Page 64 of Vow of the Shadow King

She makes a face but gamely accepts my offering, turning it slowly as though to find a less repulsive angle. “Am I supposed to eat it whole?”

“Not yet.” I pluck a jar of bright purple salt from the seller’s display and sprinkle it over theughauntil it glistens. “Now, be brave! Bite the head off first.”

She casts me a dubious look. Have I pushed her too far? By now, however, her stomach has started growling almost constantly. She screws up her face, pops the fish head in her mouth, and bites. Chews. Slowly opens her eyes again. “That’s actually . . .” She hesitates, considers. Then: “Good?”

“Is that a question?”

“It might be?”

“Would you like a second bite to verify?”

She makes a wordless whimper. But she does take a second bite. Then a third. In the end, she finishes the whole thing and eats another. From there we move on to a mushroom vendor, who points out certain varieties safe for human consumption. After that, Faraine staunchly refuses to try seared cave cricket legs, so we end our makeshift meal with somegrusbread served with a minced grotto-berry relish. This she finds much to her liking and eats a sizable portion.

“You must have found the food at Beldroth quite bland,” she remarks, licking her fingers delicately before wiping them on the little cloth provided.

“Strange, to be sure,” I acknowledge. “But I quite enjoyed the experience. I travel so little beyond Mythanar and appreciate the chance to encounter other worlds and ways of living.”

Hunger sated, we proceed now at a leisurely pace through the textiles market. Faraine admires garments of purehugagogsilk, delighted by their iridescent colors. Another vendor offers skeins of the spunhugagogthread, which Faraine inspects with great interest. I’m just trying to decide if I dare buy her another gift when a sudden trill of music ripples through the air. Faraine’s head pops up. “What is that? Where is it coming from?”

“It’s thegujek—traveling minstrels.” I tilt an ear and pinpoint the direction from which it comes. “I believe they’re right above us. Shall we go see?”

Faraine agrees, her eyes shining and eager. We climb to the final level of Market Rise, high at the top of the cliff. There, on a broad flat platform, thegujekminstrels have gathered with their great frames strung with dangling crystals. Each crystal gives a pure, sweet tone, some high, some low. The minstrels beat them in swift, complicated patterns, generating a shimmering song, like the rushing cascade of ice water. Other players onzinsboghorns create a bright countermeasure, and a single drummer beats a rumbling growl on his skin drums.

Wonderstruck, Faraine watches the performance. And I watch her. I can’t help myself. All the beauties of Mythanar pale by comparison to the joy of watching her face. The subtleties of expression, every slight shift of her brow, her cheek, her jaw, her lips. It’s like watching a living, breathing work of art. I could sit and make a study of her all day.

I find myself wondering what her face would look like in . . .release?

“Oh! Look!” she exclaims suddenly and turns to me. “Who is she?”

Reluctantly, I tear my gaze away from her to look where she points. A trolde woman in traditional garb has taken her place before the minstrels. She wears a massive headdress of balancing black stone weights. A single wrong tilt will send the whole thing toppling, but the woman holds herself so perfectly straight and tall, the muscles of her neck bulging with strength, that the weights scarcely tremble. The rest of her clothing is simple—a loincloth, a sheer wrap across her bosom, and a belt of small animal skulls.

“She is amorndancer,” I say, bending to speak in Faraine’s ear so that she can hear me above the sudden blare of thezinsbog. “It’s a very old art form. Watch!”

The woman begins her dance, a performance of balance and strength, so unlike the dances back in Gavaria. Faraine is enthralled. She cannot tear her gaze away as the steps become ever more complex. Themorndancer stomps hard enough to shake the ground under our feet, raises and smashes rocks together, crumbling them to dust. In the end, she utters a deep, guttural roar that rises to the cavern ceiling above, all without disturbing the balance of her weights.

When the dance is complete and the music resolves, Faraine applauds after human fashion, clapping her hands together and shouting, “Well done! Magnificent!” The folk gathered to observe the dance smile curiously at her antics. A few of them try to copy her behavior. After all, if she is their new queen, any outlandish customs she brings will soon be all the rage with the younger set.

Themorndancer exits, and the minstrels begin another song, this one lighter and faster. Suddenly, one of the men in the crowd shouts out, “A dance! Big King, a dance! A dance with your new bride!” Before I can react, the cry is taken up. Soon the voices of the spectators nearly drown out the song itself.

Startled by this outburst, Faraine leans closer to me. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” My face heats. I hope she’s not reading my feelings just now. “They want me to dance with you.”

Her eyes flash to meet mine, alight and alive. “Is that so? And . . . do you think the people should have what they ask?”

It’s suddenly difficult to swallow. “Considering the tensions in the city these days, it wouldn’t be terrible for them to see their king at ease, dancing.”Enjoying himself immensely.

“Would you say it might uplift their spirits?”

“It might.”

Her smile is bright as alorststone suddenly ignited. “Well then, shall we?”

I laugh and shake my head. “You don’t know any trolde dances, remember?”

She shrugs, her lips quirked prettily. “I know how to stand still, how to clap to a beat, and how to be spun on demand. Will that not do?”

Another laugh rumbles up my throat. Suddenly, I don’t care anymore what a dangerous idea this is. This whole morning has been foolish from the beginning. I might as well embrace it.

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