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

Deeper Dark devour me, what have I done?

Everything about this is a mistake. The shape of her in my arms, the warmth of her back pressed against my chest. I’m acutely aware of her round softness perched between my legs, and that awareness is not helped by the way her skirts flutter and part at every other plodding step of the morleth.

At this rate, I will be undone before we have even cleared the palace grounds.

My throat thickens. I face forward, refuse to let my gaze drift down. Not too often, at least. It doesn’t make much difference. Not with the sweet smell of her hair just under my nose and the soft music of her voice every so often gracing my ears. I could grow to crave such delights. Which is dangerous. These are not delights meant for me. But I’m in no mood to be cautious.

We approach the gate. I hail the men on watch. They stare at Faraine, openly curious to see her with me. They’re terrible gossips, the palace guard. No doubt rumors will fly before the hour is through. It doesn’t really matter. She’ll be gone soon enough, and any rumors stirred up today will die a natural death.

“Open the gates and keep them open,” I say to the man in charge, who struggles to keep from gaping too obviously at Faraine. “We shall return shortly.”

“Yes, my King,” he replies and adds an extra salute for good measure. He barks a command and the portal is opened. Knar tugs at his reins and tries to snap the blade of the guardsman’s lance off. The guard lets out a yelp and yanks his weapon back out of reach.

Faraine giggles softly. My blood warms. That sound . . . it’s enough to break any remaining vestiges of resolve I have left. But I must take care. With her gods-gift, who knows how much she can perceive of my feelings?

Hastily, I nudge Knar into motion. The morleth stomps under the arch, and we emerge at the top of a steep road leading precipitously down to the lower city. Faraine gasps. Her hands on the pommel tighten. “Are you all right?” I ask

“Yes! I just . . . When I came this way before, I was in a litter with the curtain drawn. I did not realize how very steep this road is.”

“Are you afraid of heights?”

“No! Merely aware, as it were.”

“You’re quite safe, I assure you. Knar is steady. Though he does not like being out under the lorst lights, he will behave himself.” I tighten my arm around her. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I know,” she responds and settles the back of her head against my shoulder once more. When I look down, I can see the whole lovely line of her throat to her collarbone, down to the bare skin between her breasts revealed by her gown’s plunging neckline. Gods help me.

I spur Knar forward. Morleth prefer walking on shadows to solid ground, but he’s sluggish at this time of the lusterling and plods along on the paving stones. “This road is called the aruk-dra,” I say, determined to make the lightest, most impersonal conversation I can manage. “It is the primary highway through the city and leads directly to the very center where the Temple of Orgoth stands. There, the road branches into six, all of which lead to the chasm bridges.”

Faraine nods. Her fingers are still tight on the pommel, but her body relaxes as she accustoms to the morleth’s steady gait. “Who was Org?” she asks after a silent moment.

“Pardon?”

“You said the Temple of Orgoth. I’m curious who the temple was named after.”

It’s a good question. A glow of pleasure warms my chest at her interest in my people and their history. I proceed to tell her about Queen Org, the first ruler of the Under Realm, who united the warring tribes of the troldefolk. It’s a long tale, but an exciting one, and Faraine listens with great attention, asking pertinent questions here and there. I tell her how Org discovered the Urzulhar Stones and recognized them as sacred—seven great crystals, representing each of the seven gods. She established her seat of power there. But she never forgot that the true trolde god was Morar tor Grakanak. So, to him she dedicated the temple at the heart of the city.

“It is the oldest temple in all the Under Realm,” I say to conclude my story, “and Mythanar is the oldest city. And the greatest.”

“How many cities are there throughout the Under Realm?”

“Forty-eight of comparable size to Mythanar. That’s not including the smaller towns and villages along the riverways, of course.”

Faraine shakes her head slowly. “I had no idea your kingdom was so great! Gavaria certainly doesn’t boast half that many cities.”

“Gavaria is a human kingdom,” I respond with a smile. “The Under Realm, you must remember, is vastly older. Older perhaps than your entire world.”

