Vow of the Shadow King (Bride of the Shadow King Book 2)

We are a solemn, silent party as we ride our morleth back up through the city late that dimness.

Toz did his best to communicate what we’d found in the temple. Hael held her tongue, and I could not bear to speak of it. Not yet. Toz’s report was enough. No one spoke unless necessary for the whole journey home. Even Sul was uncharacteristically silent. He rides on the bow of Hael’s saddle, wrapped tight in her arms, his head thrown back against her shoulder, his eyes closed. He looks very gray and grim by the time we reach the palace.

I dismount Knar, allowing the beast to slip away to his own dimension, and hasten to help Sul down. As soon as her feet are on the ground, Hael reaches for him, her manner almost possessive. “Take him to the infirmary at once,” I tell her.

“Yes, my King. I’ve got him,” Hael says and turns for the steps. She pauses, however, and looks back at me. “What about you? Madame Ar should check you over, make certain you haven’t inhaled any raog.”

I shudder. But I know I don’t have raog in my system. Not this time at least. “Don’t worry, Hael. I’ll be along shortly. I have something I must see to first.”

Hael gives me a shrewd look. I don’t like it and turn away hastily to speak a word to Toz and the others. I urge them all to report at once to Ar, then hasten up the front steps and into the palace before anyone can question me. My face must be grim indeed. The household folk I meet as I stride through the winding corridors hastily avert their eyes or bow their heads. I spare none of them a word or a look. My steps carry me swiftly to the west wing of the palace. I know exactly where I’m going.

Fury burns in my breast. It’s been growing by the hour, ever since I looked upon that dead girl in the circle of crystals. The devastation of Hoknath was bad enough, but that particular horror? That one will remain with me all the days of my life.

I come to a certain door, brace myself before it, and pound three times with my fist. The sound echoes hollowly against the stones, underscored by my own hard breathing. Perhaps I should think better of this, should wait to have this encounter when I’m in a calmer state of mind. But I cannot wait. Not a moment more.

The door opens. A wide-eyed child peers up at me. Her mouth opens in a little circle of terror. “Where is your mistress?” I demand.

The child swallows hard. “The queen has given orders that she’s not to be dis—”

I push through with a growl. Roh’s set of rooms are humble indeed, scarcely what one would expect from a dowager queen. Indeed, if one didn’t know any better, it would be easy to believe this was the cell of a priestess. All is dark, with only a single lorst crystal to illuminate the whole of the space. By its light, I see my stepmother seated before a stone washbasin. She’s cleaning her hands. Slowly, methodically.

She looks up at me. Her eyes flash in the crystal glow. “So, Vor. You’re back.”

I stare at her hands. At the two great cuts slicing across both her palms. Even as I watch, even as she lifts them from the water, blood wells again. She picks up a cloth, grips it tight. A blue stain seeps through the white.

“What have you done?” I demand.

She tilts her head at me. “What have you done? Have you found my son?”

“He is home. Safe.”

Roh lets out a little breath, then lifts one bleeding hand to make a holy sign. “Praise be to the Deeper Dark. And the people of Hoknath? What word of them?”

I stare at her. In that eerie pale glow, I see the sacrificed woman again. Her desecrated body. Her blood spilled to feed the urzul stones. “I think you know,” I growl. “I think you know what happened in Hoknath. Did Targ have anything to do with it?”

Roh purses her lips and turns to her basin once more. She takes the cloth, dabs gently at her wounds, and only a faint tightness around her eyes reveals her pain. “You’ll have to be more specific, Vor. I cannot read your mind and prefer not to speak in riddles.”

“The ceremony. The va-jor.” I stride a little closer, my hands trembling with the urge to grab her by the shoulders, to force her to look at me. “They were stone, Roh. Solid stone. From the inside out.”

“Really?” she looks up sharply. “What of the others? The people of Hoknath? Were they saved as well?”

“No. They damned well were not saved.”

“Ah!” Her expression dims and her shoulders slump. She turns her attention back to her bleeding hands. “I feared as much. They could not find a willing sacrifice. The magic will not reach far if the sacrifice is unwilling. There’s only so much even the most faithful can do under such circumstances.”

I stare at her. This woman who was my father’s wife. The mother of my brother. A proud, dignified queen of her people. How could she have come so thoroughly into the clutches of a madman like Targ?

My steps quick, I cross the room, catch her by the wrists and turn her hands palm-up, displaying the wounds. Ugly slashes in the delicate flesh, blue blood drying almost black. “Tell me the truth, Stepmother,” I say. “This is Targ’s doing, isn’t it. He made you do this.”

“Don’t be foolish, boy.” Roh wrenches her hands free of my grasp and swiftly grabs the towel once more. “No one makes me do anything.”

“What is he trying to do? Turn you into his sacrifice? So he can put the va-jor on us all, willing or unwilling?”

Her lip curls. “All true troldefolk are willing to return to the stone. It is our natural state.”

With a single swipe of my arm, I knock the washbasin to the floor. It breaks in two, water spattering. The heavy pieces of crockery skid away to different parts of the room. “Vor!” Roh cries. For the first time, I hear a note of fear in her voice.

