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

I fall.

Tumble, careen through darkness. Through shadow, through heat, through smoke.

My arms flail uselessly, struggling to grasp something, anything. My fingertips brush stone only for the skin to be ripped away as I continue my endless plummet. A sound like rushing wind roars in my ears, underscored by the keening of a thousand mourners, their voices upraised in endless woe.

There’s no escape, no hope, no help.

And down below me . . .

Far beneath the heat and the darkness . . .

Something watches.

Something waits.

Suddenly, a voice breaks through the rushing in my ears. Though I cannot understand the words, something in my heart jolts with recognition. It’s like a delicate, shimmering thread has unfurled before me. When I reach out and take hold, that thread solidifies, becomes a stout rope. I wrap myself—my body, my consciousness, I don’t even know what—around it and hold on with everything I have.

Now, the rushing stops, the mad descent forestalled, for the moment at least. Slowly, slowly, the rope draws me back up through the mist and black obscurity until faint gray light penetrates my eyelids. I’m lying on a soft pillow. My body is perfectly still. No tumbling. No rope either. I lie with my eyelids cracked, and a flickering glow filters through my eyelashes.

Voices murmur on my left. Two voices, one male, one female. One I would recognize anywhere, despite the growling intonation of trolde language. The other I don’t know. Elderly, animated, it dominates the exchange, with the other only managing to insert a few blunt words here and there.

Summoning all the strength I possess, I part my eyelids a little further. Two blurry figures stand at my bedside. One is short, for a trolde at least, and a little hunched. The other is the unmistakably broad and powerful form of Vor.

Fear lurches in my heart at the sight of him. Fear and . . . something else. Something stronger. And more dangerous. Something I don’t care to acknowledge.

With a last flurry of grunting talk, the smaller of the two figures reaches out and pats Vor on the arm. A strangely maternal gesture, incongruous with the intimidating size of the recipient. Then she seems to be gathering various tools into a bag, which she snaps shut before vanishing from my narrow range of sight. I hear a clunk, possibly the door shutting.

My heartrate quickens. I wish I could make myself sink back into unconsciousness. My body aches all over, and my head rings with pain. Meanwhile, the source of that pain—the source of that throbbing, stabbing ache between my eyes—even now draws a chair up to my bedside and takes a seat.

My husband.

I tense. I wish I could physically recoil from him. At least his emotions are currently held in check. When we encountered one another in the garden, the wave of his feelings had bludgeoned me as brutally as a blow from his fist. Gone are the days when I felt nothing but peace in his presence. Perhaps it was all a dream.

Is he going to sit there and wait until I wake up? Dear gods, I hope not. Vor is the last person I want to speak to just now after everything that’s happened. Dropping my eyelids, I lie in complete darkness once more, my breath shallow, my chest tight. Maybe he will grow bored and leave. I count the seconds and then the minutes passing. He shifts position only once. Either he knows I’m awake and is toying with me, or he really has determined to wait around until I regain consciousness. Hesitantly, I extend my gods-gift toward him. So many complicated emotions roil through his spirit. He’s calmer now, at least. Mostly.

I frown. There’s something there, something underneath the turmoil of fear, mistrust, concern, impatience. Those feelings, all readily recognizable, simmer along the surface of his being. But there’s something deeper. Something dark, coiled around his core. Cautiously, I peer through my lashes. Peer at this man who ordered my execution only to stop it at the last possible second. This man I thought I loved.

Suddenly, Vor rubs both hands down his face, pulling at the skin under his eyes. Then he turns, looks straight at me. His expression tightens, his brows drawn together. And I realize that while I’ve been studying him, I’ve unconsciously opened both eyes. For a series of long, silent moments, we stare at one another.

“You’re awake,” he says at last.

I blink once in acknowledgement. Then, gritting my teeth, I push my elbows under me, force my body into an upright position. One sleeve catches and pulls off my shoulder, slides down my upper arm. A wave of heat rolls out from Vor and hits me. I look up sharply, momentarily catching his eye. He turns away at once, stares fixedly at something on the wall across the room. The impression passes. I’m left shivering in its wake.

Hastily, I tug my sleeve back into place. “How long have I been unconscious?” I ask. My voice is rough and dry in my throat.