I point out examples of interesting architecture along the road we travel. Something tells me our troldish buildings must all look the same to her human eyes, but she asks intelligent questions and seems determined to learn. When the road begins to level out, she sits up a bit straighter in the saddle. That I don’t care for. I fight the urge to pull her back against my chest so that I may feel her and breathe her.

We reach the temple at last. I’m obliged to point it out to her, for it is nothing but a great stone mound, without discernable feature. Various entrances dot the surface of the dome seemingly at random, leading into the catacomb interior.

“There are no lights permitted inside,” I explain. “Light too easily disturbs worship of the Deeper Dark. And see there?” I swing my arm to indicate the many smaller domed structures surrounding the temple. “Those are residences of the priestesses, who sometimes need reprieve from the more intense darkness.”

Faraine looks on in silence for a moment before tilting her head to one side. “Those do not look like priestesses to me.”

I follow her line of sight to where a trolde family sits in front of a domed stone domicile. A squat, maternal figure, her skin hard with dorgarag, stirs something in a pot over a fire. Several small children, some stone-hided, some smooth and pale, wrestle in the dirt around her. One of them climbs to the top of the dome, beats his chest, and hollers until his mother finally stops stirring long enough to bark at him to come down.

“No, indeed,” I say. “Many of the temple dwellings are occupied by refugees at this time.”

“Because of the stirrings?”

“Yes.”

She considers this for a moment. “Will they ever be able to safely return to their homes?”

I had hoped so. Once. I had hoped I’d be summoning Miphates to our aid, putting an end to our trouble, and all the displaced people of my kingdom would venture back along the riverways to rebuild the ruined towns, villages, and cities. Even Dugorim. Even Hoknath. But that dream has faded. It is all but dead. “We shall see,” I say. But I know she feels the truth in my heart. The resignation. The despair.

Not wanting to dwell on such thoughts, I urge Knar on to a remote corner of the temple grounds. There I point out a certain formation of solid black obsidian. “That is Saint Hurk, the Rock-Smasher,” I explain, and launch into another tale of legends. Faraine listens, and when I am through, she asks to be let down from the saddle so that she may inspect the statue more closely. I lower her carefully, and she circles old Hurk, studying the way the craftsman of ancient days captured his likeness via old trolde carving techniques.

As for me? I have the singular pleasure of watching her. Of memorizing the way she moves, the sway of her hips, the glint of lorst light in her hair. The way those blessed skirts of hers part to reveal flashes of her lovely legs.

She would have been happy here. As queen.

She would not have ended up like my mother.

As though she heard my thoughts, Faraine turns and looks directly at me. Catches me staring. Heat warms my neck, and I turn away quickly, pretending to be interested in another set of domed priestess dwellings some distance beyond her. I haven’t fooled her, though. Not in the least.

Gods, on high! Does she realize what she does to me simply by existing?

Having finished her inspection of Hurk’s statue, Faraine steps lightly back to me and Knar. Just as she draws near, a loud gurgling sound erupts. Faraine gasps, flushes, and claps a hand to her stomach. “What’s the matter?” I ask, concerned.

“Oh!” She ducks her chin and gives her head a little shake. “I simply haven’t eaten yet today.” Her teeth worry at her full lower lip as she glances up at me. When she lets it go, it’s suddenly pinker and plumper than before. I’m possessed with the terrible urge to reach out, to run my thumb across its softness.

Wrenching my thoughts back in line, I lift my gaze to hers, firm and steady. “I know a place where we can find food. If you don’t mind trolde fare, that is.”

She smiles. “I’ve not yet had opportunity to try it! I’m certainly game.”

I help her back to her place on the front of my saddle. We leave the temple grounds behind and pursue the road that leads to Market Rise. This is a tall cliff face dotted with numerous shallow caves. A wide road zig-zags all the way to the top. Market sellers display their wares at the cave mouths, the entrances decorated with gems, subterranean flowers, and banners of bright fabric to draw attention their way. It’s one of the more colorful, lively districts of all Mythanar, one I don’t visit often enough.

I draw Knar to a halt at the base of the cliff. The morleth is unhappy enough with all the light around us; riding him up that winding road would be foolish. We dismount, and I allow the beast to vanish back into his own dark dimension. By now, we’ve attracted many eyes. All the sellers and market-goers at the base of the cliff have stopped their haggling to stare. Every one of them recognizes us—their king and his human bride.

