Vow of the Shadow King E-Book

Sylvia Mercedes

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

Seitenzahl: 540

Beschreibung

For fans of The Bridge Kingdom and A Deal with the Elf King, this sweeping tale of love and betrayal is equal blends sweet and spice. A TREACHEROUS BRIDE. A HEARTBROKEN GROOM IS THEIR MARRIAGE OVER BEFORE IT'S BEGUN? Her deceit discovered, Faraine finds herself trapped in the Shadow Realm at the mercy of her new husband. She's surrounded by enemies, far from any allies, and her best bet for survival is to convince Vor to send her home. But to do so means to give up on the alliance. Which would spell disaster for her people. With the tremors growing worse and poison spreading through his realm, Vor is more desperate than ever to find a solution. Only, it cannot involve his wife. Vor wants nothing to do with the woman he has inadvertently married. At one time, he thought he might love her, but now? How can love flourish where trust is broken? When circumstances require them to spend more time together, however, Vor's blood is stirred in ways he doesn't like to acknowledge. Can two lost hearts find healing and hope in one another? Or is their love already poisoned beyond recovery?

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 Vor

23 Faraine

24 Vor

25 Faraine

26 Vor

27 Faraine

28 Faraine

29 Vor

30 Faraine

31 Vor

32 Faraine

33 Vor

34 Faraine

35 Vor

36 Faraine

37 Vor

38 Faraine

39 Vor

40 Faraine

41 Vor

42 Faraine

43 Vor

Epilogue

About the Author

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM SYLVIA MERCEDES AND DAPHNE PRESS

Bride of the Shadow King

Heart of the Shadow King (Forthcoming)

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First published in the UK in 2023 by Daphne Press

www.daphnepress.com

Copyright © 2022 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: 978-1-83784-032-8

eBook ISBN: 978-1-83784-033-5

1

For all those who everwondered . . .

You are worthy.

You are loved.

You are enough.

1

FarainE

fINGERTIPS BRUSH THE CURVE OF MY NECK and shoulder.

I gasp a short breath, hold it. Let it out in a sigh only to catch it again when that touch, hot as fire, moves to my throat, trails along my collarbone. Warm breath tickles the sensitive skin just behind my ear. Then the edge of teeth, applying only the faintest pressure to my earlobe. Just enough that I feel their sharpness.

Let me teach you, a deep voice rumbles in the shadows. Let me learn you.

I fall back in a bed of darkness. It envelops me in a sweet, heady perfume. I can see nothing, for all is inky black, so I close my eyes, let my other senses come alive.

He is there.

His body pressed flush against mine.

His fingers twirl the delicate straps on my shoulders.

His hands smooth away the silky folds of my gown.

My throat vibrates with a low moan. I respond to his touch, surrender to his lead as he draws me into this sensuous dance. His lips are full and soft but spark against my skin as his kisses explore down my neck, my collarbone, between my breasts. I run my hands across his broad shoulders, up the back of his head, my fingers tangling in the long, silky strands of his hair.

Is this what you want?

Ilsevel?

My eyes fly open. Low red light illuminates the darkness just enough that I can see the face hovering above mine. Those strong features sharpened to knife-like edges, his eyes black voids, brimming with fury, with hatred.

He bares his teeth. They’re sharp like fangs.

Then I’m falling. Falling, tumbling, hot air rushing past me. The heat below intensifies, burns away the scant remains of my garments, burns into my flesh, my bones.

I scream—

—and land flat on my back.

Every muscle in my body is tensed, my lungs constricted. For a moment I believe I’ve struck stone, shattered into a million tiny pieces. Then my heart gives a painful throb. Life rushes through me, quaking my bones. I draw in a ragged breath. It takes a moment to realize my eyelids are blinking fast, because there’s simply no difference between open and closed. All is absolutely black. Did I strike my head when I fell? Am I now blind?

But no. I didn’t fall. Not really.

Neither has the flesh melted from my skeleton.

It was just a dream.

A sob chokes in my throat. Rolling onto my side, I grip the edge of the narrow cot on which I lie. My addled mind slowly begins to clear. I know where I am again: in a cave. Dank. Cold. Dark. Far beneath the surface of this world. Imprisoned for treachery against the Shadow King.

A shudder rolls down my spine. This darkness is terrible. It feels like a living thing, an oppressive entity preying on my sanity. My senses are already so highly strung due to my gods-gift. Now, deprived of sight, I have no barrier between me and the tiniest, creeping sensations.

If only I could retreat back into that dream! Because it was a dream . . . wasn’t it? Part of me wants to believe it was a memory. Those touches. Those kisses. Those thrills of both body and soul. They were mine. For a few, precious moments, they were mine.

Only that’s a lie.

Those kisses were all meant for Ilsevel.

My sister.

Beloved.

Dead.

