Page 35 of Heart of the Shadow King

I stare down into her wide eyes, shimmering blue and gold in the low light of a singlelorststone. She knows about the dragon? Who told her? It is not something we speak of openly. To name Arraog or even to reference her is, according to tradition, to summon her. To wake her. Thus, though she is everywhere throughout our world, carved into our walls, embroidered into our garments, infusing our very dreams, she remains less than a whisper. A shadow on the edge of conscious awareness.

“Hush!” I say at once and wrap a hand around the back of her head, pulling her to me, pressing her to my chest. “Do not speak of it. Do not think of it. It’s better if you don’t. Trust me, please.” I cup her face then, guide her lips to mine. Kiss her with tender ferocity, as though I can kiss all dark thoughts or fears from her mind. “We will have a life together,” I growl when I pull away at last.

There are tears caught in her lashes as she strokes my cheek. “It is a beautiful dream,” she murmurs.

“I will take any dream you like and forge it into reality.”

She doesn’t answer. Am I hurting her? Is this proximity, this shared touch between us, causing her gods-gift to react with pain? I start to withdraw, but she catches hold of me, drags me to her, and kisses me deeply. While her lips hold me captive, her hands venture down my torso, yanking at my shirt until the laces come undone. Then she slides the straps of her nightgown from her shoulders, presses her naked breast against mine, and I forget everything—all wars, all bargains, all dragons. There’s no room in my heart for anything but her.

15

FARAINE

Everything happens so quickly.

One moment I’m safely encircled in Vor’s arms, tucked away in the privacy of my chambers, far from intrusive eyes. It seems as though I’ve scarcely blinked . . . and suddenly I’m standing on the great front steps of the palace, watching as Vor speaks final words of instruction to his ministers. He’s arrayed in battle armor, spiked and terrifying. It makes him look like a monster from a fairy tale—a true troll. I can scarcely recognize the tender form of my lover, my husband, beneath those dreadful lines. My heart tightens. Will I ever know that version of Vor again? Were those stolen moments lastdimnessto be the end of our story?

Was our story ever even real?

That thought intrudes despite every effort to bar it behind slammed mental doors. How can I not wonder? How can I not question whether Vor’s feelings for me were his own or implanted in him? I felt what it was to have Maylin’s power working in me, filling me up with emotions not my own. Vor couldn’t fight against such manipulation, unaware and unsuspecting as he was.

I grip my own forearms, shivering, though it isn’t cold. I’m clad in scarlet, a color not at all suited to my complexion. Another gown made for my sister rather than for me. But it is a regal garment, fit for a queen. I’ve donned the headdress of dragon wings once more as well, and hold myself straight and tall, aware of all the wary trolde gazes fixed on me. And not me alone. My brother stands three steps down from me. I cannot see his face from this angle, hidden beneath the brim of that ridiculous hat. He raised a hand in greeting when I first appeared and opened his mouth to speak but had the good sense to shut it again when I shook my head. Just now, in full view of Vor’s court, it wouldn’t be wise for my brother and I to be seen chatting comfortably with one another. Not when the king is about to march off to fight our father’s war.

So, I am silent and alone as I watch the final preparations. My head throbs a little, residual pain from Vor’s emotions when we parted hours earlier. He’d tried so hard not to let his feelings affect me, all to no avail. It’s worth it, though. Even if the final feelings shared between us are anxiety and dread, it’s still worth it.

Vor barks orders to the company of morleth riders gathered in the courtyard. They are but a small part of the five hundred strong who will ride with him into Gavaria. The rest are already mustered in the lower city. Five hundred warriors seemed like an impressive number when Vor told me last night. Even now, with only a fraction of them on display, they are a splendid sight. But I cannot help wondering if such a force will be of any use against Prince Ruvaen? Memory burns in my head of the ferocious fae riders who attacked the carriage carrying my brother and me down from the mountain convent. Astride their flaming unicorn mounts, they looked like demons, totally lost to their own bloodthirst and the sheer joy of slaughter. Had Vor and his people not arrived when they did, Theodre and I would not have survived.

A hideous shriek rips across the courtyard.

