Heart of the Shadow King E-Book

Sylvia Mercedes

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 637

Beschreibung

For fans of The Bridge Kingdom and A Deal with the Elf King, Get ready for heartbreak and hard-won happily-ever-afters in this heated conclusion to the fantasy romance epic! A KING DESPERATE TO SAVE HIS BRIDE. A QUEEN DISCOVERING THE DARK POTENTIAL OF HER POWER. After nearly losing one another in a savage attack on the city, Vor and Faraine return to Mythanar fully committed to their marriage. But the situation in the Under Realm remains dire. With the world poised on the brink of collapse, Vor struggles to protect his kingdom. Though Faraine longs to support him as queen, she fights the weakness in her body at every turn . . . not to mention the strange changes warping her gods-gift. When war drags them apart, Vor and Faraine face the consequences of their choices. How can Vor lead those who have lost faith in him? Torn between honor and desire, he must decide where his heart truly lies: with his kingdom or his queen. Meanwhile, as Faraine explores the new dimensions of her power, she starts to believe the coming cataclysm may be prevented. But in doing so, will she unleash a darkness in herself far more disastrous? Breathtaking stakes. Ultimate reveals. This is the epic finale you've been waiting for!

Leseprobe

contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

1: Faraine

2: Vor

3: Faraine

4: Vor

5: Faraine

6: Vor

7: Faraine

8: Vor

9: Faraine

10: Vor

11: Faraine

12: Vor

13: Faraine

14: Vor

15: Faraine

16: Vor

17: Faraine

18: Vor

19: Faraine

20: Vor

21: Faraine

22: Maylin

23: Faraine

24: Vor

25: Faraine

26: Vor

27: Faraine

28: Vor

29: Faraine

30: Vor

31: Faraine

32: Vor

33: Faraine

34: Vor

35: Faraine

36: Vor

37: Faraine

38: Vor

39: Faraine

40: Vor

41: Faraine

42: Vor

43: Faraine

44: Vor

45: Faraine

46: Vor

47: Faraine

Epilogue

About the Author

AVAILABLE FROM SYLVIA MERCEDES AND DAPHNE PRESS

Bride of the Shadow King

Vow of the Shadow King

Heart of the Shadow King

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First published in the UK in 2023 by Daphne Press

www.daphnepress.com

Copyright © 2023 by Sylvia Mercedes

Cover design by Jane Tibbetts

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-83784-034-2

eBook ISBN: 978-1-83784-035-9

1

This one is for Handsome,For his strong arms,His true heart,And his unending courage.

1

FarainE

Pain ripples through my body at odd intervals, like the aftershocks of a massive quake.

I’m used to pain, of course. I’ve lived a great deal of my life striving to stave it off. And the agony of both my recent death and resurrection was certainly more terrible than these small tremors. But this is different. This is the extreme discomfort of a spirit which had escaped the confines of a mortal body only to find itself confined once more. Protesting against imprisonment, straining at every boundary, seeking escape.

I close my eyes, breathing deeply through yet another wave as it washes over me, body and soul. There’s nothing to be done, no way to escape. I must simply endure. But at least I can lean my head back against the broad chest and shoulder behind me, steady myself against another’s heartbeat. A heartbeat which now pulses in rhythm with my own.

Vor’s arm holds me fast around my middle as he guides his morleth down through a gaping chasm of stone. He’s not spoken since we left behind the secluded pool at the base of the mountain. His silence is sweet, however, and everything he’d said while holding me in his arms on the edge of that pool still echoes in my heart.

“You are mine, Faraine. My Queen. Sovereign Lady of Mythanar and the Under Realm, from this day forth and forevermore.”

I breathe through another wave of pain. My head is light and dizzy as we descend through the winding caverns, back down into the vast dark spaces of the subterranean world. Regret pricks my heart as we leave behind the shining, distant stars. The sky holds real terror for this man who is my husband, but for me it was a relief not to feel the weight of stone overhead, at least for a little while.

The truth is, I don’t belong in Vor’s world. And yet, to claim the heart of the Shadow King is to claim his world as my own. Am I ready? Am I strong enough?

I gave my death in a wild attempt to save these people from destruction.

Do I have the courage to give my life as well?

My stomach tightens as Vor urges his morleth faster, and we plunge back into the Under Realm. Lorst crystals flash, piercing my closed eyelids with their ever-brightening glow. Lusterling, the trolde equivalent of day, is awakening. What will the light of a million shining crystals reveal of the city below? A city stricken by terror and savagery. A city poised on the brink of disaster.

Vor’s arm tightens around me. I frown suddenly. Though I’m riding pressed so close against him, I cannot sense him. I feel the tension in his muscles, the quickness of his breath close to my ear, the rapid beat of his heart. But not his emotions. Where once his every feeling was so readily available to my perception, now there is simply absence. Surely this can’t be right. I’m tired from my ordeal, distracted by the pain. That’s all. Reaching out, I seek for that connection I’ve been able to find with most living souls since the day my gods-gift overwhelmed me, ripping me open to receive the feelings of others.

There’s nothing there. No sense of him. No thrumming spirit, no silent pulse of sound, of essence. Nothing.

Almost unconsciously I release the handful of morleth mane I’ve been gripping and reach instead for my pendant. When my fingers find it, still hung from its delicate chain around my neck, it does not hum in response to my touch. I lift it up, twisting it to catch the flashing lorst lights. There’s darkness in its center. I blink, look again, certain I must be imagining things. Perhaps the flickering lights are playing tricks on my eyes. But my spirit senses that darkness, that emptiness as well. That lack where there should be life.

Something has changed inside of me. Something essential. Something . . . I don’t quite know what.

