Page 104 of Heart of the Shadow King

I open my eyes, gazing up into that hard, nearly featureless face. This woman caused so much pain. Were it not for her, I could never have performed the ceremony. Hael nearly died by her orders. But what if the gods had other plans? What if Targ’s obsession and Roh’s zeal were part of a much greater whole than any one of us could see? What if . . . ?

I grip that stone face between my hands. Summoning theurzul,I send my gift deeper, down to that core of her being.Roh,I call.Roh, hear my voice. Come to me.

The stone peels away. A furnace of pain and confusion rushes up to meet me, but it’s so small compared to what I experienced with Arraog, I don’t flinch. Instead, I whisper:“Calm.”My gift floods into her, a wave of cooling sweetness. The spell responds, flaking away from her heart, her spirit, her mind, and her body.

The stone cracks. Breaks.

With a little squeak, the mothcat leaps away just as theva-jorcrumbles, and Roh staggers forward, falling into my arms. She gasps for breath, clings to me, weeping like a babe.“Morar tor Grakanak!”she prays over and over, as though she’s forgotten all other words.“Morar tor Grakanak! Morar tor Grakanak!”Then in a low breath:“Kurspari-glur.”

“It’s all right, Roh,” I say, braced against the rush of her feeling. “It’s all right. You’re safe now. You’re home.”

Somewhere behind me Vor shouts my name, frantic. My heart lifts. A smile breaks across my face. In that moment, I savor the secret which only I, the mothcat, and this woman who was my enemy share.

“Soon they will all be safely home,” I whisper.

46

VOR

“Well, Vor, I hate to admit it—and if you tell anyone I said so, I will deny it with my last breath—but perhaps there was some grain of truth in Targ’s mad scheme after all.”

I stand with Sul in an alcove of the recently dug-out palace throne room. The dragon-wing throne was destroyed in the last stirring, along with most of the intricate floor tiling. But many of the great supporting pillars held strong, and much of the ceiling still arches overhead.Lorstlights suspended from broken stalactites illuminate the space where Faraine stands, clad in a black troldish gown.

The contrast of that gown with her pale hair is striking. I can scarcely take my eyes off her. She waits, hands folded, for yet another company of troldefolk to bring their burden before her. They approach down the center of the hall, four strong trolde men with a tall, misshapen stone supported on their shoulders. Setting it down in front of Faraine, they step back quickly, their heads inclined in reverence.

It is a trolde, of course. One of the enstoned, brought up from the city. Over the last weeks, every man, woman, and child who can be spared has been hard at work unearthing their loved ones from the rubble and sending them up to the palace in hopes that my wife will be able to perform the miracle I watch her perform even now.

She steps up to the stone-wrapped figure, placing her hands on his cheeks. Bowing her head and closing her eyes, she summons that incredible gift inside her. Sometimes I think I can feel theurzulresponding, singing within the walls. Other times she looks very alone and very small, and the atmosphere is strangely still around her. Those times I hold my breath, tense and anxious that the magic will not answer her call.

But each time the outer coating ofva-jorcracks then crumbles. The figure inside steps out from the shell, staggering, blinking, but very much alive. Every instance is a wonder, breathtaking and beautiful. A gift from the gods.

“Yes,” I say, grudgingly acknowledging my brother’s comment as we watch the stone fracture and the face of Lord Rath appear. “Were it not for theva-jorspell, many more would have died in the last stirring. Thanks to Targ’s madness, the people of Mythanar were spared.”

“So my mother takes pains to remind me. Fromlusterlingtodimness.” Sul snorts and crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall. “I haven’t forgiven her for what she almost did to Hael. But seeing these people come back to life is softening me. Somewhat.”

I don’t answer. My attention is fixed on Faraine, who steps back while Rath’s family swarms in to claim him, weeping and talking over each other in gladness. She looks worn. This is her tenth reclamation of the day. Each one requires a significant burst of energy, more than she likes to let on. She tries to pretend it doesn’t affect her and would drive herself to exhaustion if given her way. But I remind her that the people won’t be saved any faster if she breaks herself into little pieces before the work is done.

She freed Madame Ar first, after Hael and I dug her up from the infirmary. I feared the old healer would be smashed to dust in the wreckage, but theva-jorhas proven much stronger than any of us could have hoped. Ar stepped from her stone-coating, shook herself out, looked around the room, and growled, “What have you done to my infirmary?” I folded her brick of a body into my arms, crushing her in an embrace that made her gasp and pound tiny fists against my shoulder. “What is this nonsense?” she demanded, pushing me away. She took my explanation of events well enough and has since managed to arrange a make-shift infirmary in the old dining hall where she tends the wounded with her habitual enthusiasm.

Ghat, my chief engineer, was one of the next freed from enstonement. He accepted the story we told with his usual placidity and immediately launched into organizing recovery work: clearing rubble, shoring up walls, rebuilding and restructuring. Mythanar will never be what it once was. But with Ghat at the helm, we will endure. And we will be strong again in time.

Lord Rath is lead away to be checked over by Madame Ar, and another stone-wrapped individual is brought to my wife. I should step in, should interfere and make certain she rests and eats. As though reading my mind, Faraine shoots me a swift look and shakes her head slightly. This newest lump of rock is child-sized, and I know better than to try to pull her away just yet. I set my jaw, hold my tongue, and observe.

“Morar juk,”Sul growls softly.

I glance at him, one eyebrow upraised. “And do you still disapprove of my wife and her witchcraft?”

“I’ll never trust humans or their magic.” My brother sighs, his eyes narrowing as he watches Faraine perform yet another miracle. “But I will acknowledge that where your bride is concerned I was . . . wrong. And I’m sorry.”

His words settle in my gut, burning there. I don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive him. Not completely. In the moment I say only, “You were not wholly wrong. No more than was Targ, Roh, Maylin, any of them. We all saw different parts of the puzzle. But only the gods could see how each piece fit.”

We are silent for a little while, watching theva-jormelt under Faraine’s touch, watching the child step free and fall into her arms. Sobs resound from the walls as a young mother leaps forward with outstretched arms. That sight will never grow old.

“I am leaving Mythanar.”

I turn sharply, fixing my brother with a stare. “What?”

“I’ll be taking my mother to Lazgar—if it still exists. That’s where her people are from. She is not in a good way. The loss of Targ affected her deeply. And the loss of her dream.” Sul shakes his head sadly. “She truly believed she would find peace within theva-jorstone. Instead, she found only a suspended state of terror. She is bereft now without her faith to guide her.”

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