Page 51 of Vow of the Shadow King

“That darkness.” Her face is paler than it was a moment before. “It rippled out from you.”

“You . . . felt that?”

“It would be difficult not to.”

I sit upright, drop my hands away from my face. “This gods-gift of yours is a trickyguthakug,isn’t it?”

She tips her head to one side, another slow smile pulling her lips. “It has its uses.” Her face grows solemn once more. “Tell me.”

I want to hold back. I don’t want to burden her with any of this. But she holds my gaze so intently, so purposefully. Soon I find myself talking. The words simply pour out, a slow trickle at first. Then, as the stones of resistance fall away, a greater rush. Before I know it, the dam has burst, and I’m telling her everything. Of the dead bodies in the lake under Hoknath. Of the temple chamber. The blood-fed stones. The sacrifice. Everything. She listens, leaning toward me. Every now and then I see her wince and wonder if I’m hurting her, if her gods-gift is reacting to the sheer magnitude of horror pulsing from my soul. But every time I pause, she leans in again and urges me in that low voice of hers, “Go on.”

I do. And even as I speak, I cannot help thinking how strong she is. How determined, how brave. To take on this pain, like a series of blows, without once turning aside. The blood slowly drains from her face. Her eyes darken, set in shadowed hollows. But the mothcat nestled in her lap goes on purring, and she strokes it gently with one hand. Her other hand grips her crystal pendant so hard, her knuckles stand out like blades.

At last, I bend over, shoulders hunched, elbows resting on my knees, and stare into the water at my feet. Silence lingers, full of the dark things I’ve just spoken. “Did I hurt you?” I ask at last. “Did I say too much?”

“No,” she answers simply, though her breath is tight. “It’s not unbearable.” She’s silent again for a little while before finally asking, “What isgrak-va, exactly?”

“It’s difficult to explain to someone not trolde.” I roll my lips musingly. “It is a holy state of mind in which a trolde will allow the lifeforce in his soul to sink into perfect stillness. There he may know unity with the All Dark and be at peace.”

She nods. “Andva-jor?How is it different?”

“According to some theologians,va-joris a deeper state thangrak-va.It is the state in which oneness with stone is said to be made complete: body, mind, and soul.”

“And the dark magic worked in Hoknath was an attempt to spreadva-jorthroughout the city. To spare the people from poison.”

I nod. “But it failed. Because the sacrifice was unwilling.”

“You think Umog Targ is trying to prepare your stepmother to become the willing sacrifice for Mythanar? So that he may spread thisva-joracross your people?”

At this, I shake my head. “I don’t know. The sacrificed one will not enter intova-jor.They will simply die a gruesome death. But Roh’s greatest aim is to become one with the stone. I cannot imagine her voluntarily foregoing her chance of achieving this desire.”

“But you do believe she is helping Targ prepare for the ceremony. Either on a willing or an unwilling victim.”

I don’t answer. But it doesn’t matter, because she is gods-gifted, and she reads me with ease.

“You think . . .” She hesitates before continuing. “You think they intend to use me. For this sacrifice.”

Hearing the words spoken out loud plunges icy daggers straight to my heart. My lips curling back in a snarl. “It doesn’t matter! As soon as the message arrives from your father, I’m sending you home.”

“What?”

The sharpness of the word bursting from her lips startles me. “I’ve not forgotten my promise,” I say earnestly. “I must receive your father’s official answer before I can declare the alliance over. At that point, my ministers can no longer argue against my decision to return you to your world. Which I will do. Immediately.” Unable to bear her expression, I turn away, once more staring out at the falls. “I expect the message to arrive tomorrow. The day after at the latest.”

A long silence hovers between us. But I feel her anger. My own body tenses as though for battle.

“So that’s it then,” she says at length.

“It must be so.”

“And what of your feelings, Vor?”

I frown. “My . . . my feelings?”

She whirls on me, dislodging the mothcat. It lets out an angry yip before leaping from her lap to the shore, where it begins irritably to groom its tail. Faraine ignores it. She reaches out, catches hold of my hand in both of hers. I see her wince. Does physical touch intensify the strength of her gift? I try to pull back, but she tightens her grip. “Yes,” she says, her voice almost a growl. “Your feelings. For me.”

All the breath seems to have been blasted from my lungs. “You . . . you know how I . . .?”

She lets out an exasperated huff. “It doesn’t exactly take a gods-gift, Vor.”

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