“An hour.” Vor glances at me, looks away. Swallows. Faces me again. “Maybe two.” Shifting in his chair, he rests an elbow on one arm. His fingers rub together nervously. “Our uggrha healer says it was not loss of blood that caused your fainting spell, but shock. A few more hours of quiet, and you should feel much better.”

My hand slips to my neck. There’s a sticky puckering right where the assassin’s blade grazed my skin. My jaw tightens. “Shock,” I repeat softly. “Yes. Of course.” I drop my hand back into my lap. “Did they catch him? The man who . . .?” I can’t quite bring myself to finish.

Vor’s face darkens. “He is not yet conscious. He’s under watch until he can be questioned.” Another long, painful silence falls between us. I’m still struggling to think of something suitable to say when Vor turns abruptly to me again. “I owe you an apology.”

My eyes flick to meet his. “What?”

He drops his gaze, his forehead puckered. A line deepens between his brows. “I had assumed you would be safe. In the holding cell. I thought security measures down there would be sufficient.”

“So . . .” I pause, pull my lips in and bite down hard. “So, you locked me away in a box-sized cave without light for my protection?”

Another flash of feeling rolls out from behind his barriers. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was shame. “I admit,” he says, “I neglected to consider how much worse the darkness would be for you than for one of my own people.”

“The darkness? And what about the rest of it? Such as the cold. The lack of privacy. The hard cot for a bed. No blanket, no chamber pot. Not to mention the total ignorance of my coming fate or future. Did you neglect to consider these as well?”

His shame sharpens to a knife-like point. It pricks hard enough to make me wince. But I don’t back down. I maintain a level stare, daring him to meet my gaze.

He doesn’t. When he finally speaks, his voice is very low. “I did not think beyond simply placing you somewhere secure.”

“Secure enough that an assassin could simply walk in, take me from my cell, and march me forth at blade-point?”

Vor’s lip curls. His teeth flash in the low light from the lorst crystals hung from the ceiling above. But he answers only, “Lord Rath has always enjoyed certain privileges in the palace.”

“Do these privileges extend to the assassination of political prisoners? Is this Lord Rath’s role in service to his king?”

“No!” The word is adamant, spoken with another flare of intensity. “I do not keep an assassin on retainer. Even if I did, I could certainly find someone better suited to the task than Rath.”

“On that, at least, we can agree.” Settling back into the mounded pillows behind me, I rest my head against the stone headboard. “Your Lord Rath was a poor assassin. It’s not as though I’m a particularly lethal target.”

“Aren’t you?” Vor’s eyebrow twitches. There’s an uneasy gleam in his eye as he considers me. “I’m curious, how did you manage to subdue Rath? There were no marks found on his body.”

I don’t answer. I merely look at him.

“Was it the same thing you did to Lady Lyria on . . . when . . .” He voice trails away.

My nostrils flare slightly. “You mean when she tried to stop your people from cutting off my head? When I had to save her from being torn apart by your guards? Is that what you mean?” Gods above, who knew I possessed such wellsprings of defiance? I’ve always been the demure, shrinking, people-pleasing, disappointing princess. Perhaps this is what multiple near-death experiences in quick succession will bring out in a person.

Vor’s jaw tightens. The muscles in his throat constrict, causing a vein to stand out. “About that—”

“About my near-decapitation?”

He draws back from me slightly. “I wasn’t myself. I don’t want to make excuses, but . . . there were other factors at play. I want you to know that I have no intention of . . . of . . .”

“Of separating my head from my body?”

“Yes. That.”

“Such a comfort.” I draw myself a little straighter and fold my arms across my stomach. “In that case, what do you intend to do with me?”

Another sharp wave of emotion. Not shame this time. This is something hotter, stranger. Something he quickly tamps back down behind his walls, but not before I sense it. My blood warms. Suddenly, I’m uncomfortably aware of where I am. The last time we were in this room together, he was with me in this bed. And there was a lot less space between us. And a lot less clothing.

The heat in my blood pools in my center. My skin is alive, prickling, as though I can feel his breath stirring the hairs on my arm even at this distance. But I won’t let it show. I know how to mask my own feelings, and I’m not about to give him any advantage over me.

“I don’t know,” Vor says at last. His words strike my ears like the inevitable toll of funeral bells.

I knot my fists. “What’s to prevent you from changing your mind again? From sending me back to the block?”

“I would never do that to you.”

My lip curls. “I find that hard to believe, given recent history.”

