. But in truth, I find it difficult to tear my gaze away. Once again, I’m struck by his strange beauty. No longer clad in chain mail or riding boots, instead he wears a light loose tunic, which opens to reveal rather a lot of his chest. This must be the trolde fashion, as the other men in his party are dressed similarly. A wide belt wraps his waist, and a golden collar drapes across his shoulders, emphasizing the wide V of his build. Pale hair spills across his shoulders and catches the light. What would it be like to run my fingers through those silky strands?

Stop it.

I clear my throat and look down at the untouched meal on my plate. Gods, what am I doing? Ogling the beautiful king like some hound drooling over a cut of meat! What would the nuns think if they could see me now? I press my lips into a rueful smile and shake my head. While I may not control much about my life, I can control what goes on inside my mind. I will not indulge in foolish dreaming. Not now. Not ever.

When I raise my gaze once more, it’s Ilsevel I seek. She sits very straight, her shoulders back, her chin up, taking small bites from a piece of meat skewered on the end of a jeweled knife. Vor leans to one side to speak to her, and she nods. Then, to my surprise, she laughs and flashes him a quick smile.

I chew my lower lip. Gripping my crystal a little harder, I try to catch a sense of my sister’s feelings. Is she finding this evening more pleasant than she’d anticipated? Are her defenses breaking down in the face of Vor’s undeniable charm and beauty? Is she . . . could she . . .? But no. I cannot find her. The crush in the atmosphere is too great to discern any single feeling with clarity. The more I try, the more the pressure in my head mounts.

I drop my gaze again, drawing steadying breaths and letting my senses sink into dullness. If only I could slip from the hall! But I promised Ilsevel I would stay through the end of the meal. I’m not sure what comfort I can offer, seated this far away in the shadows. But I won’t go back on my word.

Suddenly, my skin prickles. Unsettled, I turn . . . and find a pair of ice-blue eyes fixed upon me. Lyria, seated at one of the lower tables with the other ladies-in-waiting, catches my gaze. She smiles slowly, like a cat with a secret. Tilting her head, she lifts her goblet in salute. I look down at my hands in my lap. There’s something deeply disconcerting about that girl.

“You there! Minstrels!” Father’s abrupt bark echoes to the rafters overhead. Several faces appear from the minstrels’ gallery as the lilting strains of background music continue to rain down from above. “Enough of that lilly-laying. It’s time for a dance!” Father leans an elbow on the arm of his chair and rolls his head toward Vor. “What say you, my boy? Why don’t you take this daughter of mine and fling her about the floor a little, eh? She’ll give as good as she gets, I promise you that!”

Ilsevel narrows her eyes ever so slightly. Though her brow remains smooth, I can see the storm clouds gathering. Before she can speak, however, Vor says, “While I would indeed be honored to stand up with Princess Ilsevel, I’m afraid I am not yet familiar with your human dances.”

“That’s no trouble.” Father shrugs dismissively. “Ilsie will teach you what you need to know. The rest you can make up as you go. That’s always been my way, and I get by well enough, isn’t that right, my dear?” He turns this last question on my mother.

She gives him a half-lidded glance. “Quite.”

“There, you see? Nothing to it.”

Vor’s smile is thin-lipped. “Thank you, friend Larongar. But for the moment, I would simply enjoy the pleasure of watching the dance.”

Much to my relief, Father doesn’t force the issue. “Suit yourself,” he says instead, then, “Tramyar!”

A knight seated at the opposite end of the table from me starts in his seat and half rises. “Your Majesty?”

“Take my daughter out on the dance floor and show off her paces. Minstrels, what are you waiting for? Play, gods blight you!”

A spritely tune commences, and Sir Tramyar hastens to my sister’s side, bowing and offering his hand. My sister takes a precise bite of her meat, chews slowly, swallows. Only then does she set her dagger aside and, after thoroughly wiping her hands on a cloth, accepts Tramyar’s hand. All this without so much as a glance for either Vor or our father.

Various other young people move to the floor between the lower tables, filling up the space in long straight lines. Aurae’s hand is claimed by a widowed duke some twenty years her senior, who positively dwarfs my sister in size. Another knight offers Lyria his hand, and I watch her take a place several rows down from my sisters, who stand at the head of the line.

The dance begins, and the couples start their first turns. Their feet are light, their arms upraised and graceful as they pace in and out of the patterns. Ilsevel is certainly elegant enough at the front of the line, but it’s Aurae who lights up the floor. Her shyness seems to melt away as the music washes over her. Her body moves to the rhythms like a swan gliding on a crystal lake. It’s not difficult in moments like this to guess what her gods-gift is.