The morleth lets out a snort of sulfur as we emerge from the winding darkness into the huge cavern of Mythanar. I let out a gasp, dropping my crystal, and stare down at the sight below. I’ve not seen the city from this angle before. I had thought it great when traversing its streets or when flying on the back of a morleth over its peaked and glittering rooftops. But it was impossible then to fathom the sheer scale, the precipitous heights of its twisted towers, the plunging depths of its winding streets, the glittering crystals, the misting waterfalls, the soaring bridges and highways. All perched on the chasm’s edge above a glowing river of lava. My heart quickens at the sight, at the wonder and the beauty spread before me. It’s hard to imagine such an ancient, powerful city could ever be in danger of annihilation. What could possibly bring such majesty to ruin?

Dragon.

The word breathes in the back of my head, a whisper, a warning. I’m not altogether certain where I heard it, who spoke it. The idea is simply there, along with a sensation of heat and a deep, roiling wellspring of pure, celestial rage.

“Are you well, Faraine?”

Vor’s voice warms my ear, sending a little shiver down my spine. I close my eyes, lean back into him, once more seeking the warmth of his emotions to enfold me. Once more finding nothing. But there must be an explanation. My gods-gift was so inundated by the recent and tremendous outpouring of my power. I just need a chance to recover. In the meanwhile, I should be glad for the reprieve. “I’m all right,” I murmur, turning to tuck under Vor’s chin. “I’m tired. That is all.”

Does he hear the lie in my voice? Possibly. But he does not challenge it, merely kisses the top of my head and says, “Of course. You’ve had a terrible ordeal. I will take you directly to your room and send someone to attend you.”

I don’t want someone to attend me. I want him. Only him. I want to feel again the peace of his presence that once struck my gods-gifted senses so profoundly. If I cannot have that, then I would settle for the strength of his arms, the warmth of his voice, the beat of his heart.

But Vor is Mythanar’s king. While he may have abandoned his city in a mad bid to save me, his people need him still.

So, I keep my mouth shut and my eyes closed, blocking out both the sight of that city and the absence of my gods-gift. The powerful beast beneath me flows through the air, down into the cavern, circling as it draws near to the palace towers. At last it alights on the balcony rail just outside my chamber. “We’ve arrived,” Vor says gently.

Memory flashes through my mind’s eye—recent memory of the last time we were here. When Vor carried me on a morleth back up from the city, intending to deliver me to my chambers. Intending never to see me again. But I’d convinced him to stay. Convinced him to give in to the burning desire which had built up such dangerous pressure between us, finally bursting free in an inferno of unrestrained passion.

Heat pools between my thighs even now at the thought. This man, who now holds me against his powerful chest, awakened such strange new sensations in me. His hands, his mouth, his teeth and tongue seemed to mold me, to make me new. I would very much like the chance to experience more such delights under his guidance and care.

Vor dismounts before reaching up to help me from the saddle. I cannot trust my legs to support me but cling to his neck, allowing him to cradle me close. The window to my chamber is wide open, and he carries me inside. All the furnishings are askew, the decorations and ornaments tumbled from their places. A few chunks of stalactite have fallen from the ceiling, one jagged piece crushing the small table that once held a silver ewer and cups. Evidence of the last stirring, which shook the city just before the cave devils attacked.

Still holding me close, Vor peers around the space, his eyes narrowed. Searching for signs of danger no doubt. “It’s all right,” I tell him. “The woggha never got in here.”

“How can you be certain?”

I can’t. If my gods-gift were awakened, I would be able to sense the presence of another living beast. As it is, there might be any number of cave devils hiding in my wardrobe, under my bed, up the chimney, and I would never know.

Vor sets me down on the bed, which is covered in debris. I brush dust and pebbles to the floor, while he makes a quick but thorough search of the chamber. Satisfied at last, he returns to me. “How do you feel now?” he asks, kneeling before me so that his eyes are once more level with mine. He takes both my hands in his.

“Weak,” I admit. I don’t tell him about the jolts of pain rippling through me at odd intervals. He has worries enough on his mind.

He lifts one hand to stroke my cheek, brow puckering. “I suppose that’s understandable, considering . . .”

“Considering I was dead not two hours ago.”

A shadow falls across his face. He leans forward, presses his forehead against mine. The shuddering intake of his breath wrings my heart. “Don’t ever leave me like that, Faraine,” he whispers. “Never again. Don’t go where I cannot follow.”

I smile, a gentle tilt of my lips. “I’ll never leave you willingly. Never by choice.”

He takes another ragged breath. Then he angles his face, his lips hovering over mine, a mere fraction of infinitesimal space separating us. I hang there, suspended in that space, waiting, longing.

He closes the distance, his mouth warm and eager. At the instant of contact, something inside me thrums to life, a faint echo of my former gift. In that echo I feel, however distantly, both his hunger and his desperation. It flows through me, driving out all pain as my own hunger, my own desperation, rises to answer his. Though my arms are still weak, I wrap them around his neck, thread my fingers through his hair, and pull him closer, closer. He responds, bowing me back over the bed. There’s grit at my back, fallen debris sharp against my skin and the thin black robe wrapping my body. I scarcely notice. All I know is my need for him, my need to deepen this connection between us. My hands run over his shoulders, his neck, his torso, finding all the cuts and wounds from his recent battle. He came to find me straight from the horror of the cave devil attack, straight from fighting to preserve the lives of his people in the face of unimaginable savagery.

But he’s here. With me now. His hands press into the bed on either side of my face, his huge body poised so as not to crush me even as his mouth covers mine. His kisses grow more adamant, demanding, as though he cannot believe I am real and requires proof. I’m still not certain myself and need his touch to anchor me to this world. I open my mouth, deepening both our kiss and our connection.

A bolt shoots straight to my heart. A burst of raw red light explodes in my head.

Fear.

Dread.

Guilt.

These are Vor’s feelings. Wrapped in his love but no less real, no less dreadful. They fill my head until it seems like many small pins are trapped inside my skull, struggling to escape through my scalp. With a gasp, I pull away from him.