Tears course down my cheeks. How long have I been weeping? I don’t know. Neither can I guess how long I’ve been here in this dark place. It simultaneously feels like moments and years since the guards dragged me off that execution scaffold, through a bewildering array of stony corridors, and flung me into this cell. I remember sitting here on this same cot, watching the single shining lorst crystal dim and go out. I don’t know how long ago that was.

My eyes ache from straining. I close them once more and call to mind the last lingering sight in my memory: Lyria. My half-sister. She stood just on the other side of the cell bars as we spoke our goodbyes. Where is she now? Halfway home to Beldroth, carrying her report of recent events to Father?

More likely, she was murdered before she ever reached the Between Gate, her corpse sent as a warning to King Larongar. Punishment for his treachery. And mine.

Sucking a breath through gritted teeth, I sit upright. A wave of dizziness washes over me, and panic roils in my gut. I swing out my arms, searching for something, anything to touch, to ground myself. One hand hits the stone wall hard. Pain shoots through my bones, and I cry out. Then I bite my tongue. Tilt my head.

When I touched the wall, something . . . happened.

Fingers trembling, I reach out, press my palm against the thick cold slab of stone. These walls aren’t carved but have naturally formed over millennia. I close my eyes and with my other hand grip the crystal pendant hanging from its chain around my neck. At first, it is very still. I squeeze harder until I feel the faint pulse in its center, warming against my skin.

Deep in the wall, moving through the heavy stone, comes an answering thrum.

The sudden groan of metal door hinges startles me. I yank my hand away from the wall, heart leaping. Was that a real sound? Or did I imagine it? No, there’s light. Real light. A faint gleam, but enough to make me gasp and cover my face with both hands.

A sound of soft footsteps. The brush of heavy fabric on stone. They’re so loud in the stillness, they seem to echo in my head. I peer between my fingers. The glow comes from beyond my cell. It catches on the cell door bars, casts long shadow-bands across the floor. Those bands move as the light draws nearer, like slashes of darkness ready to slice me in two.

Are the guards returning to drag me back to the scaffold? And this time, will the angered king hold true to his purpose? No last-minute stay of execution. I’ll kneel before the block and stare down into a box lined with blue silk. The last sight my eyes will see before my head rolls.

I scramble off the bed, yank my skirts into place around me. Standing upright, I grip my pendant with one hand, my other hand clenched in a fist at my side, determined to show no fear. The light draws near slowly enough that my eyes have time to adjust. What had seemed bright as a blazing star a moment ago resolves into a single lorst crystal set in a silver holder held by a trembling hand. A figure stands on the far side of the bars. I think it’s a man; he’s so heavily cloaked, I cannot be certain. He wears a hood pulled low over his face. There’s something eerily familiar about him, some resonance from his soul which strikes my gods-gifted perceptions. It isn’t Vor. Of that, at least, I’m certain.

He lifts his crystal high enough that the pale, purplish light illuminates my face. I wince but refuse to shield my eyes. Ragged breaths issue from beneath that hood. Then, with swift, jerking movements, he pulls a key from the deep folds of his cloak, jangles it in the lock, then yanks the door open. The bars screech along the deep floor grooves, sending shudders up my spine. The man steps back and motions sharply with one arm.

I swallow hard. “Where are you taking me?”

The man merely stands there, arm extended.

“Am I to see Vor? The king?”

Still nothing.

I try to get a sense of his feelings. I’ve found it difficult to read the troldefolk. While not impervious to my gift, they seem to keep their emotions behind layers of stone. At first, it was a relief—the unrelenting pressure of other people’s feelings too often overwhelms my senses. Now, however, it’s frightening. All I detect is a thin vibration in the air between me and this stranger. When I squeeze my crystal a little harder, I can almost, almost . . .

“Nurghed ghot!”

I gasp. That voice, so harsh and cold, chills my blood. But what can I do? I won’t wait for him to physically haul me out. Better to move of my own volition, to take what control I can.

Gripping my pendant hard, I duck from the cell and into the passage. Deep shadows obscure my feet, and I stumble a little. The floor is relatively smooth, however, so I find my balance, and we proceed down a corridor, past numerous empty cells, through a door, and into a narrow stairwell. I lift my skirts and climb. Each step feels like a mountain my faltering courage must conquer. At the top of the stair, I emerge into a broad passage with a high, arched ceiling. Lorst crystals set in silver sconces offer some illumination, but not much.

The hooded figure—my escort? My captor? My enemy or friend?—steps out of the stairwell behind me and motions for me to turn right. “Where are we going?” I demand again.

He answers only with more of that heavy, ratcheted breathing.

I want to run. I want to hike up my skirts and simply take off, following the lorst lights to wherever they might lead. But what then? I cannot escape. I couldn’t hope to navigate the Shadow Realm and its subterranean ways. I’d never even make it outside the palace walls. And when they inevitably caught me, they would drag me by my hair, kicking and screaming, back to the scaffold.