I meet none of their curious gazes but incline my head to Faraine. “Will you be all right? With your gods-gift I mean. Will the crowds be too much for you?”

She casts me an appreciative look. “I can manage well enough, thank you. Often with a crowd this large, the swell of emotion is too complex to penetrate my gift. And I have this to steady me.” She holds up her little pendant.

I nod, trusting her to know her own limits. “Shall we then?”

“Please.” She rests her fingers on my arm, and we set off, climbing the path. The crowd parts for us, still ogling, fascinated by Faraine. Most of them have never seen a human before and find her very strange. At first, I fear their scrutiny will discomfort her, but she carries herself with queenly grace and dignity, a gentle half-smile on her lips and a kind nod for any trolde whose gaze she happens to meet. All the while, she holds tight to her pendant.

“The food sellers are farther up,” I say as we reach the first level of shops. “We needn’t linger if you wish to continue.”

But Faraine, despite her hunger, is in no hurry. The sellers here are all stone-collectors, who have ventured into deeper, more remote reaches of the Under Realm to bring home rare gems and rocks used for various purposes. Some are much sought after by furniture makers, others for tools and weapons. There’s a lorst crystal seller with some very poor-quality stones that would scarcely serve as a child’s nightlight, but Faraine stops and looks them over with interest. “In the right setting, one of these would make for the most stunning necklace,” she says, picking up a particular stone.

I chuckle. “Trolde women would never use lorst for jewelry. They’re far too common.”

“Really?” Faraine sets the stone back down with care. “I suppose you’re right—I haven’t seen any of your ladies wearing them. Human women would pay for just one of these in diamonds!”

“I don’t doubt it. I’ve seen the quality of diamonds in your world, however. They’re worth little more than these. Come! Let’s find you some living gems.”

Faraine nods politely to the lorst seller before allowing me to lead her on to a further stall where sits an ancient trolde woman with a bounty of black-streaked hair pulled severely back from her square face. I’ve purchased many a stone from her in the past.

“Good lusterling to you, Tril,” I call out in troldish as we draw near.

The old trolde’s eyes light up at the sight of me. “Big King!” she begins in her strong low-stone accent. She stops, however, as her gaze fixes on Faraine. With a grunt and a groan, she climbs ponderously from her chair, presses her fists to her chest, and bows. “And the new queen!”

I flinch. My gaze flicks to Faraine. At least she doesn’t understand what the old gem-seller is saying. I should correct Tril, of course. In the moment, however, it is easier to let the mistake slide, so, I say simply, “Faraine, allow me to introduce Tril. She may not look it, but she is quite the adventurer. She mines her gems fresh from the Diamond Fields of Zahgigoth beyond the Fiery Fjords. Although”—I lower my voice, though Tril herself does not understand the language I speak—“I believe it is her grandson who performs the more daring exploits these days.”

“It sounds most impressive to me.” Faraine flashes her lovely smile at the old trolde woman. “Hiri, Tril,” she says.

Tril blinks hugely. Then she tosses her head back with laughter, flashing her sharp teeth. “Quite the friendly one, eh, Big King?”

Faraine glances sidelong up at me. “Was it my accent? Do I sound foolish?”

“Not at all.” I assure her. “You’ve used an informal mode of greeting, ordinarily reserved for family and close friends. Grakol-dura is the proper form of address.”

“I see.” Faraine nods, her cheek tightening. “I have much to learn, it seems.”

To my shame, I don’t correct her. I simply cannot bear to remind her that she has no reason to study the intricacies of troldish language because she will have no use for them in the future. Just now, it’s nice to indulge in this little game of make-believe—to pretend she is, in truth, my new blushing bride and I, her proud bridegroom. That this is only the first of many ventures into Mythanar which we will make together as I teach her the ways of my people and my world.