I watch the dance through several turns before movement draws my attention back to the head of the table. Lady Fyndra approaches the king’s seat and sinks into a deep curtsy that prominently displays all that her low-cut gown has to reveal. Father’s smile is voracious. My mother, however, coldly looks the other way. “Beloved king,” Fyndra says, holding out her hand, “it is only right that you show your guests the way, is it not?”

Father chuckles and leans over to Vor, saying something I cannot hear. Vor’s face is a study, closed to all interpretation. My mother, however, leans over and says sharply, “Larongar! For gods’ sake.”

“What?” Father laughs and pushes back his chair. “It’s not as though you’re going to dance with me, are you?” With that, he takes Fyndra’s hand and allows himself to be led to the floor. The two of them assume the lead position, flowing into the pattern of the dance. Fyndra moves with practiced grace, while my father clumps and stomps his way across the floor as he might a battleground. He laughs lustily with each turn that brings him close enough to pinch or caress his lady, who shrieks and bats his hand in response.

I grip my crystal hard. The pressure in my head grows by the second. I wonder how much of it stems directly from my mother, sitting in rigid silence, her face a mask. One would think, after all these years, she’d have grown used to Father’s ways. Somehow, however, he still contrives to hurt her.

The first song ends, and another begins right away, a spritely little tune that makes the feet want to skip. For the first time since entering that hall, the pressure in the atmosphere relaxes somewhat. No one listening to that song can help but feel uplifted. I sigh, leaning back in my chair. My fingers drum on the edge of the table in time with the beat. I used to take lessons as a child. I remember being paired with Lyria, and we’d giggle like little fiends, ignoring the dance master’s stern demands for decorum. What a long time ago that was! Back before my gods-gift had manifested. Back when I was still able to participate in ordinary life.

“Do you not enjoy dancing like your sisters?”

I start at the sound of that deep, rumbling burr. Turning in my seat, I look up into the pale eyes of the Shadow King, who stands just behind my chair. Somehow, he’d slipped from his place at the table and made his way to my end without my noticing.

He smiles. But while his expression is warm, the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch and heat flood my cheeks. I feel suddenly exposed, despite the demure cut of my humble gown. My fingers grip my crystal a little tighter out of habit, though there’s hardly any need. Now back in his proximity, the stresses of the room seem to melt away.

Realizing I’ve not answered his question, I hastily say, “Oh, I do! That is to say, I’m fond of dancing, yes. But I rarely have the opportunity.”

“And why is that?” Vor leans an elbow on the back of my chair. “I understand Larongar is known for his lavish banquets. Beldroth is quite the center for gaiety in your world, is that not so?”

“Indeed, it is. But you see, I spend most of my time away from court. At the Convent of Nornala in the Ettrian Mountains.”

“Ah!” Vor considers this information. “Then, were you traveling from the convent when I met you last night?”

“Yes.”

“So Beldroth is not your home.”

“No. Not anymore.”

He is silent some moments, his attention seemingly focused on the dance floor. Then he asks in a musing tone, “Which goddess is Nornala again?”

I smile. “The Goddess of Unity.”

“Ah! That seems apt, under the circumstances. And—if I may be so bold as to ask—do you intend to devote your life to Nornala’s service?”

Once again, heat climbs my neck and floods my cheeks. “Yes. I do.”

“By taking the holy vows?”

“There are many ways to devote oneself to the cause of unity. I have not yet decided on mine.”

“I see.” I feel his gaze on the side of my face but can’t bring myself to look at him. For a moment, I think he will not speak again but will simply move on, find someone livelier to converse with. Instead, he says, “I fear I have embarrassed you with my questions, Faraine.”

A butterfly unfurls its wings in my stomach. I’d not realized until that moment how much I wanted him to speak my name again. For a moment, I am transported back to that ride on the monster’s back beneath the star-strewn sky. I open my mouth, wanting to speak his name in return.

But no. This is dangerous. After all, he’s come to my father’s house for a very specific purpose. I must take care to guard my heart.

“You’ve not embarrassed me, good king,” I say, keeping my tone friendly but distant. “It’s only . . . well, the men I know would not ask a lady such questions.”

“No? And why not?”

“Because her answers would be beneath his interest. Or concern.”

“Indeed?” He raises an eyebrow, his expression incredulous. “Do human men not cultivate friendships with women, then?”

“Rarely, I’m sure. Perhaps not ever.”

Vor looks surprised. “That’s . . . Well, you’ll pardon my saying it, but that’s absurd.”

I can’t help laughing at this. He sounds so sincerely dumbfounded. “I suppose it’s different among troldefolk?”

“Quite different, I assure you.” He coughs and runs his fingers through his shining silver hair. “I beg your pardon. I don’t mean to sound so critical of your people.”

“Not at all.” I let my smile linger. “As someone who has grown up in this society, I suppose I’m used to the way things are done and never thought to question it. So, tell me about trolde women. Are they . . . are they considered the equals of men?”