If I must die, I will do so with dignity.

I turn right as indicated and march. The stranger falls into place behind me. I shiver at the creeping sensation of his hot breath on the back of my neck. But he hasn’t touched me. Not yet at least. We take a turn and step into a new corridor, this one a little smaller and less well-lit than the one we’ve just left. I stumble over my feet, put out a hand to catch myself against the wall.

A vibration flickers beneath my palm. Then another answering vibration, rippling out from the figure at my back. A soul echo that strikes my gods-gift with undeniable potency.

Evil.

Murder.

I stop. My heart throbs against my breastbone.

“Drag!” growls the stranger, his voice once more hauntingly familiar.

He’s taking me somewhere to kill me. I don’t know why. He could have easily overpowered me in the cell, slit my throat, crushed my skull in his big trolde hands. Perhaps he doesn’t want to leave evidence of my death. Perhaps he plans to deliver me to someone else who will do the actual deed.

Either way, he intends for me to die.

I have a split second to decide what to do. I glance at him, his hooded face, his hunched and nervous body. He wants to keep my death a secret. Which means, I’m not wholly without power here.

I open my mouth and let out an earth-shattering scream. It echoes up and down the stone passage, and the crystals imbedded deep within the walls seem to catch the sound and carry it further. Surely someone must be near, someone will come, someone will—

The man grabs my shoulders and slams me up against the wall. It knocks the breath out of me, and then his hand clamps down over my mouth. “Morar-juk!” he snarls as his hood falls back.

A cold wave of horror rushes over me as his features come into view. I recognize him. It’s the man who stood by the block on the scaffold. The man who read out my crimes, who pronounced my sentence. I’d felt the cold, cruel pleasure he’d taken in the prospect of my death. His malice struck my gods-gift with force enough to knock me off my feet.

There’s no such pleasure in him now. At first, I feel nothing but murder, hard and terrible. But that is only the thin veneer over the truth. Down underneath lurks a deeper, stronger, surging feeling: despair.

The man’s eyeballs shake in his skull. He presses me hard against the wall, his forearm across my throat. His free hand reaches into his cloak, whisks out a dagger which he angles just under my ear. But he’s made a mistake. He’s pressed my whole body up against the wall. I flatten my palms to the stone, feel the vibration of all those hidden crystals deep inside. Channeling that vibration, I stare into those spinning eyes of his, and—takehold.

The man gasps. Freezes. His head tilts slowly to one side.

I feel all of it. Everything he’s feeling. Murder. Hatred. Bloodlust and fear. I feel it and hold it suspended between us, even as his knife pricks my throat, even as the edge of the blade cuts into my flesh.

Slowly, I pry one hand free of the wall, press it against his cheek.

Calm.

The vibrations in the stone rush through me, ripple through my bones, my muscles, out my pores.

The man jolts. His eyes widen.

Then he drops like a stone.

With a gasp, I sag, just managing to lock my knees and keep from falling. The wall still hums faintly at my back, and my body reverberates with echoes of pulsing energy. Slowly, the reverberations pass. I blink. My vision clears.

A crumpled body lies at my feet.

I stare at it, momentarily uncertain how it got there. Blood rushes into my head, throbs in my veins. Eventually, understanding dawns: I did this. I knocked this man unconscious. Maybe . . . maybe more. Maybe worse.

He looks peaceful. Unnaturally so, considering how twisted his expression had been only moments before. I shake my head, my breath thin and tight between my lips. What have I done? I’ve used this calming trick before. It’s the only aspect of my gods-gift over which I have any control. But never to such a degree.

Warmth trickles down my neck. When I touch it, my fingers come away sticky. I must do something. I can’t just stand here, bleeding. The knife lies where it clattered, close to my foot. I wonder if I should pick it up. Not that I’d know what to do with it. I could never bring myself to plunge it into another living being.

My back still pressed against the wall, I sidle several paces to one side, away from the fallen man. Then, with a shivering inhale of breath, I snatch up his fallen lorst crystal. Gripping it in both hands, I continue down the passage. My lips try and fail to form a cry for help. But I shouldn’t alert anyone to my presence, should I? After all, this man may not have been working alone. Someone else might come running to finish what he started.

Is it possible he was sent by Vor? Surely not. Why would Vor spare me from public execution only to send an assassin creeping into my cell? Of course, he might want me quietly dead without a public scandal. It’s not as though my father will care whether I live or die.

I come to a place where the passage branches and stop, uncertain. One wrong move could send me into the arms of another assassin. Is there any choice that will lead to safety? Closing my eyes, I reach out with my senses, hardly knowing what I seek. Perhaps nothing. But perhaps . . . perhaps . . .

Suddenly, there it is: a pull.

It’s so faint I could easily be imagining it. But just now, it’s the only guidance I have.

