Page 63 of Vow of the Shadow King

“It sounds most impressive to me.” Faraine flashes her lovely smile at the old trolde woman.“Hiri,Tril,” she says.

Tril blinks hugely. Then she tosses her head back with laughter, flashing her sharp teeth. “Quite the friendly one, eh, Big King?”

Faraine glances sidelong up at me. “Was it my accent? Do I sound foolish?”

“Not at all.” I assure her. “You’ve used an informal mode of greeting, ordinarily reserved for family and close friends.Grakol-durais the proper form of address.”

“I see.” Faraine nods, her cheek tightening. “I have much to learn, it seems.”

To my shame, I don’t correct her. I simply cannot bear to remind her that she has no reason to study the intricacies of troldish language because she will have no use for them in the future. Just now, it’s nice to indulge in this little game of make-believe—to pretend she is, in truth, my new blushing bride and I, her proud bridegroom. That this is only the first of many ventures into Mythanar which we will make together as I teach her the ways of my people and my world.

Tril is more than ready to display her wares. Living diamonds of the brightest, clearest quality, like stars fallen from the Upper World. Also, emeralds, rubies, sapphires of various hues. Opals the size of my fist with hearts so fiery, one expects young dragonettes to burst from their centers. Some of these, she has taken time to fashion into jewelry—nothing intricate or delicate like the necklace Faraine wears. This is rough-and-ready trolde jewelry, displaying the uncut stones at their wildest.

Faraine selects one particular tiara of clear sapphires, admiring the way the stones catch the light of Tril’slorstlantern. “Try it on, try it on!” Tril urges.

Faraine shoots me a baffled look. When I translate, she hastily puts the tiara back down. “I shouldn’t.”

“Try it on, I say!” Tril repeats before picking up the tiara herself and setting it on Faraine’s head. Faraine tenses, eyes widening. Then, with a delighted laugh, she steps back and looks at herself in the polished mirror-stone Tril holds up for her. She tilts her head, trying out different angles and expressions.

“What do you think, Vor?” she says, turning abruptly and fixing me with a brilliant smile. “Does it suit me?”

And there. She’s done it again. Caught me staring. When I’d not realized I was doing so.

I draw a short breath through my teeth. Hastily clearing my throat, I force a smile. “Yes.” The word is rough as a growl in my throat. “Yes, it suits you well.”

We stand there for the space of ten heartbeats. Silent. Gazing at one another. While the whole of Market Rise and its noisy denizens, the shouting sellers, the irritable customers, the grinding stone wheels of carts, all of it fades away to nothing. There’s just the two of us. Sharing a moment so bright, so perfect.

I know something then with absolute certainty. Perhaps the only certainty in my whole sorry, uncertain life. I know this image of her—clad in that pink, trolde-style gown, wearing that crown of uncut gems, her hair tumbled about her face and shoulders, her eyes uplifted to mine—will stay with me to the end. When the world comes all undone, when the cracks spread and the caverns fall, her face, just as it is right now, will be the last vision my mind’s eye sees.

“Half-price today!” Tril breaks the moment with a smack of her palm against the stone tabletop across which her gems are spread. “Half-price for the Big King. A present for his new bride.”

I wrench myself back to reality and turn on the old gem-seller with a wry grin. “How much would half-price cost me exactly?”

She names an outrageous sum, provoking a burst of laughter from my lips. “What is it?” Faraine asks, carefully removing the tiara from her head. She tries to offer it back to the woman.

“No, no, no!” Tril waves her square hands. “For the queen! For the new queen! And only half-price!”

“She’s trying to make a sale,” I answer. “A very generous sale . . . in her favor.”

Faraine’s brow puckers. “Will you inform her, please, that I have no trolde currency in any case?”

I should, of course. I should make our apologies, offer Faraine my arm, and lead her in a hasty escape. Instead, I fish a handful of polishedginugsfrom my pouch—not as many as Tril’s demanded, but more than the tiara is worth. She makes a great show of inspecting each coin. She always does, as though it’s not an insult to her king to doubt the quality of his purse. I roll my eyes, fold my arms, and wait for her eventual grunt of acceptance. She sweeps theginugsinto one palm and motions for Faraine to take the tiara.

“What is happening now?” Faraine asks, raising her eyebrow at me.

“The tiara is yours,” I say. “Tril and I have come to an agreement.”

“What?” Faraine stares down at the arrangement of sapphires set in silver. She puts a hand to her mouth, as though she’s just said something embarrassing. “Oh, Vor! I did not mean for you to—”

“I know.” I pick up the tiara and, before she can utter a word of protest, set it on her head. “As I said, it suits you well.”

The look she gives me from beneath those shining gems makes my heart light up like alorststone. It’s all I can do not to cup her cheeks in my palms and plant a kiss on her lips there and then. Instead, I step back quickly and clasp my hands at the small of my back. “Shall we continue?”

We leave Tril to gloat over her ill-gotten earnings and progress to the next level of the market. By this time, the whispers are flying. I hear the wordbridecoupled withqueenmore often than I like. I certainly haven’t helped matters by purchasing that tiara. But I cannot bring myself to regret it.

We come to the food sellers. I watch Faraine’s eyes goggle as she takes in the many offerings, all so strange to her palate. There are cakes sweetened withjirunectar and shaped like little domes—mog cakes, we call them, in honor of the priestesses and their domed dwellings. There are flatbreads made ofgrusflour, a variety of edible lichen, very earthy and a bit dense but satisfying. The scent of fried mushrooms catches her attention, but I guide her to a vendor selling sizzlingughafish seasoned with rock salt.

“Ughalive far from all light,” I tell her, as she recoils from the ugly, eyeless fish, cooked whole on little skewers. “Divers use line-cables to plunge up to thirty feet into blind depths to set their traps.” I select a plump one from over the coals, holding the skewer’s handle out to Faraine.

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