Vor peers down at me, propped up on his fists, his long silver hair falling in a gentle veil around us. “What is it?” he asks, panting. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to know that he is hurting me. I don’t want to let him go. Instead, I grimace, gripping his shoulder with one hand while the other seeks my crystal pendant. I wrap my fingers around the faceted stone. It does not respond no matter how hard I squeeze.

“Faraine?” Vor’s voice is confused, tinged with fear. “Faraine, my love. Have I hurt you?” He pulls back, breaking free of my weakened arms. He sits on the edge of the bed, head bowed, and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m such a fool! Forgive me. I’m behaving like a lustful cad when you’ve just—”

“No, Vor.” My voice is unsteady. But the moment contact is broken, numbness spreads through my body. The pain of his emotions is so thoroughly gone, I have to wonder if I somehow invented it. I open my eyes, still gripping my crystal, and meet his stricken gaze. “It’s not you. I swear. The . . . the shock of everything . . .”

He leans forward, cups my face in his palm. I wince, expecting that touch to open a conduit between us. But there’s nothing; numbness holds sway. I shiver and drop my gaze, uncertain how to feel. I’d almost prefer the pain of his guilt to this absence.

“You must rest,” he says, his voice firm. “You must sleep, recover.” He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “I’m sorry, my love. I cannot help how badly I want to make up for all the time we’ve lost.”

I touch the hand still cradling my cheek. “I want to experience everything with you, Vor. I want to fill whatever moments we have left.” Then, taking his hand, I draw it down to my heart, pressing it there. “But your people need you now.”

He leans forward, his eyes holding mine. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“In that case, send Hael. When you find her.” I smile and tip my head a little to one side. “I’ll be fine, Vor. I swear it. After everything that’s happened, what could possibly frighten me now?”

His eyes search my face, seeking perhaps to pierce my façade of calm. Slowly, he shakes his head. “I fear the moment I leave your sight you’ll slip away from me. A dream lost to the brutal realities of the waking world.”

I lift his hand to my lips, kiss his knuckles. “I am no dream. And I will be here, awaiting your return.” Pushing him from me, I finish in a firm voice: “Go. Be the king Mythanar needs.”

He draws a long, steadying breath. Then, grasping me by the back of my head, he pulls me to him, capturing my lips once more. Immediately the connection between us opens wide, shattering the numbness as the intensity of his feelings radiate through me. There’s still pain here: fear and anxiety and always that terrible pulse of guilt. But just now, just in this moment, all other feelings are drowned in a flood of pure love.

Almost I succumb to the temptation to grab hold of him, to pull him to me, to take back everything I just said and keep him here with me. But I don’t. And when he breaks away from me and rises from the bed, he doesn’t look back. He strides across the debris in the room, steps through the window onto the balcony, never once pausing. As though he knows even a single glance will break his resolve.

The next moment, he mounts his morleth and is gone. Leaving me alone.

It’s a strange sensation. One I’ve not felt to such a degree in a long, long time. Not since that terrible day when my gods-gift awakened, and my soul nearly drowned in the onslaught of other people’s emotions. From that time onward I’ve lived an existence of constant connection, willing or otherwise. Even when I first arrived in Mythanar, and the feelings of the troldefolk lay beyond my reach, I wasn’t unaware of them. They were still present, humming on the edge of perception.

This is different. This is emptiness. Hollow and immense.

Panic hums in my veins. I want to fling myself out of this bed, to stagger across the room, shouting for Vor to come back and wrap me in his arms. To cover me in his kisses until I feel our connection awaken once more. Only the weakness in my limbs, the pain still quivering in my bones, keeps me rooted in place. I grip dust-covered blankets with both fists, gritting my teeth. When at last some measure of panic subsides, I catch up my pendant again, lifting it to the level of my eyes.

There is that darkness. Deep in its heart. A stain that wasn’t there before. What can it mean? Are my powers fading? Surely my gift cannot have left me entirely if Vor’s kiss could reawaken it so. Pinching my lip between my teeth, I turn the stone around in my fingers. There was a time I would have given anything—anything—to be rid of this gift, this source of constant agony. But without it, who am I?

“You’re gods-gifted. Bestowed with divine blessings intended for divine purpose.”

I frown. Whose voice is that, rattling around in my head? My own delusion, no doubt. That pathetic part of me that always wanted to believe the gods I’ve served with such devotion couldn’t have made such a terrible mistake when they gifted me.

Pain ebbs at last, like the inevitable turn of the tide. It will return, of course. But for the moment, I can breathe more easily. Rising, I wait for the room to stop tilting, then try a step. My legs seem capable of bearing my weight. The rejuvenating pool repaired my broken ankle, as well as all the other cuts and bruises scoring my body. I whisper a swift prayer of thanks and, a little dizzy, cross to the window and totter out onto the balcony. Gripping the stone rail with both hands, I gaze out over the city. The last time I looked upon this view, the terror of the city folk had risen in a black wave and washed over me, drowning and pulverizing all at once. Now? Nothing. I see the city towers and rooftops, the winding roads. I see the distant cavern walls and the many bridges arching over the chasm which surrounds Mythanar. I see it all. But I do not feel it.

Divine purpose . . .

The chamber door scrapes open, pushing debris across the floor. I whirl in place and grip the window frame. My heart jolts with the hope that Vor has returned, and his name is on my parted lips. But it is Hael who steps into the chamber. Her pale skin looks strangely gray, the soft flesh almost the same shade as the dorgarag stone scarring her jaw and part of one cheek. She’s covered in bruises, cuts, and dark blue bloodstains. The last I’d seen her, she was defending me fiercely from cave devils, guarding my way as I climbed to the circle of stones to make my desperate stand.

“Hael!” I exclaim.

Her gaze flashes to meet mine. Deep shadows ring her eyes. She’s always been fierce and hard, difficult even for my gods-gift to penetrate. But this is something more. Something worse.

“Hael,” I say again, and take a step toward her, leaving the support of the window frame. I wrap my arms around my middle. “Are you all right? Were you hurt in the battle?”

She stares at me. Opens her mouth. Closes it again. Then, very softly, she whispers: “Is it really you?”