I turn down the left-hand passage, holding the lorst crystal before me. Other passages branch off from this one, but I don’t let myself be distracted. I continue, my stride determined, almost as though I know where I’m going.

Light shines up ahead. It’s so bright, so pure, I want to convince myself it’s daylight. Of course, that’s impossible in this world under stone. Still, I hasten toward it, eager, strangely hopeful. A doorway arches before me, wide open. I step into the opening and gaze out on the world before me.

My jaw slowly drops.

It’s a garden. At least, that’s what my brain tries to tell me. Only this is not like any garden I’ve ever seen. It’s all so much bigger, grander, with sweeping heights and winding depths, sheer cliffs and twisting rock formations. Brilliant pops of color trick my eye into believing I see flowers. On second glance, however, I realize they are gemstones. Hundreds and hundreds of gemstones. Some have been polished into perfect spheres. Others have been left in natural state, while still more have been carved and cut. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and more, so many and so varied, I cannot begin to name them all. They gleam in the lorst light shining from the high cavern ceiling above.

I don’t know how long I stand there, dazzled. Then I feel the pull again, this time stronger than before. It draws my gaze to an outcropping in a higher region of the garden. There, on proud display, stands a ring of tall, blue crystals. They look very much like the pendant I wear, but so much larger.

I step through the doorway. I have no plan, no clear purpose in mind. I know only that I must reach those stones.

Many paths wind through this incredible landscape. I take the one that seems most likely to lead me up to that outcropping. It’s lined with a hedgerow of raw emeralds and leads beneath a bower of hand-cut red rubies, which hang suspended on nearly invisible threads, like tiny droplets of glittering blood. The path beneath them is suffused in a pink glow.

Vor’s voice comes back to me suddenly, the answer he gave when I asked him if there was any light in the Under Realm: “More light than you can imagine. More light, more color, more life. More everything.” At the time, I’d not believed him. Now, I could almost laugh. How very sad and gray and pathetic the winter-gripped gardens of Beldroth must have seemed to his eyes!

A chittering sound draws my attention. I turn sharply, peer through the dripping red rubies to a tall rock formation on the other side. Something leaps into view on top of a large white boulder. I gasp, surprised. At first glance, it looks something like a cat, with a long, lithe body. Tufts of white hair trail from the tips of huge, triangular ears. Rather than paws, however, it boasts nimble, claw-tipped hands, more like the pet monkey Sister Magrie kept at the convent. I’d never liked that monkey, with its devilish little face.

This creature, however, is rather sweet-looking, save for the fact that it has no eyes. There is nothing but dark patches of fur where eyes should be. No socket. No lid. It reminds me unsettlingly of the hideous cave devil I’d encountered upon my arrival in the Under Realm.

Shuddering, I turn away and hurry up the path. More of the little creatures follow me, however. They scamper around, under, and over the rocks, curious noses sniffing, huge ears twitching. If I get too close, they dart away, but never far.

Just as I’m passing under an arch of greenish gray stone, one of the creatures drops suddenly to my eye level, suspended by its tail. I leap back, a hand pressed to my mouth to stifle a scream. This creature, however, does not scamper away as the others had. It grips the base of its own tail, twists around so that it can angle itself upright. Its pointed little nose sniffs with interest, its tufted ears cupped toward me.

I hold my breath, uncertain what to do. The path I’m following leads directly under this arch. I don’t see any other way to reach the tall crystals, which still subtly call to me.

Chewing my lip, I take a step forward. Maybe the animal will squeak and skitter off as the others have. Instead, it makes a little burbling noise and angles its head to one side. Its fur is so vivid: purple and orange, streaked with blue. I’ve never before seen such brilliant colors on a living creature. It’s beautiful.

Slowly, haltingly, I hold out one hand. The animal elongates its neck, touches the end of its wet little nose against my fingertip. A vibration hums between us. I blink, surprised. The creature seems a bit startled as well and puts back its ears.

Then abruptly it curls up its long tail and scrambles to the top of the arch. In the same instant, the sound of footsteps draws my head whipping to one side. Someone is coming. My heart lodges in my throat. What should I do? I can’t run—whoever it is will surely see me and pursue. The last thing I want is to be chased through this strange garden in this strange world.

So, I do the only thing I can. I grip my pendant, steel my spine, and turn to face whoever is coming.

2

VoR

nEEDLE-SHARP TEETH PINCH MY EARLOBE.

“Morar-juk!” I snarl and sit upright, pulling my hands away from my face. The mothcat on my shoulder lets out a squeak and leaps to avoid my backhand. Tail flicking, it springs to my knee then launches itself onto my chest and scrambles around behind my neck. All so nimble and quick . . . but not quick enough.

I lash out with one hand, catch it by its long sinuous tail. Surprised, it squeaks again and squirms in my grip as I hold it at arms-length. It pins back its tufted ears, flashes two rows of tiny teeth.

