Page 66 of Vow of the Shadow King

This is wrong. Impossible and wrong. I shouldn’t be able to stand here, in the midst of this crowd of living beings, and experience such an absence. Absence of feeling. Absence of life. An emptiness, a nothingness. My head spins, and my stomach churns.

Suddenly, the crowd parts, and a strange procession comes into view. Trolde men and women both, twenty at least, perhaps more. At their forefront march two tall women, both of them naked save for loincloths and the long white hair covering their bosoms. Behind them come six drummers in rigid formation, also naked, their only covering the animal-hide drums hung from their necks and suspended before their groins. Their hands beat the drum skins in perfect synchronization, raising a thunderous din ofdoom, doom, doom.

Behind these, six massive, stone-hide troldes carry a litter on their backs. Unlike the curtained contraption in which I rode through Mythanar on my arrival, this is a broad, open platform. It is trimmed in black cloth, so that it gives the impression of a wafting shadow.

Targ sits in its center.

The priest sits perfectly still. His bare stone skin looks grayer than ever, without the faintest trace of life. Strands of white hair drift from his head, but he’s lost more of it since last I saw him. His skull is craggy like a boulder. It would be all too easy to believe this is not the man himself but instead an incredibly lifelike statue carved in his honor.

The moment I lay eyes on him, I know the source of that void.

Muttering and grumbling, the crowd pulls back, makes room for the procession. Some drop to their knees, abject and submissive. Others scoff, and one brave soul heaves a clod of mud straight at Targ’s face. It splats against his forehead, dribbles down his cheek. The priest offers no reaction. Marching in time to the beat of the drums, this strange parade continues straight on, straight toward Vor and me. Each footstep is somehow inexorable, as though ordained by the gods themselves in ages past.

The minstrels behind us gather their instruments and scatter, unwilling to be caught in the path of these terrible worshippers. But Vor does not move. He stands with his shoulders straight, his chest wide. With one arm, he draws me behind him. That I don’t like. I don’t want to cower at his back. I want to stand beside him. But when I resist, his arm tenses. I go still. Perhaps it’s better not to fight. Not yet, at least.

The two women, white as alabaster, their faces beautiful beyond description, stop a few paces in front of Vor. Neither of them look at him. Their gazes are vacant. Behind them, the drummers beat out a last, synchronizeddoom,and the litter-bearers lower their burden to the ground.

Silence holds the air captive. My knees tremble so hard, I have to stop myself from grabbing hold of Vor for support. I don’t know what is happening, but I can see the unease in the crowd all around us, all their whispering and pointing and shifting of feet. I cannot sense their feelings, however. That pulsing void emanating from Targ is much too oppressive.

Suddenly, the priest’s eyes open.

He doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t move save for that quick flick of eyelids. Yet every one of the observers gasps out loud. Someone screams. Vor’s spine stiffens in front of me, while I choke back a terrified cry of my own.

Targ stares straight at Vor. Their eyes meet. The air between them charges. The void rolls out from inside the priest, a dark force emanating from his soul. I feel it, almostseeit, with that strange, unseeing clarity I’d experienced in the dark chapel. It swells as it nears, until it’s a huge shadow, ready to overwhelm us, to swallow us up in its inescapablenothing.

Vor stands firm. When I look at him, my gods-gift sees the shining strength of his spirit rise to meet that darkness. Light and shadow clash in that space between the king and the priest. No one else sees it. No one else feels it. But suddenly, that churning storm of battling wills is more real than anything else.

I watch in mingled horror and awe as sometimes the darkness of Targ’s void seems to dominate, only to be fought back by the light that is Vor’s indomitable soul. But the dark is stronger. It has the weight of inevitability behind it, a hard, cold certainty of ultimate triumph. Yet Vor does not back down. He braces himself, his vision clear and firm. He will not go quietly into that dark. He will hold on until the last spark of life—the last spark of hope—is extinguished. But . . . but . . .

But he cannot do this alone.

Part of me wants to stay in hiding. That storm of souls is greater than anything I’ve experienced since my arrival in this realm. To step out of Vor’s shelter and face it feels foolish. But when I look up at Vor’s face, I see the strain in his eyes, the first lines of defeat beginning to etch themselves into his cheeks. I know what I must do.

I reach out. Take his hand.

It’s a simple gesture. The simplest.

But in that touch of our palms, I offer the only thing I can, the only power I’ve ever been able to wield from this gift of mine:calm.It flows between our skin, up his arm, straight to his heart. I hear his sudden intake of breath, watch his eyes flare.

Then, to my surprise, his mouth curves in a smile.

The effect is instantaneous. The roiling void which had so nearly subsumed his light gives way. The energy of Vor’s soul intensifies until it is so bright to my gods-gifted senses, I almost turn to hide my face in his shoulder.

As abruptly as it began, the battle is over. Targ remains seated on his litter, having never once moved save for the raising of his eyelids. Vor stands at my side, grips my hand, his stance strong, his face set. The storm of spirits dissipates like clouds. Though they are unaware of what truly just happened, the crowd lets out a collective sigh of relief.

Moved by some unseen force of will, the two pale women speak at once:“Morar tor Grakanak! Morar tor Jor!”The litter-bearers bend and heave their burden back onto their shoulders. Targ’s eyes glitter one last time, before he shuts them. The criers and drummers turn on heel, and the litter is ponderously brought around. Then the whole procession marches slowly back in the direction it came from, the crowd parting and closing behind it. Soon, even the deep voices of the drums are drowned in the regular noise of the city.

Only when they’re truly gone does Vor finally turn to me. “Are you all right?”

I can see in his eyes that he knows his silent staring-contest with the priest had a far more profound effect on me than on others present. I nod and offer a weak smile. The truth is, I feel strangely numb. That encounter has shaken me more than I like to admit. “What was that about?” I ask softly.

“One never knows with Targ.” Vor shakes his head and rubs a hand down his face. Then his brow puckers. “I should take you back. You look tired. It’s been a longlusterlingalready, and if you’re to travel soon . . .”

My eyes widen. I cannot believe what I’m hearing. Travel? Soon? Is he truly still planning to send me back to Gavaria? My head spins. All the blissful certainty I’d experienced while dancing in his arms shatters.

I shake my head, drop my gaze to focus on his collarbone. “I don’t want to go home.” The words slip out. Soft but clear.

Vor stills. He seems to hold his breath, waiting for me to continue. But what more can I say? There is nothing else. Just that one, simple fact. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be parted from him. Not now. Not ever.

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