Page 62 of Vow of the Shadow King

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

“Because of the stirrings?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

She would have been happy here. As queen.

She would not have ended up like my mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodlusterlingto you, Tril,” I call out in troldish as we draw near.

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

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

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