The chair next to me is vacant, as my mother’s elderly cousin has long since abandoned the party for bed. Vor pulls it back, turning it a little toward me, and takes a seat. He’s so tall, it’s a wonder he can make himself fit so gracefully in such a small chair, but he angles his long legs and rests his elbows on his knees, contriving to look perfectly at ease. “The equals of men, you ask?” He considers the idea, his eyes bright in the candlelight. “A peculiar question. Are we not all trolde—both men and women alike? We cannot very well exist one without the other, so how could one be deemed superior to the other?”

“I’ve heard it argued that because men are physically stronger, they must naturally take on the dominant role as protectors and providers.” I raise my goblet, swirling the wine idly, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air between us.

Vor’s mouth quirks in a half smile. “Are your human men strong enough to endure the hardship of birthing?”

My hand slips. Wine sloshes over the edge of my goblet. Hastily, I set it down on the table.

Vor chuckles. “I see I’ve embarrassed you again. Forgive me. I take it childbirth is another topic not discussed among your people.”

“Well, no, actually.” I clear my throat and place both hands in my lap. “All of that business is kept firmly behind closed doors.”

“Ah! That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“How your human men may pretend they are stronger than their women. If they acknowledged what women endure simply to bring life into the world, they would necessarily have to adjust their thinking.”

I stare at him. I cannot help it. Never in my life have I heard a man speak as he does.

His smile grows. “You think me very strange, do you not?”

Another butterfly awakens and flutters its wings in my belly. Gods, what that voice of his does to me! “Yes,” I admit. “Very strange.” Then, realizing what I’ve said, I hastily add, “I do beg your pardon, good king. I don’t mean to be rude.”

“Is it rude to be honest?”

“Sometimes!” Now it’s my turn to smile. “A little honesty may indeed be the worst vulgarity around here. One must take care not to let the truth be too widely known.”

Vor’s smile fades slowly. His expression grows thoughtful. “I see,” he says.

“What do you see?”

“You do not live at the convent because of your devotion to Nornala. You are the truth that must not be known.”

My eyes widen. Hastily I blink, breaking his gaze, and stare down at my folded hands. My heart beats an uncomfortable rhythm, and when I clutch my crystal pendant, I find it pulses to the same erratic beat.

Vor leans in a little closer. “Am I wrong?” His voice, dropped an octave, warms my already burning ears.

“No.” I bite my lips hard. “No, you’re not wrong. I am . . . It’s best for my father if I remain out of sight.”

I feel his gaze on the side of my face. I cannot bear to turn and look at him, cannot bear to see what he might make of this statement. He maintains his silence for a long, contemplative moment.

Then: “Only weak men feel the need to hide such strength behind closed doors.”

I flash him a sidelong glance. “If you want this alliance to succeed, you’d best not let the king hear you refer to him as weak.”

Vor inclines his head politely. “As you say, a little honesty may indeed be deadly.”

The bright, lilting melody ends, and the dancers laughingly take each other’s hands and leave the floor. A new song begins to play—this one a soaring and plunging melody underscored by deep-bellied kettledrums. The beat rolls in my gut, a thrilling pulse that moves through my blood.

“Ah!” Vor sits upright in his chair. “I know this one!”

I blink up at him. “You do?”

“Yes. It’s the Phoenix Flight. My mother used to sing it to me and taught me the steps when I was young.”

“Your mother?” I couldn’t be more surprised. Why should his mother know a human song, much less teach it to her son?

Before I have time to consider this question further, Vor rises from his chair and, turning, bows and extends his hand. “As this may be the only human dance I know with any proficiency, I feel I must take advantage of this opportunity. Will you dance with me?”

“Oh! But I couldn’t.”

“And why not?” He raises an eyebrow, and his mouth quirks in that devastating half smile. “You did say you were fond of dancing.”

“I am, yes, but . . . but Ilsevel . . .”

Vor looks out across the table to the dance floor. “Your sisters appear to be engaged to dance already.”

He’s right. Ilsevel and Aurae have both been claimed by partners and even now perform the first steps of the Phoenix pattern. Their wide sleeves whirl like wings as they twirl, and their dainty feet flash beneath the rippling hems of their skirts.

Vor could assert himself, of course. He could step in, request that Ilsevel’s partner hand her over, and it would be done. If he means to dance at all tonight, it ought to be with her. He knows it. I know it. Everyone in that room knows it.

But his hand is still extended. And when I dare to look up, he holds my gaze.

“Come.” His smile broadens. “You wouldn’t want to insult your father’s guest, would you?”

I wait to see if some excuse springs to my tongue. But nothing comes. So, I slip my hand into his. Allow him to pull me to my feet.

