Page 49 of Vow of the Shadow King

The delight in her voice strikes me straight to the heart. “This isHirith Borbatha,”I answer, my mouth close to her ear. “Lake of a Thousand Lights.”

Even atdimness, the falls are spectacular. The living gemstones give off a gentle glow that shimmers through the running water. Cascades dance in many white streams, cutting through rock to fall in a joyous splash of foam. Down under the surface of the lake, smalllorstcrystals gleam softly, illuminating the pale, darting fish and the submerged plant life, a brilliant display of color and life and movement.

Faraine is speechless. I carry her to the edge of the lake and set her down on a moss-covered boulder. Only when she drops her wounded feet into the water does she let out a little bleat of surprise. “It’s so warm!”

“Hot spring,” I say, and step into the shallows. Before I can stop and think twice about what I’m doing, I kneel before her. Water seeps into my trousers, but I don’t care. I strip away the shirt I’ve tied around my waist then lift one of her feet in my hands. At my touch, she starts and makes as though to draw back. I flash her a swift look. “Please. Let me help you.”

She freezes. Then, slowly, she lowers her foot once more. I begin to use the sleeve of my shirt to carefully wipe away the blood and bits of dirt and gravel. Slowly, gently, methodically. Trying not to notice just how lovely her foot is. That high arch, those small toes and round, crescent-moon nails. Dainty, perfectly formed. Like the rest of her.

A little shiver runs down her spine, strong enough that I feel it. I glance up to find her gaze fixed hard upon my face. Realization strikes me like a blow: she’s beautiful. Sitting there, disheveled, hair pointing every which way, dirt smearing one cheek. I remember once wondering if I could learn to find her attractive. Now, I almost want to laugh out loud at my own foolishness. I should have known even then, looking at her for the first time, that all my definitions of beauty were suddenly changed. Since that moment no woman has compared to her in my mind. If I force myself, I can objectively see and list her flaws. Her mouth is too wide, her jaw too square, her nose too prominent. And of course, those bi-colored eyes of hers are undeniably unsettling.

Yet how can these features be anything less than perfect? Every small detail is a vital part of the whole that isher.That is Faraine.

I’ve stopped breathing. Hastily, I lower my eyes, clear my throat, force air into my lungs. Placing her foot back in the water, I take the other in hand and begin to clean that one as well. Only when my task is complete, when I’ve risen from the water, draped my soaked shirt on a nearby rock, and taken a seat on the boulder beside her, do I attempt to speak. “How do you feel now, Princess?”

Her posture is rigid, perched on the edge of the rock, her hands on either side of her. Her fingers are tense against the mossy stone, her shoulders stiff. Mist-dampened strands of hair stick to her forehead and cheeks. “A little foolish,” she admits after a moment, then sneaks a glance at me. “I . . . I don’t know how to . . .” Her words drift away, lost in the roar of the falls and churning foam.

I should press her with questions. There are so many things I need to know. Why did she come to the garden? Why did I find her naked among the crystals, shuddering, obviously in pain? Why had she knocked out her bodyguard in order to venture here? She could not know the importance of the Urzulhar Circle, for it holds no significance for her or her kind. None of this makes any sense.

But in that moment, I cannot find any words. Not with the shape of her shoulder so close to mine. The air is warm and alive in the mere inches that separate our skin. I remember too well what it was like to touch her. To hold her. To mold her to my body. Then I had not realized it washer,however.Now that I know, how much more intense would the pleasure be?

My lips part. Her name is there on my tongue: “Faraine.”

“Yes, Vor?”

“Faraine, I—”

Needle-sharp pricks pierce my skin. I let out a yelp as a mothcat springs from my shoulder into Faraine’s lap. She screams, startled. Her feet splash out of the water as she scrambles up on her stone seat. With a little screech, the mothcat leaps to the boulder nearby on which my shirt is draped, arches its back, and hisses at both of us.

Faraine poises in frozen shock. Her bare legs bend under her, her skirt slipped back to reveal rather more knee and thigh than is altogether modest. The view does something to my blood, something which the sight of her lying naked in the stone circle had not inspired. Then, all my concern had been for her wellbeing. Now . . .

I hastily avert my gaze.“Morar-juk,”I mutter, turning instead to inspect my own shoulder. “The little beast got me.” Five tiny scratches mark my skin, seeping thin lines of blue. I rub at them ruefully, but at least this wound won’t require Madame Ar’s ministrations. From the tail of my eye, I watch Faraine settle her feet back in the water and pull her skirt down over her knees again. “Are you all right?” I ask without quite looking at her.

“I’m not hurt.” She’s still a little breathless. “It surprised me, that’s all. What . . . what is it exactly?”

“They’re calledvarbu.”Smiling ruefully, I extend a hand to the mothcat. The fur on its spine stands upright, but it deigns to sniff my fingertip. Then, with a little trill and a hop, it springs onto my forearm. A long, sinuous tail wraps around my wrist for balance. “My mother always called themmothcats.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes. She had a special fondness for the creatures, which is why there are so many of them here. They’re considered something of a pest, but she was so delighted by them, my father had several breeding pairs brought in and turned loose in the palace gardens. Now there’s a veritable swarm about the place, all fat and spoiled and good for nothing.”

Themothcatwalks up my arm to my still-smarting shoulder. There it nuzzles my jaw and begins to purr noisily. It continues sauntering behind my head, then makes its way down my other arm, drawing level with Faraine’s gaze. It sticks out its eyeless face, snuffling.

Her lips curve gently. She strokes the top of its head with one finger. Its purrs redouble as it stretches out both front feet until she extends her arm for it to climb onto. In short order, it’s settled on her shoulder, its forefeet on top of her head. Its long tail twitches under her nose.

Faraine laughs. Such a bright sound, like a crystal struck by a silver bar and made to sing. “I’d nearly forgotten,” she says. “Your mother was human, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.” I clear my thickened throat. “She liked to come here. To this very spot. It was her favorite place. She would sit here by the waters for hours, surrounded by her mothcats. She claimed their purrs were soothing to a troubled soul.”

Faraine is silent for a moment. The beast crawls down from her shoulders into her arms. She juggles its unruly limbs, trying to keep from being scratched, and only when it finally settles does she say softly, “Was your mother’s soul much troubled?”

A muscle in my jaw tightens. “Yes.” I have to force out the word. My gaze drops to my fist, knotted on my knee. “When I was young, I did not understand. Looking back, however, I think she did not thrive in the Under Realm, away from the sun and stars of her own world.”

Faraine nods even as she contemplates the brilliant falls, the myriad lights and colors. I dare to sneak another glance her way. A slight crease indents her brow, and her lips pucker slightly. After a few silent moments, she lets out a small sigh. “I did not believe a world under stone could be so beautiful. Now that I’ve seen it . . . seen this place . . . my own world seems rather colorless by comparison.”

My heart warms. The mothcat has flipped over in her arms and now lies belly-up, fat and comfortable. Its forepaws lazily knead the air. I find myself suddenly jealous of the little beast, to be held so gently in her lovely arms, pressed close to her breast.

I tear my gaze away, looking once more at the falls. “My best memories of her are here. This was where she could be happy. Father had a stone bench built for her so that she could spend more time here comfortably. I think he hoped he could find a way to draw her out, to give her a place in this world. To make her content. But most of the time . . .”

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