Oh. Of course. The last time my loyal bodyguard saw me, I was dead. I swallow and nod. “The gods did not see fit to take me. Not yet. I’m here. I’m alive.”

She shakes her head. “I did not believe it,” she breathes. “I . . . When Vor told me . . . But I thought he must have lost his mind to madness.”

“No, Hael. I—”

Whatever else I might have said is cut off. The great warrior woman collapses suddenly to her knees, burying her face in her hands. I gape at her, shocked. On reflex, I grip my crystal, preparing for some onslaught of terrible emotion. But none comes. I see the signs of a heart torn in two but feel none of it. It is still a terrible sight. Hael is so strong, so proud, so impenetrable. What could possibly bring her so low?

“Hael?” I venture and take a step toward her. Immediately the room pitches again. I stagger and grip the back of a chair as fresh sparks of pain light up my limbs. Blackness narrows my vision, but I squeeze my eyes shut and fight against it, determined not to succumb.

When the pain subsides, my ears are filled with the broken sound of sobs. I draw a deep, steadying breath. Crossing the room, I kneel beside the trolde woman and tentatively place a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t seem to be aware of me. Between her terrible sobs, she growls out troldish words I do not understand. Until one. One single word that stands out to my ear: “Yok!”

A stone sinks in my gut.

Yok. Her brother. The young guardsman.

Something happened to the boy. Something terrible. During the attack. He would have been out there, of course, fighting them, and . . . and . . .

My sacrifice may have saved thousands. But I wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t strong enough to save him.

I sink down heavily beside Hael. Tears sting my own eyes, tears of pain, tears of frustration, helplessness. Futility. I have nothing to offer, no comfort, no reassurance. Nothing but my presence. So, I put my arm around the trolde woman and hold her as she mutters the same phrase over and over again like a prayer: “Morar tor Grakanak. Morar tor Grakanak.”

2

VoR

If I had my way, I would be down in the lower city with my warriors, hunting through the streets to make certain every single woggha has truly fled Mythanar. That, or I ought to be tending the wounded or helping to gather the dead and prepare their bodies. Any of these tasks, no matter how grim or dreadful, would be preferable to sitting in my throne room, receiving reports, and making myself visible to the shaken members of my court as they come and go.

And yet, here I sit. My hands clasp the carved dragon heads that make up the arms of the ancient seat from which generations of Shadow Kings have ruled this realm. My face is as hard and immovable as a statue, revealing neither horror nor relief. I am what my people require—stone. Unmoved and unmoving.

Thick blue blood oozes from a gash across Chancellor Houg’s forehead as she kneels at my feet. A trailing droplet makes its way down her temple to her jaw. “My people are still working to produce a final tally of all who died,” she informs me in her customary drone. She might as well be reciting the agenda for an upcoming festival or relating plans for a new mining venture. “There is reason to hope the casualties were not as considerable as initially feared. It seems the woggha were drawn toward the palace. The garden specifically. Most did not pause for slaughter.”

A chill travels down my spine. I’m still uncertain what exactly Faraine did or how she did it. I don’t know if she knows. But something about the Urzulhar Circle attracted the poisoned woggha. There must be a connection of some kind, if only I could see it.

Only when Houg has finished her report do I ask, “And what of the infirmary? Madame Ar must be supported in her efforts.”

Houg nods and unconsciously dabs at the wound on her forehead. “The infirmary is overwhelmed at present. That is all I know; I’ve been unable to get more specific information.”

I grunt, my jaw hardening. “See to it that all those with lesser wounds are moved to other chambers. Prince Sul, for instance.”

“Oh, come now, Vor. Would you really oust your own dear brother from the warmth and comfort of his sickbed? Who knew you were such a ruthless brute?”

I shift my gaze to the far end of the hall. There stands my half-brother. His arm is bound in a sling, his hair a little shaggy around his gray-cast face, but his eyes are brighter than I’ve seen them since we pulled him from the lake at Hoknath. And his grin is as irrepressible as ever, an incongruous sight given the shocks which have so recently shaken our city.

“Don’t lurk in doorways,” I growl and raise one hand to motion him forward. “It’s unbecoming behavior in a prince.”

“Yes, but I’ve never been one for becoming behavior, have I?” Sul pushes away from the doorframe and enters the room, managing to achieve an easy saunter despite his bound-up arm. Chancellor Houg rises and steps back from the throne, inclining her head politely as the prince draws near. He tosses her a wink, and she flushes and ducks her chin.

I lift one eyebrow. “You look as though you’re feeling better.”

He eyes me up and down, his lip curling. “I wish I could return the compliment.”

I shrug, aware of the many cuts and bruises across my face and body. I’ve not yet found opportunity to have my wounds washed and treated. Such paltry needs pale compared to the other duties demanding my attention. Gods, what a gruesome sight I must have been when Faraine opened her eyes on the pool’s edge! It’s a wonder she didn’t die of fright all over again.

“Thank you, Chancellor,” I say, addressing Houg once more. “Your remarkable efforts during this difficult time have not gone unnoticed. See to clearing the infirmary as best you can. And have Ar check that cut of yours while you’re at it.”

My chancellor bows and makes her exit. Sul and I alone remain in the echoing throne room beneath suspended lorst crystals, which illuminate the vast space in a pale silver glow. Sul chose his time to make an appearance well—even ten minutes earlier, the chamber was crowded with courtiers, all demanding my attention. They have since dispersed to various tasks, and the stone walls no longer echo with the reverberations of three dozen angry, frightened voices.

Sul does not bother to bow. He sags to a seat on the dais step, resting his one good arm heavily on his upraised knee. His blasé charm melts away, and his expression more closely matches the pallor of his skin: tense, tired. Hopeless. “There are rumors rippling throughout the palace, Vor,” he says, breaking the silence between us at last.

I offer no answer, careful to maintain my impenetrable mask.

