Page 90 of Vow of the Shadow King

I nod. “Do it.”

The witch shrugs but leans over Faraine. She lets out a long breath, utters a series of words I do not know, and touches her palm to Faraine’s forehead.

Faraine’s eyes flare wide, blazing with white, burning light. She drags in a terrible gasp, like the exhale before a scream. Her whole body goes rigid, her back arched as though in pain.

“Faraine!” I cry.

But she cannot hear me.

40

FARAINE

The further he rides from Mythanar, the fainter my life-tether grows. Perhaps theurzulcrystals sustained it, and now that I am out of their reach, it’s destined to break. Or perhaps I’m simply tired of holding onto a life I’ve already lost. Vor is nothing but a shadow. I still feel his presence, faintly. More of a memory than a reality now. My own body I can no longer feel at all.

I study the delicate filament of life-thread wound around my awareness. It’s dimming now. Which is good. I’ve already stayed too long. Time to let this final connection break, time to move on to the next part of my existence. It hurts to leave Vor behind but . . . but we had our chance. And a beautiful, glorious chance it was! I’m glad of it, even if it ended in pain. Pain doesn’t change the truth of the connection we had, the peace I knew in his presence. The joy, the glory. All of it was real. I wouldn’t trade a moment.

I watch the shadows of the world fade. A sense of tremendous space opens above me, inexplicably great. My soul is drawn to it, upward and away. Only that last little thread keeps me from floating free. I should break it. I should go. And yet . . .and yet . . .

“Well, now. You’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a mess, haven’t you?”

My hazy perception of existence flurries in surprise. A figure approaches through the mist, parting curtains of reality before her with the end of a crooked walking stick. She wears a heavy hood, but as she draws near, throws it back to reveal a face lined with age but still striking. Straight stern brows set above well-chiseled features, and eyes, golden as a cat’s, trained on me with almost predatory intensity.

“Who are you?” I ask, surprised to find I have a voice.

“No one of particular importance.” The woman tilts her head to one side. Her eyes narrow slightly. “The more immediate question is, who areyou?”

There’s something about the way she asks it that puts me on my guard. “Likewise,” I answer slowly, “no one of particular importance.”

She crooks an eyebrow. “That’s not what I hear. I hear you used the Urzulhar stones and saved the city of Mythanar from disaster. Pretty important if you ask me.”

“I did what I could. And I . . . I’m glad it worked.”

“It worked all right. But at what cost?” The woman looks me up and down. I’m not entirely certain what she’s looking at, considering I have no body here. But that doesn’t seem to bother her. “You’ve gone and overextended yourself. Now look at you!” She waves a hand, indicating my vagueness.

“As long as Mythanar is safe, I am satisfied.”

“Oh, are you?” At this, the woman snorts. An undignified sound coming from a face so regal. “You think driving a fewwogghafrom the streets will do any good in the long run, child? What you did was like swatting the wasp on the end of the tiger’s nose. Sure, you won’t get stung; you’ll get your head bitten off instead.”

A chill ripples through my being. “What am I to do?”

“Do? What can you do? You’re dead.”

Once more, I look down at the little thread wound around my . . . well, not my finger. I don’t have a finger anymore. But my essence. I roll the thread, watch how it sparks and glitters. “What is down there?” I ask at last, looking up and catching the strange woman’s eye. “What is down in the Dark? Under the city?”

“Ah. So, they’ve not told you about the dragon yet.”

Dragon.

Somehow . . . I knew. Somehow, I’ve always known. The signs were everywhere—the dragon motif carved into every wall, embroidered on every garment. Not just any dragon, not some fire-breathing cow-chaser such as the heroes hunt in legends. This is one of the Great Beasts. The Celestial Dancers. The Breakers of Worlds. Long lost to the mists of time and myth, yet always there, always hovering on the edges of instinctual memory.

“No,” I admit. “They’ve told me nothing. But I know a little. I know it wants to destroy them.”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“But why?”

The woman’s brows rise. “Do you think I’m privy to the motivations of dragons?” She snorts. The next instant, however, her expression grows grim. “But make no mistake, little princess—Arraog, the Fire at the Heart of the World, is stirring. Soon, she will wake. When that happens . . .”

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