“What?” I scowl at the little beast. “Do you also think it’s high time I pulled myself together and started acting like a king again? Perhaps you’d like a seat on my council. There’s a place available right between Lady Parh and Lord Rath, I believe. You’d fit right in.”

The mothcat chitters and gyrates in my grasp until I release my grip. It drops, lands on its feet and immediately clambers onto my knee. There it perches, angling its face up at me. I roll my eyes but, succumbing to its charm, deign to run my fingers under its chin and around behind one large ear. Then, leaning back in my seat, I gaze out at the view before me.

The bench on which I sit was placed here by my father as a gift to my mother soon after their marriage. This particular spot was her favorite. She would come to the royal gardens often to sit here and admire the crystal cliff and cascading falls. When I was small, she often brought me with her. We’d sit together and enjoy the droplets of rainbow-shot mist settling on our skin and the voice of the falls singing across the crystal-clear lake before us.

Afterwards—after my mother’s departure and my father’s remarriage—I did not visit this spot for quite some time. But I liked to envision bringing my own bride here. Someday. I pictured it all in vivid detail—a picnic luncheon the lusterling after our wedding night. A chance to show her one of the most beautiful sights my kingdom has to offer. She would still be uneasy, of course, in this strange world so unlike her own. But when she saw this place, everything would begin to change. I would kneel before her, grip her hands in mine, and promise her that all of this—all this splendor along with my own hand and heart—was hers for the taking.

Such a foolish dream.

A growl reverberates in my throat. Startled, the mothcat leaps from my knee and scampers away before it turns, back arched, and bares its teeth at me. “Forgive me, little friend,” I say. “I’m not myself this morning.”

When I stretch out my hand, the beast allows me to stroke it from the top of its head down its slinky back to the base of its tail. It kneads its little paws in the air, purring loudly, all fear forgotten. Shaking my head, I lift my gaze back to the waterfall. Delicate white streams tumble between ledges of age-shaped crystals. It’s a truly spectacular sight. One of the finest to be had in all my kingdom. It holds no attraction for me this day, however. Though I came seeking peace and clarity, my mind is in as much turmoil as ever.

I must make a decision. About Faraine.

Sul departed yesterday, escorting the princess’s companion, Lady Lyria, back to the Between Gate. With him he carries a message for King Larongar—my demand for the Miphates mages to be sent at once to serve at my bidding. I worded the message with care so that it contains no overt threat to Faraine’s life. But neither have I promised her ongoing safety.

Not that I expect my demands will do any good. I’ve witnessed firsthand Larongar’s disdain for his eldest daughter. He won’t be moved to protect her, not if it works against his interests.

I bow my head, bury my face in my hands. And there she is, in my head. Faraine. I hear the soft crooning of her voice in my ear. Her gentle moans as my palms swept across her trembling flesh. The little gasps of delight which punctuated each kiss I pressed to her skin. How sweet she’d tasted, fresh, delicious. And mine.

Then I’d opened my eyes. Seen my lovely, delicate bride for what she truly was. A traitor. False and two-faced.

The mothcat makes a sudden prrrrrlt and sits up on its haunches, front feet dangling. It angles its ears toward the gardens, then, with another trill, scampers off among the stones. Heart heavy, I watch until it vanishes from sight. I must go soon as well. Return to the palace. I positioned Hael at the main entrance to the gardens and commanded her to let no one through, but I can’t hide out here much longer. Mythanar needs its king.

I release a long, slow breath. Then, straightening my shoulders, I rise, turn from the waterfall, and retrace my steps along the path leading from the lake. The mothcats are strangely agitated today. They prattle in their singsong voices and sometimes emit harsh squawks and squeaks that send flurries of olk dancing into the air. Something must have disturbed them. Hopefully not one of my ministers come to pester me with opinions or press for action. I can’t take much more of their—

I round a bend in the path. And stop dead in my tracks.

An apparition stands before me.

It must be an apparition. For it cannot be true. It simply cannot be.

Because Faraine is down in a holding cell. Under guard. Hidden away where she cannot distract me, where she cannot cloud my wits and reason as I search for a solution to the problem she’s created.

Which means she cannot be standing in front of me, beneath that arch of pale stone. Suffused in the purple light refracted off a blooming amethyst cluster. Gazing up at me from those strange, bi-colored eyes of hers. Eyes which blink slowly, long lashes fanning her cheeks as they fall and rise again.

“You,” I breathe. My lips curl back from my teeth.

As though moving of its own accord, my body lunges a single step. I don’t know what I will do. Catch her by the hair, drag her back to her cell? Press her to my chest so that I may feel her heartbeat against mine? Both needs, both desires, rise in my soul with equal and opposing intensity.

Before I can take a second step, however, she collapses to her hands and knees in the dirt.