“Indeed?” His gaze flashes at me from beneath his drawn brows. “And I would not have believed it possible for you to deceive me as you have done. Perhaps it’s time we both readjusted our expectations of one another.”

I don’t answer. Why should I? I simply look at him, my eyes slowly narrowing. Let him realize the foolishness of what he’s just said. Of comparing my deceit—a deceit forced on me by outside powers against which I had no sway—to his murderous rage. They are not the same. We are not the same.

He holds my gaze for three silent breaths. Then his eyes widen, and the stern line of his brow softens. Another wave of feeling rushes out from him, this time strong enough to drive him to his feet. His chair scoots back several inches across the floor, and he looms above me. So tall, so powerful. So beautiful. “While you are a guest in Mythanar,” he says coldly, “you will be under my protection. You can take that for whatever you deem it worth, but I intend it for your peace of mind.”

I want to tell him that I’ll keep his intentions in mind the next time I’m being dragged up a scaffold. Instead, I lower my eyelids in a slow blink of acknowledgement. When I look up at him again, I say only, “Is that what I am then? Your guest?”

“You are certainly not my wife.”

Of everything he’s said to me, this strikes the hardest. The whole room seems to rock. Nausea whirls in my head, and my stomach pitches. But I won’t let it show. I won’t. I lift my chin, draw a firm breath. “In the eyes of my people, I am. By the will of the gods and of Gavarian law, I am your wife and therefore deserve all the rights of a wife.”

My words have power because they are true. I watch them hit the mark, watch my supposed husband reel. He’s unwilling to give an inch, however. Where a moment ago, I sensed shame, now I sense an equally profound indignation verging on anger swelling from behind his protective barriers. “Mythanar recognizes no law that allows one person to take the identity of another,” he growls. “Thus, I do not accept you in place of your sister.”

My sister.

My Ilsevel.

Dead.

My chin crumples. I try to stop it, try to suppress the sob as it rises in my throat. But I can’t. Nor can I stop the shuddering gasp, the sudden prickle of tears. Though I blink hard, a tear escapes through my lashes, races down my cheek.

Vor draws a sharp breath. For a terrible moment, I feel his walls cracking. But that’s the last thing I want right now, for him to let down his barriers, to reach out to me, to try to comfort me. “Faraine,” he begins.

I cut him off. “Go. Please.”

He hesitates. Then, with a frustrated exhalation, he lurches into motion, strides for the door. Just as he draws it open and takes a step through, however, I whisper softly, “Wait.”

He stops. Looks back.

“Will I be returned to the holding cell?”

He’s silent. I cannot bear to look at him. I stare down at my crossed arms, at the bloodstain on the scooped neckline of my gown. Waiting. Tense.

“Until further notice,” he says at last, “you will remain in the Queen’s Apartment. I will appoint a personal guard for your safety.”

“Am I your prisoner then?”

“As I said before, you are my guest.”

“And how long will I be your guest?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“So, I am a guest who may not come or go as she chooses?”

“Yes.”

I nod. “Very well, good King. I think we understand one another.”

He waits. Possibly hoping I will say something more, offer a softening word to make the tension between us less horrible. I cannot deny the urge to look up, to meet his eye. To beg him not to go. To fling myself out of this bed and into his arms and discover whether or not I can call back to life some spark of the heat we experienced the last time we were alone in this room together.

But those stolen moments were intended for Ilsevel. Not me. I was the thief in the night, taking from him that which was not mine. Something sacred. Something which I rendered profane.

So, we merely look at one another. And finally, Vor turns away. His long silvery hair slips over his shoulder, ripples down his back as he marches to the door. One moment, he’s silhouetted in the opening. The next, he’s gone. The door shuts fast behind him. A low boom echoes against the stone walls.

I sag back against the pillows, suddenly weak and shivery. Fury and fear and shame and sorrow course through me by turns. But at least these feelings are my own and no one else’s. My hand slips to my neck again, touching the awful gummy substance used to patch up my wound.

Then, almost unconsciously, I let my fingertips trail down my throat. Slowly, lingering. Following the same paths Vor’s fingers had explored on our ill-fated wedding night. First his fingers, then his lips, then his tongue—

Gods!

I clutch my crystal pendant so hard it digs into my flesh. Tilting my head back, I close my eyes and seek the resonance inside that will lead my storming mind and body back to a place of calm.