Page 65 of Vow of the Shadow King

Taking her hand, I lead her to the clear space vacated by themorndancer. The people cheer, and the minstrels shift effortlessly from their light, sparkling melody into something . . . different. A low, sensual song with a driving beat. The first few strains are enough to suggest dimly-lit rooms, wafting curtains, discarded garments on the floor.

I catch Faraine’s eye. Hold it. She feels it too, that thrum of lust and longing. It ripples through the air, surrounds us in an atmosphere of unrelenting sound. She draws herself very straight, very tall, all the laughter suddenly gone from her eyes. Instead, I see only . . .challenge.

Following the beat, letting my body move as it wills, I approach her. Strong. Powerful. My feet carry me close to her, so close that our skin warms but never quite meets. She does as she said she would—she stands firm. Swaying a little in time to the beat. Turning slowly to follow me, to hold that eye-contact like a fiery cord binding our souls even as the dance carries me away from her again. This is an ancient dance, and yet it is all new.

Suddenly I am singing, though I had not meant to:

“Jor ru jorrak.

Ur ru urrak.

Dor ru dorrak.

Hav ru havrak.”

Stone of my stone.

Blood of my blood.

Flesh of my flesh.

Heart of my heart.

The words are simply there on my tongue. They must be spoken, they must be sung. And soon, those who watch us take up the chant, singing it in rumbling voices, deeper even than the reverberations of the skin drums.

“Jor ru jorrak.

Ur ru urrak

Dor ru dorrak.”

Faraine’s face, flushed and brilliant, shines before me like the last light of life itself. The dance draws me back to her. I move around her, passing my hands in the air over her breasts, her shoulders, her throat, down her back. Never touching, only manipulating the energy between us. She sways with me, bending and responding to every gesture. Only when the music swells to its crescendo do I finally grip her waist and swing her off her feet. Round and round we twirl, and she holds my shoulders, her gaze never once leaving mine.

The music ends. The people roar their approval, stomping their feet and smashing stones together. Cries of: “The King and his Bride! Behold, the King and his Bride!” echo across Market Rise.

I scarcely hear them. I stand as though frozen in a sliver of suspended eternity. My arms are wrapped around her waist, holding her face level with mine as her feet dangle above the ground. Faraine stares into my eyes. Knowing me, knowing my heart. Knowing that truth which, until this moment, I’ve struggled so hard to deny.

I am falling irrevocably in love. With my wife.

25

FARAINE

I wish I could stay here. Right here, in this singular point of time, suspended in the air. Held in his strong arms.

My hands rest on his shoulders as I gaze deeply into his eyes. Mere inches separate our parted and panting lips. Were it not for the crowd gaping at us, I would grab his face and drag him to me right now. Then, in that touch, in that burning point of connection, I would know for certain. I would know that he isn’t going to send me back. I would know that I will stay here and be his wife. His queen.

A pulse of excitement emanates from the crowd. I feel it, but faintly, like the distant murmur of wind. The rest of my awareness is taken up with Vor. His feelings. His love? Perhaps. Or something very close to it.

Slowly, slowly, he lowers me back to the ground. My slippers touch stone, but I do not remove my hands from his shoulders, nor do I break that eye-contact which we have held since the beginning of our dance. If I look away, I fear something between us will snap. Something I must find some way to secure, soon.

Vor’s eyes shine above me, eclipsing all other lights in that vast, light-filled cavern. They’re like two moons, drawing me with their gravity, brightening my very existence.

Suddenly, his expression darkens. He blinks, and his brow constricts. To my pain, he lifts his gaze and stares over my head. Only now, with our connection broken, do I sense the disturbance in the atmosphere. A deep throb of drums rumbles like thunder, reverberates under my feet.

“Morar-juk,”Vor curses. “What aretheydoing here?”

The crowd is restless, shifting. I twist in Vor’s arms to look where every head is turned. I feel before I see what has drawn their attention, however. Like a blow to my gods-gift—a battering weight ofvoid.

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