“Rumors that you,” he continues, “our mighty king, were seen fleeing the city in the wake of disaster. That you rode your morleth to the surface world, abandoning the rest of us to our fate. And that you carried your human bride with you.” At these last words, he turns to face me. His eyes are like twin chisels, seeking to crack my stone defenses.

“As I am here before you now, you may safely assume I have abandoned neither my city nor my people.”

Sul shrugs and cups his face in his palm. “I also heard rumor your wife died.”

A knife to the gut. I almost reel at the force of it and grip the dragon head carvings of my throne hard to hold myself in place. Because she did die. She died, and I carried her lifeless corpse in my arms. And I begged the gods to give her back, offered them whatever price. A price that must be paid. Somehow, somewhere. Sooner or later.

My jaw hardens. I won’t let regret undermine my resolve. Whatever price the gods demand of me will be worth it. Worth it even just to have a few more hours with her. Should I rise from this throne only to drop dead upon the spot, my life taken as payment for hers, still I would deem the exchange to be in my favor.

But what would my sudden death mean for Faraine? The thought chills me. She would be trapped here in Mythanar. A city on the brink of annihilation. Surrounded by enemies.

“Vor?”

My attention snaps back to my brother’s face, caught in his narrow scrutiny. “So,” he says, his voice poisonously soft. “I take it she didn’t die then.”

I blink once. Then: “She is alive.”

“And what of that other rumor I heard? My spies were most eager to share it. How she was seen standing in the center of the Urzulhar Circle. How waves of strange magic burst out from the stones and across the city, stopping every woggha in its tracks.” He leans toward me, teeth flashing in the lorst light. “Is that rumor equally groundless?”

My lips thin. “You already knew she was gods-gifted.”

“Yes. But what god bestowed her gift? And for whose benefit?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Well, if you say so!” He sits back, a huge smile breaking across his face. “What’s next on the agenda then, brother mine? Will you finish up your business here and head back to your royal chambers to grundle the girl until she splits in two? Should I muster our forces for the journey back to the human world, ready to give our lives in her father’s war?”

He’s trying to bait me. He wants me to let his words get under my skin until I lash back. He wants to provoke my violence and, in the same breath, my shame.

But I answer only, “You may leave my presence, Prince.”

“Oh, may I?” Though his words are flippant, Sul stands at once and backs away, never breaking eye contact. As he retreats, his expression grows more solemn. “Remember, Vor, I am sworn to your service. I vowed on the day of your coronation to serve you at whatever cost.”

“Even the cost of your life?”

My words hang between us, along with many unspoken things. Such as my near certainty that it was he, my own brother, who tried to force my hand, to make me murder Faraine. I have no proof, and he knows it. He knows as well that I suspect him. Should evidence ever come to light, he cannot doubt how swift and violent my retaliation will be.

How can any brotherly feeling exist between us under such a shadow?

He continues to back across the empty throne room until he stands beneath the last lorst crystal. There he pauses and bows at the waist. “Whatever I do, I do for your sake, Vor.” His voice is quiet but echoes in the stillness. “You are Mythanar’s king. You are my king.”

The words are spoken from a heart which beats with true loyalty. Yet when I look at his face, I struggle to perceive my brother, my faithful companion, my friend. Treachery infuses every word, every gesture he makes. Or is it only my own paranoia? Is it possible I’ve breathed too much raog poison, and now it warps my senses, making me see betrayal in the face of one I love?

“Go,” I growl, my voice low and hard as bedrock. “Take your rumors with you.”

“I will, brother,” Sul replies, his eyes holding mine for one last terrible moment. “And I’ll serve you to the best of my ability. Whether you like it or not.”

With that, he turns and slips through the door. Only then do I allow an expletive to breathe out through my tightly-clenched teeth. “Morar juk!” I snarl. “Gods above and below damn and take us both.”

“Careful what you pray for. You never know when some god might actually be listening.”

I spring to my feet, a wordless cry on my lips, catching up my sword with one hand. The throne is a vast thing of black marble, carved in the image of coiling dragons and spreading wings. It takes up most of the dais, an effective screen for those needed to stand at the king’s back unseen: bodyguards or advisors, servants with pitchers of krilge to refresh the king’s palate. I, however, had believed myself to be totally alone. “Who’s there?” I demand, brandishing my sword. “Reveal yourself!”

There’s a scuffling followed by a series of clinks. The next moment, a head covered in a deep, ratty old hood appears under the arch of one carved wing. I can discern nothing of her face save her jaw and part of her mouth. Even so, my breath catches. “Maylin.”

Though her garments are little more than rags, she wears a bounty of crystals strung on a many-stranded necklace. They lie across her shrunken chest, a queen’s ransom in glittering gems. They would look appropriate gracing the magnificent figure of Queen Roh, my father’s second wife. On this wizened little creature, leaning heavily on a crooked walking stick, they are pathetically incongruous.

She steps out from behind the throne and lifts her hooded head to gaze about the hall. It is a tremendous space, even by trolde standards. The last stirring brought down part of the ceiling on the south end, but otherwise it remains unscathed. The old woman shakes her head slowly, tongue clucking against her teeth. “Never thought I’d find myself here again. The last time I stood before this throne . . . well . . .” She shudders before turning to me. With a sweep of one hand, she pushes back her hood to reveal a wrinkled face with sharp cheekbones, pinched lips, and a jaw so sharp it might carve marble. Her eyes, blue and sparking like living sapphires, burn into mine.

My throat thickens. I’d know that face anywhere. Such a face no child ever forgets, regardless of the years, the separation, the pain. She’s aged, of course. But she remains my mother.

I let my sword arm drop. “What are you doing here, Maylin? You abandoned the Under Realm many turns of the cycle ago. Why return now?”

She tips her head to one side, thin strands of white hair falling across her narrow shoulders. “I brought you something. A present if you will.”

“I want nothing you have to offer.”