Once again, I stop short. When she fell, the wide neckline of her gown slipped down one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her skin. Her tumbling golden hair catches the lorst light, and I cannot help myself. All the blood drains from my face and rushes straight to my gut where it roils and burns.

With an effort, I master myself. “Rise, Princess,” I command. “Come, get to your feet.”

“I would. If I could.” A shudder races through her body. The muscles in her neck and shoulders tense as she rolls her head around and gazes up at me. Lines of intense pain frame her eyes. “Believe me, it gives me no pleasure, abasing myself before you.”

A streak of red stands out starkly against her pale flesh. It runs in a sluggish stream down her throat, dries across her bosom. I stare, not understanding what it is I see. Then in a terrible rush I remember: humans bleed red.

“Faraine!”

The next moment, I’m beside her, kneeling, gathering her in my arms. She resists, her hands pressed against my chest. Her arms shake in her efforts to push me away. But she’s weak. With a little moan, her eyes roll back, and her head lolls, affording me a clear view of the crimson gash just under her left ear. I touch trembling fingers against it, stare in horror at the blood seeping through. “Who did this to you?” I growl.

She cannot answer. When I pull her closer and rest her head against my shoulder, she merely moans. Her hair falls in soft waves across my breast, and when I look down, I can see only the curve of her cheek . . . and the much more expansive curve of her bared shoulder and bosom. It would be an alluring sight indeed were it not for that ugly red stain.

“Faraine?” My voice is rough in my own ears. “Faraine, can you hear me?”

“Yes.” She shivers. One hand reaches up, clutches the front of my tunic with desperate urgency. “You needn’t shout. I’m right here.”

That’s a lot of impertinence coming from someone whose throat has just been cut. Taking heart, I shift her in my arms so that I can tilt back her chin and get a closer view of the wound. Now that the first flush of panic has settled, I can see that it’s no more than a shallow graze. So why is she fainting in my arms?

She moans again and drops her head into the crook of my neck. “Let me go,” she breathes. One quivering hand rises, pushes against my chest, but without any force. “You’re hurting me.”

Hurting her? I force my arms to relax, but the moment I remove my support, she crumples to the ground in a boneless heap. Hastily, I catch her up again, my grip tight despite her agonized groan. Dark god spare me, what am I supposed to do? I can’t very well drop her in the path and leave her there.

A frustrated growl deep in my chest, I slip one arm under her knees, force her head back against my shoulder, and rise. She utters a little bleat, gripping the front of my shirt. “No! No, let me go!”

“Don’t struggle,” I say against her hair.

“I’ll struggle if I want to.” Her voice is fainter than before. “Please . . . please,don’t . . . send me back to . . .”

Her body goes suddenly limp.

My chest tightens as I gaze down at her face. Her mouth is slack, her lips parted, but her expression remains tense. A faint line puckers between her brows. Is she unconscious? I cannot tell. I must do something, must take her somewhere. Lifting my gaze, I search among the rock formations. “Is anyone there?” I shout. “Anyone?”

No answer. Only my own voice echoing among the blooming crystals.

With no other option, I march back along the path, muttering curses with every step. How in the Deeper Dark did Faraine manage to break out of her cell? And then to find her way here, of all places? It doesn’t make sense. As though dragged by an irresistible force, my gaze slides back down to the smooth white curve of her shoulder and breast. She’s tucked up under my chin now, so small, so delicate. How easily I might crush her in my arms. And yet everything about her is womanly, soft, and warm. The pleasure of simply holding her like this is more than I dare admit.

“Hael!” I wrench my gaze away and bellow across the garden to the south entrance. “Captain Hael! Gods damn it, where are you?”

At last, Hael appears in my line of sight, standing in the entrance arch. My captain of the guard looks uncertain, which is not normal for her. She’s usually so poised, but recent events have shaken her to the core. As they should. My own confidence in her is certainly not what it once was.

She takes one look at the bundle in my arms, and her stone-hard expression breaks into utter shock. “What is this?” she cries and leaps forward, reaching out as though to take my burden from me.

I pivot neatly to avoid her grasp, then continue swiftly around her into the palace. “The prisoner has escaped her cell,” I bark over my shoulder. “Someone needs to find out how. Now.”

Hael ducks down a side passage to sound a deep-bellied zinsbog horn. This brings other members of her guard scurrying to our location. Too soon, I’m surrounded by gawking faces. Which is not ideal. The last thing I need is for rumor to spread that I was seen cradling in my arms the very bride I’d nearly had publicly beheaded mere hours ago.

“Make way,” I growl, and they part before me. Hael issues crisp orders for some of them to hasten to the holding cell and speak to the guard on duty, for others to search the nearby passages for possible accomplices. Then she trails after me, blurting the occasional, “Where are you taking her?” or “What are you planning?”