I spin on heel. A figure appears behind me at the top of the stairs, framed in the doorway. It takes me a few startled heartbeats to recognize Queen Roh, clad in nothing but a ratty shift, her hair straggling about her shoulders and down her back, her face riven with fury. I’ve never seen her like this. She has always presented herself in splendid trolde raiment, a glorious picture of queendom. Now she looks like a wraith. Or a lunatic.

Hael’s broad form steps between us, blocking Roh from my sight. But the queen is not interested in me. She cries out again, troldish words ringing against the surrounding stone walls. She holds out one finger, pointing straight at Vor. “What’s happening?” I whisper, tugging unobtrusively at Hael’s sleeve as the queen descends the steps and approaches Vor in the courtyard below.

Hael draws a breath through her flared nostrils. “Queen Roh accuses our king of betraying his people. Of abandoning them in their suffering.”

A chill grips my heart. I peer out beyond Hael’s arm, seeking Vor’s face. He has not yet donned his helmet and stands with his head back, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the queen. It’s difficult to discern anything through that mask of stern, kingly calm, but I watch Roh’s words strike home.He believes her.The thought intrudes against my will. I try to shake it away, but it persists.He does not blame me. But he believes what we did was wrong, that we should not have been together.

When we joined in the crystal-lit waters, we connected as profoundly as any two living beings can. In those moments, I received the whole of his feelings: the joy, the glory, the ecstasy. But also the underlying throb of guilt. Shame. It is those feelings—so dark, so insidious—which pulse in his soul now.

Roh reaches the base of the stairs and continues advancing. Guards step in to waylay her, but Vor motions them back. The dowager queen draws near enough to stand face-to-face with her king. She is as tall as he, but otherwise they share no similarities. Vor is shining and powerful in his armor, while she wears rags and looks as fragile as a doll. He could reach out and snap her neck without a thought. Yet she looks him in the eye, spewing her vitriol. When she is done, Vor responds coldly, a single, short sentence in troldish.

There’s a murmur of reaction among the onlookers. Hael catches a breath. I look up at her in time to glimpse a flash of fierceness in her eye. “What just happened?” I ask. “What did he say?”

My guard’s jaw works. “His Majesty has asked the queen if she and her pet priest seek to be banished like her traitor son.” The words are like rough-hewn rocks falling from her lips. Even without the sensitivity of my gods-gift, her feelings are painful. I take a step back.

Roh speaks again in a vicious hiss. Suddenly she raises one arm. I choke on a scream. She brandishes anurzulcrystal over her head. I want to cry out, to warn Vor, but cannot seem to form the words. Rather than attack her stepson, however, the queen slices her own palm. She holds her bleeding hand high, fist clenched. Blue blood drips through her fingers, into her hair, spattering her face, her bosom. Slowly, she turns, speaking to all those watching, her voice carrying across the yard.

“What is she saying?” I whisper, unsure Hael will hear me.

But my bodyguard answers softly: “The Deeper Dark will not be mocked. Not by any paltry efforts to appease or control it.” She shakes her head, blinking hard, as though coming out of some trance. Then: “She says if the king wants to spill good trolde blood, he should spill it where it matters. Where it will make a difference.”

My stomach knots. I know what the queen is referring to. Memory of a pitch-black chapel vibrating withurzulresonance fills my head. Worshippers of the dark, kneeling, wrapped in stone. A deep voice chanting, pulsing power from blood-fed crystals. The ceremony ofva-jor, intended to bring trolde souls and trolde bodies into a state of true stone. But the ceremony lacked one key component, or so Vor had informed me. The magic ofva-jor could only manifest via the blood of sacrifice.A willing sacrifice.

Is that what Roh is implying? That Vor should sacrifice himself to aid her own mad plan for Mythanar’s redemption? I cannot tear my gaze from her face, from the mad light in her eye. Absolute conviction shines through the veil of blue blood trickling down her features.

Vor signals. Guards hasten forward, take hold of the dowager queen, and drag her away. It’s too late. The image is already fixed in the minds of all who observed the exchange. How many of these people surrounding me share Roh’s belief and secret hope? How many see their king as she sees him: a traitor to his kind?

Vor’s face is harder than I’ve ever seen it. The face of a stranger. I want to call out his name, to beg him to turn to me, to meet my gaze and, even for a moment, transform back into the man I love. But I dare not. He must be a true trolde king now. Fixed in purpose, strong as bedrock. Even as the compulsion of mortal magic drags him from this world.

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