“You’ll want this.” With that, she reaches into the deep sleeve of her robe and withdraws a stone. It’s not unlike the gems on her necklace—pale blue, shining with a faint luminescence. An urzul crystal. The old witch holds it out, resting in the palm of her hand. It’s about the same length as my little finger, uncarved and unpolished. She hefts it a moment then tosses it to me.

I catch it before it strikes my forehead. “What is this?”

“You might call it a meter,” the witch replies, gripping her walking stick in both gnarled hands. “Or a gauge, perhaps.”

“I don’t understand.”

She smiles. A host of delicate wrinkles crease the face which has lived in my memory pristine and untouched by time. I cannot bear to look at her. Hastily, I drop my gaze to the crystal. There’s a deep stain in its center. Not something one would notice at first glance, but unmistakable now that I’ve seen it.

“One life,” the witch murmurs, her voice low and so like how I remember it. “One life entered the sacred waters under the watchful eye of the moon. One life entered, but two emerged, while the debt remains unpaid.”

My jaw clenches, teeth grinding. “I was prepared to pay the price. Any price the gods require.”

“And it will be paid. Sooner or later.”

She steps toward me. I spring back and half-raise my sword again. She stops, holding up one hand. “You may think me an unnatural mother, Vor. Perhaps I am. Perhaps the heart that once was warm and beating in my breast has hardened over time. But I am not without sympathy. I care about the fate of Mythanar and its people. I care about you.”

“You have a strange way of showing it.” The words fall bitterly from my tongue. “You walked away from all of us a long time ago and have not shown your face since.”

“There were many reasons why I left. Many more why I returned and made my home on the surface of your world, near enough to keep an eye on the goings on down below.”

“I care nothing for your reasons.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t. You were but a child, forsaken by your mother. I did not expect you to forgive me then. I expect no forgiveness now.”

“Good. For I’m not offering.” I hold the crystal out to her. “Take your gift, witch. I want no part of it.”

“Ah, but I’ll not go until you keep it. Until you understand what it is you now hold in your hand. So, if you want a sure way to be rid of me . . .”

I resist the urge to fling it straight at her wrinkled face. But that would be too great a display of emotion. Instead, I growl, “Why go through all this trouble to bring it down here? What have you done to it? Infused it with some curse?”

“I’ve done nothing.” She holds up a hand, deflecting the accusation. “I took it from the pool after the moon had set. All the crystals that were in that water when the girl’s life was restored bear the same darkness inside. Until the debt is fulfilled, they will not shine clear again.”

“What will happen then?”

The old witch shrugs. “It’s not as though the pool gets used every second moon-turn. I was not alive the last time anyone dared attempt to reclaim a life. I have only that information which I have gathered from dubious sources.”

I inhale slowly, determined that when I speak my voice will be measured. “And how do I pay the price?”

“It will require a life. That is all I know with any certainty.”

“My own?”

“Let us hope not.”

“You’re a mad old woman. Why should I believe a word you say?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t. But keep the crystal anyway. As a memento if nothing else.”

I look down at the stone. Its glow has intensified since resting in my palm, as though it absorbed my heat and now radiates it back at me. But in its center, the darkness seems almost to move. To pulse. An illusion? A trick? I’m not certain.

“How will I know—” I begin, raising my head. My voice breaks off. I blink once, twice. Turn to look about the empty space under the pale glow of the hanging lorst crystals. I even stride around the stone wings of the dragon throne and peer into the shadowed space behind.

But Maylin is gone.

3

FarainE

So, I am alone. Again.

Hael stands outside my door. I cannot feel her presence and have ceased straining my gods-gift to detect her. Following her breakdown on my floor, Hael walled herself up in layer upon layer of stone before informing me that she would keep watch. Then she made her escape. I don’t doubt she is there as promised. But reaching her is out of the question.

At some point during the day, I changed from my black robe into a more modest red gown with front laces which I could manage to put on without a maid’s assistance. Now I sit in a chair drawn up to an empty hearth. I do not know how to light the pale moonfire blaze that ordinarily keeps this room illuminated in silvery light. Yrt, the maid who once served me, has not shown her face. I do not know if she even survived the woggha attack. Or perhaps she lost loved ones and is even now in mourning. Perhaps . . . perhaps . . .

Meanwhile here I sit. Useless. Separate.

Vor named me his queen while on the banks of that pool with the moon and stars bearing witness. Queen of all Mythanar. But what queen would sit idly by in her chambers, demanding care and coddling while her people pick up the pieces of their shattered lives? Surely there must be something I can do, some way I can help.

I start to rise only for another wave of dizziness to send me sinking back into the chair. Much of the pain which wracked my body since my reanimation has subsided, but I can’t seem to get over the faintness. And I’m hungry. Terribly hungry. A strange sensation considering I was dead mere hours ago. Separated from my body, on the brink of leaving this life, this world altogether. Somehow to feel such a base, physical need seems foolish. But it’s very real. I’m hungry. Ravenous even.

The lights illuminating the cavern of Mythanar fade as dimness sets in. I lost track of the hours when I was . . . well, dead. If I’m not mistaken, it’s been a full day now since the attack and my great feat of magic. Possibly the last magical feat I will ever perform. I twist my crystal pendant on its chain. It’s been a part of my life since soon after my gods-gift manifested. I long for its familiar vibrating hum, the calm it’s always brought me when my powers grew too great to bear. But if I have no powers anymore, what need have I for calming crystals? I should be grateful. I should—

The door opens.

I turn in my chair, heart leaping. “Vor!”

He steps into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. And oh, gods bless him! He bears a covered food platter. He sets it down on a nearby table then turns to me. His eyes glint in the dim lorst light. “You’re here,” he says. As though until that moment, he didn’t believe I would be.

Suddenly I’m not hungry anymore. Not for food at least.

I rise from my seat and, ignoring the little bursts of pain in my feet, my chest, my limbs, hasten toward him. Vor opens his arms, gathers me to him, presses me close as I breathe him in. He still hasn’t washed or had his wounds treated, and he smells of death and blood, an unpleasant combination. But I won’t let him go. Because underneath those scents, he also smells of Vor. Strength and stone, heat and power. Everything that makes him the king and the man I adore. I bury my face in his chest, trembling as I cling to him.

