Page 17 of Vow of the Shadow King

Her knee upraised, her skirt falling open to reveal the long, limber form of her bare leg.

Her eyes, gazing up at me. One gold. One blue. Her smile. Slow, seductive. Dangerous.

She knew.

She knew what she was doing, gods damn her.

She intended to humiliate me. All along.

She wanted to take me, to break me. To unmake me.

I am king. But she made me her fool.

Another roar strangling in my throat, I push up from the wall. My lips curl back, bare my teeth in an animal snarl. My body feels as though it’s on fire, as though my skin will burn away the thin cloth of this garment and leave me naked, burning, a demon of passion incarnate. My shoulders hunched, my head low, I swing my predatory gaze around.

Then I’m in motion. Staggering but gaining speed with each step, until I’m loping along like a predatory beast set upon my quarry’s trail. My footsteps carry me through the palace, straight for the royal wing. Straight for the Queen’s Apartment.

I’ll make her pay for what she did to me.

I’ll make her beg forgiveness.

I’ll make her beg for mercy.

I’ll make her beg formore.

7

FARAINE

I’m not sure whose idea it was to finally feed the king’s half-starved, unwanted, inconvenient bride. Perhaps Captain Hael thought of it. While I don’t flatter myself that she cares for my wellbeing, she wouldn’t want me to outright starve to death. Not on her watch.

However it may be, the door to my room opens unceremoniously, startling me from a semi-doze. Hael stands in the opening and announces in monotone, “Food, Princess.” She steps aside to make room for a scuttling little person bearing a tray. The maid—for I take it this must be her role—is an unusual-looking creature. Her skin is rough, gray, and looks to be hard as rock. A condition calleddorgarag,if I recall the trolde word correctly. Hael suffers from a similar malady, with stone-hard hide covering her right arm, her neck, and creeping up one cheek, while the rest of her skin is alabaster pale and smooth. Vor told me once that more and more trolde children are born with this strange skin, which some consider a sickness and others a holy sign.

“Thank you,” I say when the maid sets the tray down on the table beside my bed. Her pale eyes flick to mine ever-so briefly before she turns and scuttles from the room. No nod, no bow, no murmur. Perhaps she’s never seen a human before. Perhaps I am as unsettling to her eye as she is to mine. Or perhaps she, like my taciturn bodyguard, simply hates me for betraying her king.

Hael stands in the doorway. Her expression is entirely unreadable, her emotions impenetrable even to my prying gods-gift. “Does the Princess require anything else?”

I glance at the tray. I don’t know what to expect underneath the domed cover, whether I’ll find trolde food palatable to my human tastes and digestion. But I merely nod and offer the captain a faint smile. “That will be all. Thank you.”

Hael dips her chin once, steps from the room, and shuts the door firmly behind her.

I stare at the platter cover for a long while. I don’t remember when last I ate. But while my innards are cavernously empty, I don’t have any appetite. Would it be so bad to simply waste away without a fight? After all, I’ve never been the brave sister, the throw-myself-against-the-odds and claw-my-way-to victory sister. That was always Ilsevel. And even she never faced odds like this: a husband’s rejection, a kingdom’s hatred. No home, no allies, no help.

Closing my eyes, I bow my head and summon up a vision of my sisters’ faces. Ilsevel, fierce and fiery; Aurae, sweet and kind. I press a hand against my heart, feel the emptiness there. Even when I lived apart from them, I’ve always held my sisters close and dear. To know they are gone from this life . . . to know I’ll never see them again . . . never hear Ilsevel’s wicked laugh or feel Aurae’s gentle hand in mine . . .

A sob chokes in my throat. I press the back of my hand to my mouth. The truth is, I’ve scarcely had time to process my grief. And grief is such a wild, untamed creature, always returning at the most unexpected times to bite. But I must be strong. My sisters are lost. Killed. And those who killed them, who slaughtered them without mercy? Those monsters still run rampant throughout the kingdom, butchering innocents, setting fire to towns and villages. Pillaging, raping, destroying wherever they go. My kingdom. My people.

Gavaria needs this alliance. It needs these powerful trolde warriors to set Prince Ruvaen and his forces fleeing across the boundaries of the worlds, back to the dark realms where they belong. Gavaria needs King Vor and the might he wields.

Which, for the moment means . . . Gavaria needs me.

My jaw firms. I may not boast Ilsevel’s spirit, but I’ve spent my life fighting against my own body’s betrayals. I’ve not given in yet. I’ve always found some strength deep down, underneath the pain. Some reason to hold on, to fight, to forge ahead. So I will eat. I will live. And I will prevail.

I lift the platter lid. My eyes widen. I’d expected roasted cave crickets or fungi prepared in outlandish manners. Instead, I feast my gaze on hard-crusted rolls, butter-and-herb fish, sugared fruits, and pastries which, when cut into, reveal succulent roasted game and vegetables. Human dishes. My stomach growls. Suddenly, I’m more ravenous than I ever remember being. Niceties forgotten, I cram as many delicious mouthfuls in as quickly as possible. It’s only after I’ve polished off my third game pie that it suddenly occurs to me: all of these dishes were Ilsevel’s favorites.

My too-full stomach knots. Sitting back, I stare at the remains of the meal. Evidence of Vor’s consideration. He took the time and care to notice Ilsevel’s preferences while courting her in Beldroth and saw to it that the Mythanar larder was supplied appropriately. In the face of such kindness, how long would it have been before my sister truly fell in love with the bridegroom who so terrified her? Or would she soon have discovered the cruel, unrelenting, vindictive side of the Shadow King? The man who would send a woman to the block for daring to offend him.

A shiver races down my spine. Rising, I leave the platter on the table and step to the window. A view of the city lies before me, all white stone, carved and shaped by trolde artisans so that it seems to have sprung naturally into existence. So strange, so pale, so fantastical, ringed by high walls and accessible only by vaulting bridges. All beneath a stone ceiling set with shining crystals, like a hundred thousand subterranean stars.

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