I don’t have any answers. So I hold my tongue and continue forward. Ignoring the stares of any onlookers I pass, I storm through the palace halls. I don’t return to the holding cell. Instead, my feet carry me to the royal wing and the Queen’s Apartment. Hael, finally realizing where I’m headed, rushes ahead of me and opens the door.

“Get out of my way,” I snarl, and she leaps back. I bear Faraine into the bridal chamber, lay her down on the soft bed. Blood from her throat wound has soaked into the askew neckline of her gown and left a stain on my shirt. I touch the cut again and grimace, then shift my gaze back to her face. So stern, so lined with pain. Gently, I brush a strand of hair back from her forehead. She stirs slightly, turns her face a little toward me. My breath catches.

“Your Majesty?” Hael enters the room, bearing a pitcher, bowl, and cloths. She sets them down on the washstand close by. “Your Majesty, allow me to—”

I push her hand aside, take one of the cloths, and dip it in the water. Carefully, I dab at Faraine’s throat. “Send someone for Madame Ar,” I say without looking Hael’s way. She darts from the chamber. I hear her gruff voice demanding the palace healer be brought to the Queen’s Apartment at once. She returns a moment later and starts to say something, but I cut her off: “Out, Captain.”

Though I don’t look back, I feel the tension in the air as she freezes. Then, tentatively: “Your Majesty—”

I whip my head around, fix her with a level stare. “Did I not make myself clear?”

For a moment, the expression in her face is agonized enough to almost make me regret my words. Then her features harden. She salutes with her big, boulder-like right hand, steps from the room, and pulls the door shut behind her.

So. I am alone with Faraine. With my bride.

I focus on bathing the cut, on wiping away the red stain from her neck. After a moment’s pause, I continue to wipe her soft breast as well, careful not to let my fingers so much as brush her skin. The wound itself is blessedly small. Certainly not deep enough to require stitches. If Faraine is lucky, she’ll end up with only the faintest scar.

My gaze lingers longer than it should. I can’t seem to help myself. The truth is, I’d almost forgotten what she looked like. I’d known her for so short a time. Other than our memorable meeting and our ride together beneath the terrifyingly open sky, I only encountered her a handful of occasions in her father’s house. I’d spent more time with her sister, Ilsevel, with whom I’d danced each night.

But somehow, those moments with Faraine had left a greater impact. She spoke with both earnestness and humor. Always a little reserved, which lent her an intriguing air of mystery. And despite her reserve, she was warm. Her soul was so bright, it drew me like an olk to a moonfire lantern. I wasn’t foolish enough to think I loved her. There was something about her, however . . . something which led me to think . . . towonder . . . to hope . . .

Not that it mattered. She’d made her position clear: If I cared about my people and my kingdom, it was her sister to whom I should be making my proposals. I had honored her insight, set my course, and never once looked back. I bade her farewell and thought I would never see her again. I’d made my peace with the way things were, the way things had to be.

Now I sit on the edge of our marriage bed, gazing down at the unconscious woman before me. Her fair brow, tense with pain. Her straight nose with its round little tip. Her full, soft lips, pressed together in a hard line. Giving into impulse, I reach out and let my finger trail down the curve of her cheek, round my knuckle along the line of her jaw. A mistake. Her skin is soft as silk. Just that mere touch is enough to strike fire in my soul.

Scarcely aware of what I do, I clench my fist and press it into the pillow beside her face. Slowly, I lean toward her, lower my face to hers until mere inches separate us. Her lips part. Do I imagine it, or does she tilt her chin up, as though in invitation? Her chest rises and falls beneath me even as her breath hitches in her slender throat.

What am I to do with this cavernous need? This ache in my core? I feel like a man parched to the brink of death who lays eyes at last on the cool, clear stream. Surely one touch should be enough to soothe this thirst. One little brush of my lips against hers. Is that too much to ask?

I could take it. Take the relief I desire. She could not stop me. The barest inclination of my head, and we would be joined once more. Only this time, that joining would be so much fuller, so much richer. Because this time, I would know it was Faraine I kissed.

Faraine.

Faraine.

Sudden commotion erupts in the outer chamber. “Get out of my way, get out of my way!” a familiar voice barks. “If the king must drag me from my good work, you might as well let me through.”

I push back from the bed, stand, retreat by several paces. Gods, what came over me? Maybe I truly am bewitched. Hastily, I run my hands through my hair, composing my face as I turn. The door opens. Madame Ar steps into the room, her healer’s bag in one hand. She shoots me a withering look. “Well, Vor? What’s so urgent that you’ll set a poor old woman scampering clear across the palace at your beck and call?”

I bite back a retort. Ar is certainly old, but one would never know it to look at her. Her stout trolde body bears the age of centuries with ease. She’s one of the few people in the palace who dares use my given name, with or without permission.

“I need you to take a look at her,” I say and sweep a hand to indicate the figure on the bed. “Something is wrong. I don’t know what.”