I lean over, forcing my face into hers, forcing her eyes to meet mine. “Hear me, Roh, and hear me well,” I say, my words low and hard. “If I catch you or Targ practicing dark magic in Mythanar, I will execute him and banish you without a second thought.”

Roh’s eyes flash, her pupils like two pits in the center of white-fire irises. “Is this how it is to be now, Vor? Your little human bride has become your spy. An unexpected turn of events, I must say.”

“What?” I draw back from her as though struck. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t pretend with me.” A mirthless smile curls the corner of her mouth. “She’s been sneaking around the palace ever since you let her out of the holding cell.”

I stand up straight, retreat two paces.

“Everyone knows it,” Roh continues. “She’s quite unmanageable so they say. Poking her dainty little nose into places it doesn’t belong. You’d be wise to lock her up properly, dear boy. This indulgence of a prisoner does not reflect well on you.”

Maybe I inhaled more raog poison than I thought. Because suddenly, I find myself nearly overwhelmed with the urge to grab her head and dash it against the stone table’s edge. My hands slowly curl into fists.

“She found her way to the Dark Altar.” Roh looks up at me, her expression vicious. “I don’t know if by accident or design. But she was there. She witnessed a grak-va ceremony underway. But the urzul stones responded to her strangely. It was like . . .” Her voice trails off, and her gaze slides away from me, seems to stare into some far-off place. “It was like something I’ve seen only once before. But never so strong.” Her eyes snap back to mine. “I think your human may be gods-gifted. Perhaps the god who gifted her was Morar tor Grakanak . . . and the gift was intended for Mythanar.”

My blood runs cold. For a moment, I feel as though I too have been bound in deep stone, incapable of thought, movement, speech. When words finally come, they fall from my lips like molten magma. “If you so much as look at Faraine again, I will end you.”

“Is that so?” Roh smiles slowly. “Well, if that’s how you feel, dear boy, I do hope you can get over it soon. No passion of yours, no matter how hot, can withstand the will of the gods.”

I wrench away. It’s all I can do not to murder her then and there. Her laugh trails after me as I march from her chamber. “The end is coming, Vor! It’s coming for us all! You must decide if you will die as a human or live as a trolde. The choice is yours!”

Even when I reach the hall and slam the door behind me, her words echo in my ears. I make it down one passage, take the turn, then lean heavily against a wall. My breathing is labored, my body covered in sweat.

Faraine. Faraine. I don’t understand. What does Roh want with her? Does she intend to use her as a sacrifice? There’s no chance Faraine would willingly die for the sake of a trolde cult devoted to a trolde god. But there was something hungry in my stepmother’s gaze. No, not hungry—ravenous.

I shudder. Images of the murdered girl in Hoknath flash through my mind’s eye. I’m afraid. More afraid than I’ve ever been in all my life. No battle or bloodshed ever moved me like this. My world, my very existence suddenly seems so fragile.

I need to see Faraine. Just for a moment. I need to see her and know that she is alive, that she is whole and well and here. I will not touch her. I dare not. But a mere glimpse would be enough, a single word from her lips pure heaven.

My body is in motion before my mind has come to a decision. My feet carry me swiftly to the royal wing of the palace where I take the stairs three treads at a time. All the exhaustion of the last several days melts away in this need, this compulsion. I reach the floor to her room. There’s no guard in the hall outside her door. Strange. Where is Yok? Is he inside her chamber? Or . . . or maybe . . .?

I hasten to the door and knock five times, a quick percussion. No one answers. “Faraine?” I call. “Princess, are you there?”

Still nothing.

Panic churns in my gut. I reach out, try the latch. It gives. Why is it not bolted? If Yok isn’t out here standing watch, she should at least be safe behind a bolted door! Someone’s head will roll for this. I push the door open.

It stops partway. Stuck against a body.

My heart stops.

In a surge of terror, I push the door further, step into the room, and fall on my knees beside the prone figure. It’s not Faraine. It’s a tall, ungainly form in guardsman uniform.

“Yok!” I cry and roll him onto his back. Terror surges in my veins. Did someone break in, overpower this boy, and kidnap Faraine? Another assassin, bent on her destruction?  Or was it Targ and his cultists? Are they—could they—?

I see again that sacrificed woman. A scream threatens to tear my throat in two.

“Yok!” I roar, and yank the boy upright, shaking him by the shoulders. “Wake up, man! I need you!”

Yok groans. His brow puckers. With tremendous effort, he manages to raise one eyelid. “My—my King?”

My fingers dig into the boy’s shoulders, leaving dents in his chainmail. “Where is she?” I growl. “Who took her? Tell me, Yok! Tell me what you know!”

He shakes his head. “No one took her,” he groans. “I swear.”

“What?” Something icy shoots through my heart. In that moment, I can’t tell if it’s relief or another surge of terror. “What do you mean? What happened?”

“She wanted to go for a walk.” The boy forces the words out painfully, one after another. “But . . . but I thought she should stay. She’d been out once already, and she didn’t seem well, so . . . so I insisted. But then she took my hand and . . . and . . .” He looks blearily around the room, his gaze unfocused. “How did I end up in here?”

I drop my hold on him, little caring when he falls back on his elbows. “Where did she go?” I demand. “Did she tell you?”

“She said something about the gardens—”

I don’t wait to hear the rest. I’m already bolting from the room as fast as I can.