Tril is more than ready to display her wares. Living diamonds of the brightest, clearest quality, like stars fallen from the Upper World. Also, emeralds, rubies, sapphires of various hues. Opals the size of my fist with hearts so fiery, one expects young dragonettes to burst from their centers. Some of these, she has taken time to fashion into jewelry—nothing intricate or delicate like the necklace Faraine wears. This is rough-and-ready trolde jewelry, displaying the uncut stones at their wildest.

Faraine selects one particular tiara of clear sapphires, admiring the way the stones catch the light of Tril’s lorst lantern. “Try it on, try it on!” Tril urges.

Faraine shoots me a baffled look. When I translate, she hastily puts the tiara back down. “I shouldn’t.”

“Try it on, I say!” Tril repeats before picking up the tiara herself and setting it on Faraine’s head. Faraine tenses, eyes widening. Then, with a delighted laugh, she steps back and looks at herself in the polished mirror-stone Tril holds up for her. She tilts her head, trying out different angles and expressions.

“What do you think, Vor?” she says, turning abruptly and fixing me with a brilliant smile. “Does it suit me?”

And there. She’s done it again. Caught me staring. When I’d not realized I was doing so.

I draw a short breath through my teeth. Hastily clearing my throat, I force a smile. “Yes.” The word is rough as a growl in my throat. “Yes, it suits you well.”

We stand there for the space of ten heartbeats. Silent. Gazing at one another. While the whole of Market Rise and its noisy denizens, the shouting sellers, the irritable customers, the grinding stone wheels of carts, all of it fades away to nothing. There’s just the two of us. Sharing a moment so bright, so perfect.

I know something then with absolute certainty. Perhaps the only certainty in my whole sorry, uncertain life. I know this image of her—clad in that pink, trolde-style gown, wearing that crown of uncut gems, her hair tumbled about her face and shoulders, her eyes uplifted to mine—will stay with me to the end. When the world comes all undone, when the cracks spread and the caverns fall, her face, just as it is right now, will be the last vision my mind’s eye sees.

“Half-price today!” Tril breaks the moment with a smack of her palm against the stone tabletop across which her gems are spread. “Half-price for the Big King. A present for his new bride.”

I wrench myself back to reality and turn on the old gem-seller with a wry grin. “How much would half-price cost me exactly?”

She names an outrageous sum, provoking a burst of laughter from my lips. “What is it?” Faraine asks, carefully removing the tiara from her head. She tries to offer it back to the woman.

“No, no, no!” Tril waves her square hands. “For the queen! For the new queen! And only half-price!”

“She’s trying to make a sale,” I answer. “A very generous sale . . . in her favor.”

Faraine’s brow puckers. “Will you inform her, please, that I have no trolde currency in any case?”

I should, of course. I should make our apologies, offer Faraine my arm, and lead her in a hasty escape. Instead, I fish a handful of polished ginugs from my pouch—not as many as Tril’s demanded, but more than the tiara is worth. She makes a great show of inspecting each coin. She always does, as though it’s not an insult to her king to doubt the quality of his purse. I roll my eyes, fold my arms, and wait for her eventual grunt of acceptance. She sweeps the ginugs into one palm and motions for Faraine to take the tiara.

“What is happening now?” Faraine asks, raising her eyebrow at me.

“The tiara is yours,” I say. “Tril and I have come to an agreement.”

“What?” Faraine stares down at the arrangement of sapphires set in silver. She puts a hand to her mouth, as though she’s just said something embarrassing. “Oh, Vor! I did not mean for you to—”

“I know.” I pick up the tiara and, before she can utter a word of protest, set it on her head. “As I said, it suits you well.”

The look she gives me from beneath those shining gems makes my heart light up like a lorst stone. It’s all I can do not to cup her cheeks in my palms and plant a kiss on her lips there and then. Instead, I step back quickly and clasp my hands at the small of my back. “Shall we continue?”

We leave Tril to gloat over her ill-gotten earnings and progress to the next level of the market. By this time, the whispers are flying. I hear the word bride coupled with queen more often than I like. I certainly haven’t helped matters by purchasing that tiara. But I cannot bring myself to regret it.