“Ah!” Ar’s eyes light up suddenly. Her face creases in an unexpectedly delighted smile. “I’d forgotten! Your new bride is a human! How fascinating.”

“She’s not my bride,” I growl.

The old healer ignores me, sets her bag aside, and begins a thorough inspection of the princess, muttering to herself as she goes. I stand close by, until finally Ar shoots me a withering stare. “You’re hovering,” she snaps, and makes a shooing motion with one hand. “It’s distracting. Be off with you! I’ll let you know when you’re welcome back in.”

I open my mouth to protest, to remind her that I am king. But it’s not as though Ar would pay any attention.

Instead, I step from the room and stand a moment in the outer chamber, oddly disoriented and uncertain. I close my eyes, lean my back against the door. Stepping out of Faraine’s presence is like leaving behind both light and air. My chest feels oddly tight and uncomfortable, and I struggle to draw a full breath.

“Your Majesty?”

I look up. Hael stands by the door. The sight of her drawn face is enough to make me pull myself upright. “Well?” I demand.

She salutes smartly, her face severe. “We found Lord Rath.”

“Rath?” I repeat, confused. Lord Rath is my minister of tradition, as slimy an eel as was ever dressed in ministerial robes. What he has to do with recent events is beyond me.

Hael shifts on her feet. “He was discovered unconscious not far from the holding cells, clad in a cloak and hood.” She pauses then holds up an object. “He had this on him.”

It’s a knife. A small dagger with a handle carved in the shape of a dragon’s head. The edge of the blade boasts a red stain.

I stare at that stain.

Then rage explodes inside my chest. “Where is he?” I demand, my voice a barely-subdued roar.

“In his chambers, Your Majesty. We thought it best if—”

I don’t wait to hear the rest. I push past Hael, out into the passage, and storm from the royal wing. I don’t pause until I reach the region of the palace where my ministers live in ostentatious apartments. Though we pass others, I see no faces, hear no voices. My mind has tunneled into a single purpose which leads me straight to Rath’s door.

The latch resists when I put my hand to it. With a single vicious turn, I break the lock and slam the door wide. Rath’s wife and members of his household are gathered in the front room. Lady Rath screams at the sight of me and faints into someone’s arms. I ignore her, I ignore all of them. I pass through their midst without pause and burst into Rath’s bed chamber. He lies on the bed, his skin white as polished marble. His eyes are open but unseeing. I’d think he was dead save for the ratcheting rise and fall of his chest.

Hael appears beside me. She reaches out as though to grab my arm but stops herself. Part of me wishes she would. Part of me suspects I need to be restrained before I do something irrevocably terrible. Red mist films my vision. I blink it back, draw a deep, steadying breath.

Then I march to the bed, stand over my minister. “Why did you do it?” I demand, my voice cold as a cavern. “Why did you try to kill her?”

He stares up at the ceiling. His mouth moves. Opens. Shuts. His eyelids flicker, but don’t quite blink.

“Answer me, Rath,” I snarl. “Answer me, or by the Deeper Dark, I swear I will—”

“Your Majesty! Please!”

The shout in my ear brings me back to myself. I turn to find Yok, Hael’s brother, gripping me by one arm. Hael is on my other side, her strong hands latched onto my shoulder. When I look down, I find I’m squeezing Rath’s throat. His eyes goggle and his tongue protrudes between his lips, thick and purple.

With a gasp, I let go. Yok and Hael drag me back. I sag in their holds. Gods above and below, what came over me? One moment, I was standing there, talking to the man, and the next . . . I don’t remember.

“Unhand me!” I cry. “At once, you fools!”

“You can’t murder him, Your Majesty,” Hael says, her hand still firmly locked on my shoulder. “Not even you are above the law.”

I turn sharply, catch her eye. “Let go of me, Captain. You’ve failed me one time too many.”

My words strike Hael like blows. She drops her hold on me and backs away. “We must question him, Your Majesty,” she says, pulling herself straight. “We must learn what he was attempting. Had he simply wanted to assassinate the princess, he would have sent a proxy.”

I nod. My breath is hard and heavy in my lungs. I can’t bring myself to look at the stricken lord again for fear another murderous rage will overtake me. I run my hands through my hair, push it back from my face. “You’re right. There’s something more afoot here. Have him carried to Madame Ar’s infirmary as soon as possible. Set a watch around him. Only your best men, Captain. Let no one near. I want him alive, do you understand me? If something happens to him, it will be on your head.”

Hael swallows hard, the muscles in her throat constricting. But she offers a crisp salute.

I turn from her, step toward the open door. There I pause and shoot a last look back at the man on the bed. He looks so pathetic, so small. My eyes narrow. “Tell Madame Ar, I want him tested as well.”

“Tested for what?” Yok asks quietly.

I pull my lips back, showing my teeth. “Raog poison.”

3

FarainE

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?”