At last he pushes me back just enough so that he can look down into my face. With a large, gentle hand, he smooths hair back from my forehead. His eyes study me, drink me in. Then he bends his mouth, lets it hover over mine just a moment before touching his lips gently to mine. Immediately the thrumming pulse of connection ripples to my core. Stronger than before, more needy, more insistent. I don’t know if it’s magic or pure instinct. I only know that I need him. All of him. As much as my body and soul can take.

I grip the back of his head and pull him down into my kiss. My lips open, my teeth part, inviting him in deeper. He answers my eagerness. His tongue enters my mouth, tangling with mine. A groan rumbles in his throat. I tremble at the sound, all those pulsing vibrations of connection between us opening wider into a channel of emotion. I feel his pain. I feel his need. I feel his pleasure as though it’s mine. Because it is mine. My pain, my need, my pleasure. All are one with him.

With a gasp, he pulls back. His eyes burn as they stare down into mine. “Faraine,” he says, his voice thick and low, “are you sure—”

“No,” I pant, gripping his face with both hands. “Don’t talk. Please.”

I pull his mouth to mine again. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t fight. We both know what we need from each other right now. Need with the same absolute necessity of air.

So he kisses me. And I kiss him. If one can even describe such a joining with a word so tender, so simple as kiss. This is more than that—a battle to be fought together, win or lose. A bending and bowing, almost to the point of breaking. Grasping and gasping, nearly frantic in the knowledge that this moment, this now, may easily be our last. There is no time to waste. There is only whatever we can take and make of each other with all the courage our hearts and bodies may summon.

I let my hands slide from his face down his throat, across shoulders, while his hands press into my spine, travel up the back of my neck, twist in my hair. I mold my body against him, moving and rubbing until he groans, a throaty, almost primal growl. One of his hands slips to the front of my gown, teasing and pulling at my breast until my nipple is hard. His palm is warm through the silky folds of fabric. But it’s not enough.

“More,” I whisper, even as his kisses trail across my jaw, and his tongue and teeth explore the sensitive skin of my throat. “More, more.”

Responding to my pleas, he grabs the front laces of my gown in a twisted handful. Rather than taking the time to untie them, he rips hard, tears the delicate fabric so that it falls open. I suck in a breath of surprise. But then his hands are on my bare flesh, and this is better, so much better. His thumb plays with my nipple even as his kisses hasten down the column of my neck, my collarbone. He kneels before me, yanking the gown down from my shoulders, trapping my arms in tight folds of fabric so that I’m pinned in his grasp. Taking my nipple in his mouth, he sucks and teases with the tip of his tongue. I lean into him, helpless against the waves of pleasure—his and mine—crashing over me.

We don’t make it to the bed. There’s a soft skin rug on the floor, and Vor draws me down onto it, covering my body with his. The warmth of his bare torso pressed against mine is a kind of heaven. I run my hands up and down his muscular back, noting the many cuts and ridges of scar tissue, glorying in them as part of his overall magnificence. My bodice is bunched around my waist, and soon my skirts are hiked up to join it as his hand explores the shape of my knees, my thighs. He trails a finger along my center, and I arch my back, my body responding to that touch with a jolt of pure heat. I feel again those strange sensations he called to life once before. Before our world crumbled around us, before he left me, before I died. Before I’d thought I’d lost all chance of claiming his love.

We have another chance. By the grace and mercy of the gods, we have found one another again. And I won’t lose him now.

I slide my hand down the front of his trousers, taking hold of his swelling length through the fabric. Vor inhales sharply and pulls back. One hand catches my wrist in a firm, implacable grasp. Reluctantly he draws his lips back from my skin, gazing into my eyes. “Faraine,” he says, his voice husky, raw.

Tears rise hot and slip through my lashes. So, this is how it must be. Even now, after everything we’ve endured. After all those declarations on the edge of life and death, still he must withhold himself from me.

Vor sees the hurt in my face. Immediately heartache and regret rush from his soul. He hates this gulf between us as much as I do, more even. But his resolve is stronger. “Faraine,” he says, “you are my wife, my queen. No matter what may come.”

“But not . . . legally,” I whisper.

“Laws be damned!” His voice is almost savage. He bends, captures my lips in his, kissing me hard in a clash of teeth and tongue and passionate resolve. When at last he draws back, staring down at me, we both gasp for breath. “In every sense that matters,” he says, “I am yours, and you are mine. Forever, Faraine. To death and beyond.”

More tears escape to slide down my cheeks. “But you dare not bind yourself to my father.” I loathe speaking those words, bringing the image of Larongar here into this space that is meant only for the two of us. But it is a truth we cannot ignore. Ours is not a marriage of individuals, but of nations. Of worlds.

A surge of desperation washes over me. He wants so much to please me, to stop my tears. War wages inside him, as hot and furious as the ache he feels for me. But would I force him to choose me over Mythanar and the lives of his people? Knowing as I do what a poor risk it is? I am not the valued daughter. I am the broken one. The disposable one. I am not worth it. I must be satisfied with what Vor can safely give. Grateful even. Gods above, how could I not be grateful? I died not twenty-four hours ago! And this man, this warrior, this king, fought with everything he had to bring me back from the dead.

I cup his cheek against my palm, blinking back tears. Then I draw him to me, kiss him again. Sweetly, gently. I let the warmth of his love flow across our connection, back and forth, in time with the pulse of my reawakened gift. When at length I draw back, I whisper, “I want you, Vor. That is all. I want you and whatever you’re willing to give me.”

He presses his forehead against mine, breathes out a terrible sigh. “I would take away your tears forever were it in my power.”

