Page 41 of Heart of the Shadow King

She shrugs. “I’ll teach you. Now that you’ve finally deigned to show your pretty face. But not yet. There are other things you must learn first.”

To my surprise, the crystals on either side of me go suddenly still. I turn sharply. One moment they were alive with energy, and now? They’re just like rocks from my own world. Hard, cold. Dead? I can’t say for sure. “What happened?” I ask, running my hand up and down the smooth surface of the nearest stone, searching for something and not finding it. “Where did . . . where did the life go?”

“Nowhere.” The old witch takes a few steps forward until she too can reach out and touch the crystal. “It’s as alive as ever it was. You’re the one who’s changed. Whatever control you thought you had over your gift has slipped. But don’t worry. We’ll soon put you to rights. You’ll be stronger than ever.”

Dropping my hand away from the crystal, I take several steps back. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Don’t be dense, girl. Didn’t you hear a word I said the other night? Your gift is undergoing its natural progression, getting stronger, fuller. Closer to what it will be when it reaches its peak. But you and I are going to need to speed that process along. Mythanar cannot wait.”

“But how do you know? How do you know I have this potential? How do you know you can train me, and—”

“Because I used to be you.”

I blink several times, shocked both by the statement and the vehemence with which it was spoken.

Maylin drops her hand from the great stone, totters over to one of the smaller crystals, and perches on its jagged surface. How her bony backside can find a comfortable seat is beyond me, but she rests her hands and chin on the end of her walking stick and peers up at me. Her lined face looks suddenly older than ever, and her eyes gleam softly.

“In my day,” she says, “gods-gifts weren’t something bestowed upon king’s children. It was a sacred event, granted only to those devoted to the temples and the gods themselves. I was prepared from infancy for my dedication at the altar of Nornala. Before memory or knowledge of self were part of my identity, hands shaped me to bear my gift. But as you know from experience . . . some gifts are received with greater joy than others.”

Her gaze slides from mine, blue eyes circling the stones slowly, one after the other, as though taking their measurements. Finally, she sighs. “The pain of our particular gift is indescribable to those who have not experienced it. I suffered mine without comfort or relief for many long years. There were times when I begged the priests to put me out of my misery. But they were too afraid of offending the gods. They kept assuring me my gift must have been given for a reason.

“In the end my only recourse was total isolation, far from the constant assault of other people’s emotions. So, I became an anchoress. Walled up in a windowless cell high in the Ettrian Mountains. It was accessible by nothing but a narrow track, often cut off by ice and snow. Only a few of the most faithful dared climb to pay homage and leave food at the small trap opening atop the domed roof. Otherwise, I was alone. For three agonizing years, I was alone.

“Then he came.”

“Who?” I whisper.

“His name was Zur.” Maylin tilts her head. The necklaces around her neck clink and clatter, their inner glow pulsing a bit brighter than before. “He told me he was trolde. Brother to the Shadow King, an emissary from the Under Realm. I didn’t much care and told him to be on his way. What business had I with trolde after all?

“Away he went. But he was back the next night and the night after. I felt his approach from a long ways off, so sensitive was my gift. But his trolde nature made his spirit less offensive to my sensibilities, and I found I could bear his presence, at least for short periods. I grew to look forward to his visits, though I never would have admitted as much to anyone. After three years of isolation, to hear another voice, even one so harsh and growling, was heaven to my starved soul.

“He told me about his people. Their ways, their religion. Their God of the Deeper Dark, whom we know as Lamruil, but whom his people callMorar tor Garkanok.He told me tales of their heroes, their monsters, their mighty deeds. Of cities built in the darkness below the surface of the world, lit up withlorstlights and living gems beyond the imagination of mortals. In my dark cell, where the few candles remaining to me had burned down to mere nubs, my skeletal frame wrapped in furs, my spirit shriveled to a thread of nothing, his words came alive. They played out in the shadows around me, across the domed mud and wattle walls.

“Eventually—not at first; he was afraid of frightening me—but eventually, he told me of theAthtar-garag.That is the Song of Fire and Stone. It is an ancient trolde prophecy, foretelling the end of their world when the Living Fire would wake and rise, breaking their realm apart.”

“The dragon,” I breathe.

She nods slowly, though otherwise she does not seem to be aware of me anymore, lost as she is in her tale. “TheAthtar-garag, however, contains a single verse of hope. A forestalling of the inevitable doom. It goes as such:

“Kurspari-glur, almuth tor Grakanak

Hirak Arraog nar ek-yam!”

The troldish words rumble in her chest as naturally as though she were born to the language. I recognize only one word—kurspari.I’ve been called that myself.

“What are you saying?” I ask, frowning. “Why would an ancient trolde song speak of a . . . human?”

“Not just any human.” For an instant, one of the old witch’s eyes seems to flare with golden light. But she blinks, and it’s gone. Two clear blue eyes stare back at me. “Kurspari-gluris the Woman of Crystals.”

“And the rest of the line?”

She tips her head to one side. “Have you not bothered to learn troldish yet, girl?”

“I can sayhello,goodbye,andhorseshit. I’m still learning.”

Maylin snorts. “Well, as long as you’ve got the basics.” She shrugs and sits up a little straighter on her crystal seat. “The verse roughly translates to something like: ‘The Woman of Crystals, Fist of the Deeper Dark. Behold! The dragon waketh not.’ Though trolde speak is hardly so flowery.”

Her words roll around inside my head, trying to find a place to settle. Before I can begin to make sense of them, however, Maylin continues her tale. “Based on this little bit of ancient verse, the priests of the Deeper Dark agreed that doom could be forestalled in the Under Realm by the hand of a mortal woman blessed by the gods. Gods-gifts, as you know, are not bestowed upon the fae, who are born with magic in their blood. The gods hand out their gifts only to we lesser creatures, who need all the help we can get.

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