We come to the food sellers. I watch Faraine’s eyes goggle as she takes in the many offerings, all so strange to her palate. There are cakes sweetened with jiru nectar and shaped like little domes—mog cakes, we call them, in honor of the priestesses and their domed dwellings. There are flatbreads made of grus flour, a variety of edible lichen, very earthy and a bit dense but satisfying. The scent of fried mushrooms catches her attention, but I guide her to a vendor selling sizzling ugha fish seasoned with rock salt.

“Ugha live far from all light,” I tell her, as she recoils from the ugly, eyeless fish, cooked whole on little skewers. “Divers use line-cables to plunge up to thirty feet into blind depths to set their traps.” I select a plump one from over the coals, holding the skewer’s handle out to Faraine.

She makes a face but gamely accepts my offering, turning it slowly as though to find a less repulsive angle. “Am I supposed to eat it whole?”

“Not yet.” I pluck a jar of bright purple salt from the seller’s display and sprinkle it over the ugha until it glistens. “Now, be brave! Bite the head off first.”

She casts me a dubious look. Have I pushed her too far? By now, however, her stomach has started growling almost constantly. She screws up her face, pops the fish head in her mouth, and bites. Chews. Slowly opens her eyes again. “That’s actually . . .” She hesitates, considers. Then: “Good?”

“Is that a question?”

“It might be?”

“Would you like a second bite to verify?”

She makes a wordless whimper. But she does take a second bite. Then a third. In the end, she finishes the whole thing and eats another. From there we move on to a mushroom vendor, who points out certain varieties safe for human consumption. After that, Faraine staunchly refuses to try seared cave cricket legs, so we end our makeshift meal with some grus bread served with a minced grotto-berry relish. This she finds much to her liking and eats a sizable portion.

“You must have found the food at Beldroth quite bland,” she remarks, licking her fingers delicately before wiping them on the little cloth provided.

“Strange, to be sure,” I acknowledge. “But I quite enjoyed the experience. I travel so little beyond Mythanar and appreciate the chance to encounter other worlds and ways of living.”

Hunger sated, we proceed now at a leisurely pace through the textiles market. Faraine admires garments of pure hugagog silk, delighted by their iridescent colors. Another vendor offers skeins of the spun hugagog thread, which Faraine inspects with great interest. I’m just trying to decide if I dare buy her another gift when a sudden trill of music ripples through the air. Faraine’s head pops up. “What is that? Where is it coming from?”

“It’s the gujek—traveling minstrels.” I tilt an ear and pinpoint the direction from which it comes. “I believe they’re right above us. Shall we go see?”

Faraine agrees, her eyes shining and eager. We climb to the final level of Market Rise, high at the top of the cliff. There, on a broad flat platform, the gujek minstrels have gathered with their great frames strung with dangling crystals. Each crystal gives a pure, sweet tone, some high, some low. The minstrels beat them in swift, complicated patterns, generating a shimmering song, like the rushing cascade of ice water. Other players on zinsbog horns create a bright countermeasure, and a single drummer beats a rumbling growl on his skin drums.

Wonderstruck, Faraine watches the performance. And I watch her. I can’t help myself. All the beauties of Mythanar pale by comparison to the joy of watching her face. The subtleties of expression, every slight shift of her brow, her cheek, her jaw, her lips. It’s like watching a living, breathing work of art. I could sit and make a study of her all day.

I find myself wondering what her face would look like in . . . release?

“Oh! Look!” she exclaims suddenly and turns to me. “Who is she?”

Reluctantly, I tear my gaze away from her to look where she points. A trolde woman in traditional garb has taken her place before the minstrels. She wears a massive headdress of balancing black stone weights. A single wrong tilt will send the whole thing toppling, but the woman holds herself so perfectly straight and tall, the muscles of her neck bulging with strength, that the weights scarcely tremble. The rest of her clothing is simple—a loincloth, a sheer wrap across her bosom, and a belt of small animal skulls.

“She is a morn dancer,” I say, bending to speak in Faraine’s ear so that she can hear me above the sudden blare of the zinsbog. “It’s a very old art form. Watch!”