But what good is there in lingering on what we cannot have and cannot give? I won’t waste these precious moments with grief. I pull his mouth to mine, taste the blood, the death, the desperation on his tongue. I receive it, all of it, and the urgency it brings. My chest rises and falls heavily as his ravenous mouth leaves mine and travels between my breasts. He pulls my gown down over my hips, away from my legs, leaving me naked on that fur rug. Now he bends and kisses my stomach then ventures lower still as I writhe and moan in anticipation of what is coming. The last time had felt so unreal, the sensations he called to life in my body like nothing I’d ever imagined. I ache to experience it again. Both my flesh and my heart cry out in anguished desire.

He kneels between my thighs, his fingers running up and down my center, gazing down at me. He parts my flesh, venturing deeper, smiling as more soft gasps escape my lips. “Faraine,” he murmurs. “Faraine, you are so beautiful. My delicate human flower. It was cruel of me to take you so far from the sun of your world. To drag you into these shadows, this darkness.”

“I wanted to come.” A flush steals up my cheeks. After all the deceits that led me to his arms, to speak these words now feels almost sinful. But I cannot help it. There’s no room for falsehood here. The truth must be known. “I wanted you.”

At this he smiles, his teeth flashing in the dim lorst light. “Gods alone know why!”

Then he catches my hips, hoisting me up to his mouth. I hook my legs over his shoulders, arching my back as his lips and tongue find my hot core. I close my eyes, lost in the sensations of my body and the storm of emotions rolling out from him. One of my hands tangles in his hair, while the other I fling back over my head, searching for something to grasp onto. First little whimpers then deep, guttural groans burst from my lips, from my soul. I’m lost in his feelings—all longing and power and love mingled together in a maelstrom of blinding light. It overwhelms me like my gods-gift, but sweeter, purer.

I’d thought I’d lost him forever. Yet he is here. And we are together. Whatever may come, this moment will live on, an eternity of bliss unmarred by death or time.

I lean into him and his hungry mouth until everything mounting inside me bursts at last. Pure heat washes through me. My eyes flare wide as I cry out his name. All around the room, the walls themselves light up with the answering pulse of all the crystals hidden in the stone. Living crystals, glowing and reverberating in rhythm with my enraptured soul.

He continues pleasuring me until I finally slip my legs down from his shoulders and draw his mouth back up to mine. His lips are warm and wet and swollen, and my body shivers in aftershocks of delight under his hands, his tongue, his nibbling teeth. “Everything about you is so delicious,” he murmurs against my earlobe, making me giggle in response to the tickle of his breath. “I could make a meal of you every day of my life and never want for other sustenance.”

“Are you sure you’d not grow bored on such a diet?” I laugh, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Never,” he growls and nips my shoulder as though in proof.

I sigh, replete in his love, lost in his caresses. But something is missing. Something vital. “Vor,” I sigh, running my hands down his silky hair and across those glorious shoulders. “Vor, I want to give to you as you’ve given to me.” I take his cheeks in my hands again, pull him back up to meet my eyes. “I . . . I was told . . . Before I came here, I was given instruction in how to . . . to please my husband. There’s something I might try. If you would like.”

A smile plays across his lips, a knowing glint in his eye. But he shakes his head. “You needn’t do anything for me, little wife. Pleasing you is pleasure enough for me.”

He means it. I hardly understand it, scarcely know how to believe it. But the truth is all too evident, revealed in every exposed feeling he shares with me in this moment. He means what he says. He loves me. Truly loves me. Beyond every expectation I’ve ever dared harbor. Beyond any hope of finding belonging in this or any world. He loves me with a pure, sacrificial love that would put me before any need of his own.

This knowledge only strengthens my resolve. “Please,” I say. “I want to try.”

This time when I move to unlace his trousers, he does not stop me. Rather he assists me, standing as I slide them down his hips, over his well-shaped thighs and muscular calves. At last I behold my husband in his full glory. I’ve seen most of him already, admired and felt intimidation by the greatness and majesty of his body and bearing. But nothing had quite prepared me for this sight. Nothing fully could.

I’m hardly a maiden anymore. Technically speaking I’ve not lost my maidenhead, but we’ve already done such things as to make me feel I can safely leave that label behind me. Nonetheless, a blush steels up my face. I’ve never seen a naked man before. It’s very strange. And he’s very beautiful.

“I . . . I think it might be easier if you were to lie down,” I say.

He smiles again, amused by my shyness. “Whatever you wish, my love.” He stretches himself out on the fur rug beside me, tucking me against his great body. I lie there for some moments, tracing my fingers across the lines of his torso and abdomen, exploring the definition of muscle and the many scars. After a long contemplative silence, he rolls over and kisses me again, pulling back only to murmur, “You needn’t do anything you don’t wish to, Faraine. It is enough simply to be here with you.”

“I know.” Pushing back, I sit up and look at him, stroke his strong, chiseled face. “This is what I want.”

With those words I begin to kiss him. Timidly at first, little explorations with my lips, my tongue, my teeth. I want to mimic what he did for me, sensitive to each reaction he makes. Certain places I touch make him gasp, make his body and soul sing in response. I take my time, luxuriating in this moment with him, this world of ours. This place where we unmake and create each other by turns.

“Ah, Faraine!” he gasps at last as my kisses continue to venture lower. “You’ll drive me mad!”

I smile.

Then I take him in my mouth.

It’s odd at first. Like all of this has been. For a moment I doubt myself. He is so large and, despite the detailed instructions I was given preceding my wedding night, I’m uncertain I’ll be able to give him what he needs. But his groans of pleasure and the feelings vibrating from his soul don’t lie. I take heart and pull and tease, let the tip of my tongue flicker and play. It’s oddly delightful, having him like this. Feeling his every reaction to my touch, experiencing this power of mine to give him such pleasure. Physical pleasure, yes. But so much more as well. He could find release for his needs elsewhere if he chose. But what I give him—my presence, my love, my delight and adoration—that is for us alone. No one else can give him this, no one in all the worlds.

It does not take long. He cries out in release, and in that