He leads me around the table and out from the shadows, down the steps to the lower floor. I feel all the eyes of my father’s court fixed upon me, hear the collective whisper rippling around the room. My father’s gaze burns into the back of my skull, but I don’t have the courage to look his way. I don’t have the courage to look anywhere save at Vor himself. I gaze into his eyes like they’re my lifeline. If I dare look elsewhere, I’ll crumble into pieces.

The dancers have all drawn away, no longer twirling in time to the music, but staring at the tall Shadow King as he approaches. The minstrels in the gallery, unaware of the change below, play on. The strains of the Phoenix Flight twirl around me, like visible motes of light on the edges of my vision.

Vor takes a stance across from me. He bows, and I curtsy in response, still holding his hand. We turn, performing the opening steps. He’s surprisingly light on his feet for such a tall man. He shifts his grip on my hand so that he may place his other hand on my waist, leading me into the first turn.

The turn ends, and we face one another. I know my cheeks must be crimson by now. The burning stares are going to melt me where I stand. I should never have agreed to this, should never have allowed any attention to be diverted from Ilsevel.

The music builds. The deep rumble of the kettledrums, soft but swelling, growls like a storm rolling in. Vor steps toward me, slips his hand around my waist once more. Only this time, he does not rest his hand lightly. He catches hold of me. The melody soars, and I just have time to grip his shoulders before he sweeps me off my feet and spins me in a full circle.

The crowd gasps. Someone screams. The minstrels, finally aware that something is happening below, break off their playing in a series of strangled squeaks and groans.

Vor sets me down lightly. I stagger and would fall were it not for his arm around me. Catching my balance, I wrench away and back up several paces, staring at him. A hundred shocked and churning emotions batter at my head at once, but I’m only vaguely aware of them. I’m caught in his gaze. He looks both perplexed and faintly amused. “Princess?” he begins.

Before he can say anything more, my father is there, standing between us. “How now, King Vor!” he barks, a dangerous light in his eye. “Is this some troll practice wherein you maul a man’s daughter right before his eyes?”

Vor’s expression is impossible to read. “Your pardon, friend Larongar,” he says with an inclination of his head. “I was taught this dance as a child. This is how we dance it in Mythanar.”

Father’s wrath swells. I can almost see it, a red aura churning in his core. My head throbs. I want to turn, to run, to hide. To escape the pain that I know is coming. But what about the alliance? What about Vor himself? The next breath could spell the end of everything, unless . . .

I take a quick step forward, drawing my father’s attention. Immediately, I wish I hadn’t. The moment his single eye turns to me, I get the full blast of his fury, and it’s enough to make my head spin. Bracing myself, I draw back my shoulders and force a smile on my face. “Father, is this not exactly why we have opened our gates to the folk of Mythanar? To learn of their ways, both how they are similar to and how they differ from ours?”

Father looks from me to Vor again. His brow is dark, and for a moment that red aura pulses strong.

Then, with the abruptness of sunlight breaking through storm clouds, his expression clears and his mouth breaks into a smile. He throws back his head and laughs. “Come, my friend! You must teach us all to perform such feats of manliness! I’m sure our women are as brave as any troll dame. Fyndra!”

“Yes, my king?”

“Come here and let me toss you around a bit, will you?”

“Willingly, my king!”

With a shout for the minstrels to begin again, Father takes Fyndra’s hand and leads her to the center of the floor. Vor reaches for me. But Father is too quick. “None of that now!” he barks. “We need to find you a worthy partner for your athleticism. Ilsevel, my sweet! Come show our new friend how well you fly.”

Ilsevel obeys, stepping away from her partner and approaching Vor. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t have to—I feel the wave of resentment rippling off of her. Is she angry with me? Does she think I was trying to steal her suitor? Vor’s eyes are still upon me. I fear he’s going to protest, make a scene. But that I can’t bear.

Grabbing my skirts, I turn and dart straight into the crowd, using their bodies to hide my getaway. The sudden pressure of their emotions is enough to make me gag. I press the back of my hand to my mouth and shove my way through, using my elbows where necessary. I make it to the end of the hall and up the stairs to the door. Already there is some relief as I put distance between myself and the dancers.

Just in the doorway I pause and look back. The music swells. Dancers fly. In the very center of the floor, Vor lifts Ilsevel and spins her in a flurry of crimson skirts. She’s smiling enormously, laughing at the wildness of the dance.

I’m glad she’s happy. I’m glad she’s enjoying herself. I’m glad she’s not locked in a tower, starving and frightened and cold. She deserves all the good things this life can give her, that sweet sister of mine.

I flee into the darkness of the gallery beyond. The cold air bites my cheeks, almost sharp enough to make me forget the warmth of Vor’s hand where it rested on my waist, or the thrill in my heart when he lifted me off my feet.