The woman begins her dance, a performance of balance and strength, so unlike the dances back in Gavaria. Faraine is enthralled. She cannot tear her gaze away as the steps become ever more complex. The morn dancer stomps hard enough to shake the ground under our feet, raises and smashes rocks together, crumbling them to dust. In the end, she utters a deep, guttural roar that rises to the cavern ceiling above, all without disturbing the balance of her weights.

When the dance is complete and the music resolves, Faraine applauds after human fashion, clapping her hands together and shouting, “Well done! Magnificent!” The folk gathered to observe the dance smile curiously at her antics. A few of them try to copy her behavior. After all, if she is their new queen, any outlandish customs she brings will soon be all the rage with the younger set.

The morn dancer exits, and the minstrels begin another song, this one lighter and faster. Suddenly, one of the men in the crowd shouts out, “A dance! Big King, a dance! A dance with your new bride!” Before I can react, the cry is taken up. Soon the voices of the spectators nearly drown out the song itself.

Startled by this outburst, Faraine leans closer to me. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” My face heats. I hope she’s not reading my feelings just now. “They want me to dance with you.”

Her eyes flash to meet mine, alight and alive. “Is that so? And . . . do you think the people should have what they ask?”

It’s suddenly difficult to swallow. “Considering the tensions in the city these days, it wouldn’t be terrible for them to see their king at ease, dancing.” Enjoying himself immensely.

“Would you say it might uplift their spirits?”

“It might.”

Her smile is bright as a lorst stone suddenly ignited. “Well then, shall we?”

I laugh and shake my head. “You don’t know any trolde dances, remember?”

She shrugs, her lips quirked prettily. “I know how to stand still, how to clap to a beat, and how to be spun on demand. Will that not do?”

Another laugh rumbles up my throat. Suddenly, I don’t care anymore what a dangerous idea this is. This whole morning has been foolish from the beginning. I might as well embrace it.

Taking her hand, I lead her to the clear space vacated by the morn dancer. The people cheer, and the minstrels shift effortlessly from their light, sparkling melody into something . . . different. A low, sensual song with a driving beat. The first few strains are enough to suggest dimly-lit rooms, wafting curtains, discarded garments on the floor.

I catch Faraine’s eye. Hold it. She feels it too, that thrum of lust and longing. It ripples through the air, surrounds us in an atmosphere of unrelenting sound. She draws herself very straight, very tall, all the laughter suddenly gone from her eyes. Instead, I see only . . . challenge.

Following the beat, letting my body move as it wills, I approach her. Strong. Powerful. My feet carry me close to her, so close that our skin warms but never quite meets. She does as she said she would—she stands firm. Swaying a little in time to the beat. Turning slowly to follow me, to hold that eye-contact like a fiery cord binding our souls even as the dance carries me away from her again. This is an ancient dance, and yet it is all new.

Suddenly I am singing, though I had not meant to:

“Jor ru jorrak.

Ur ru urrak.

Dor ru dorrak.

Hav ru havrak.”

Stone of my stone.

Blood of my blood.

Flesh of my flesh.

Heart of my heart.

The words are simply there on my tongue. They must be spoken, they must be sung. And soon, those who watch us take up the chant, singing it in rumbling voices, deeper even than the reverberations of the skin drums.

“Jor ru jorrak.

Ur ru urrak

Dor ru dorrak.”

Faraine’s face, flushed and brilliant, shines before me like the last light of life itself. The dance draws me back to her. I move around her, passing my hands in the air over her breasts, her shoulders, her throat, down her back. Never touching, only manipulating the energy between us. She sways with me, bending and responding to every gesture. Only when the music swells to its crescendo do I finally grip her waist and swing her off her feet. Round and round we twirl, and she holds my shoulders, her gaze never once leaving mine.

The music ends. The people roar their approval, stomping their feet and smashing stones together. Cries of: “The King and his Bride! Behold, the King and his Bride!” echo across Market Rise.

I scarcely hear them. I stand as though frozen in a sliver of suspended eternity. My arms are wrapped around her waist, holding her face level with mine as her feet dangle above the ground. Faraine stares into my eyes. Knowing me, knowing my heart. Knowing that truth which, until this moment, I’ve struggled so hard to deny.

I am falling irrevocably in love. With my wife.