Page 71 of Heart of the Shadow King

Once I open my eyes, and Theodre is there. He startles when my gaze catches his and pulls back out of my range of vision. He reappears a moment later, tentative, as though afraid of being seen. “Faraine?”

I blink. Slowly. So slowly, I’m uncertain how much time passes between the falling and rising of my heavy lids. But when I look out at the world again at last, Theodre is still there, bowed over me, his face uncomfortably close to my own. “There you are!” he breathes. “Can you hear me, Faraine? I can’t tell if you’re in there. You’ve gone rather . . . spiky. They’re telling me it’s troll magic, but they won’t say anything else. Can you speak? Or give me a sign? It’s been three days now. Three days since you . . . and they . . . and we . . .” He runs a hand down his face, pulling at the dark circles under his eyes. I’ve never seen my brother’s perfect features so haggard. “I don’t know how to help you, Fairie.”

Perhaps were I not so deep injor,the sound of my childhood name would stir something in me. It’s what Ilsevel and Aurae once called me. Before they were stolen from me. Before they were brutally slaughtered. I have no memory of Theodre calling me that, not once in the entire course of our lives. But he is my last remaining sibling. Which means I should feel some sort of bond to him. Shouldn’t I?

I don’t. I can’t. Thejoris too deep.

I close my eyes and sink back under the crystals. Their resonance hums in and around and through me, a cocoon of safety.

Suddenly a hard line of shrieking white brilliance stabs through my head. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I react, recoil, desperate to draw myjormore closely around my spirit. Another stab lances straight through every layer of protection. With it comes a voice. Or a feeling. I’m not certain which, but I instantly recognize to whom it belongs.

“Get up, Faraine. Enough of this lolling about. You’re needed now. Up!”

A third stab, this one sharp enough to cause real pain such as I should not feel through myjor.I try once more to pull the vibrations around me, but they’re too fractured. A discordant line ripples through the humming harmony, shattering crystal as it goes. Layers ofjorpeel away until I come to, lying on a narrow bed in a large, cold chamber of stone. My skin feels raw and exposed.

Pulling my reluctant eyelids open, I gaze up at Maylin, who stands beside my bed. We’re in the palace infirmary. Behind the witch hovers the square, craggy face of Madame Ar, the healer. Her hard brow is puckered with concern.“Aruka,”she says, addressing Maylin and not me.“Aruka,I’m not sure it’s best for her to be moved at this time. Humans are not built for such deepjor, and she’s been in it now for five days. It would be wiser to—”

“To what?” Maylin snaps. “To let her sulk until this world falls apart? Wake up, Ar! You’re out of time.” She grabs me by my wrist, her fingers icy cold against my newly-liberated flesh. “Come, girl,” she says, pulling me upright. “We haven’t a moment to waste.”

Ar growls a series of protests in troldish but makes no move to interfere when Maylin forces me to my feet and leads me from the infirmary. Hael is not present. I note this with a vague sort of awareness, not strong enough to be called curiosity. She has been near every other time I’ve opened my eyes. I should probably wonder where she is, how she’s been convinced to abandon her post. But I cannot summon the will to care.

No one interferes as Maylin leads me through the shadowed halls of the palace. There are cracks in the floors, half-collapsed walls partially shored up. I note them dispassionately, more information which I take in without feeling. Every trolde we encounter stands aside, assuming an attitude of calm, their heads bowed, their hands folded. Only their eyes move to watch us pass. These gleam with expressions ranging from wary unease to outright fear. A vibration of calm holds them at bay, however. Maylin’s influence; I recognize her particular resonance. I did not realize her gift could extend so broadly as to captivate the entire palace. I’m not surprised. I’m not horrified. I’m merely aware.

We continue to the gardens. Here are more signs of shocking damage. So many of the delicate crystal formations are now shattered, the living gems dull in death. There’s no sign of mothcats anywhere, only trolde. Tall, silent trolde. Standing in the shadows, watching Maylin and me. They are not like the folk in the palace; no tell-tale resonance betrays Maylin’s magic stirring in their souls. They are . . . empty. So still, so silent, one could almost forget they are alive. They wear no clothing save for simple loincloths, and their pale hides gleam in the low light ofdimness.

I know who they are: the Children of Arraog. Followers of Targ and his death cult. Vor’s enemies. I should wonder why they’re gathered here. I should wonder why they show no surprise at the sight of Maylin leading me through their midst. I should wonder. But I don’t. Everything simply is. Everything simply happens or it doesn’t. And here am I, in the midst of it. Strong, hard. Unfearing.

Maylin continues with determined speed along the broken paths. There are places where the ruin is too great, and she must find a detour. This she does with ease, as though she already knows the way through this unrecognizable landscape. She guides me to the final slope, leads me up to the Urzulhar. More people gather on the hillside. Most of them are the silent-souled Children of Arraog, but there are others as well, men and women whose souls vibrate with barely-suppressed terror, but who stand in submission, wrapped in Maylin’s resonance like chains. Their eyes fasten upon me when I draw near. They strain against Maylin’s influence, trying to resist, to cry out. It’s an incredible feat of control to hold so many souls in thrall at once. What will happen when they inevitably burst free?

Queen Roh waits at the crest of the rise. Standing between two large crystals, she is clad in splendid trolde garb which is somehow both revealing and regal. A dragon-wing headdress adorns her brow, lending greater majesty to her already impressive height. Her gaze fixes on me as I approach, her expression so hungry, it should frighten me.

I let Maylin lead me to her without once faltering. And when I stand before her—clad in a simple white gown torn to rags, my head uncrowned, my hair limp and lusterless about my shoulders—it is she who goes down on her knees before me.

“Kurspari-glur,” she says. “Fist of the Deeper Dark. I bless you in the name of all true children of the Dark. It is in our darkest hour that our god sends salvation.” She bows down to kiss the ground at my feet. “So, we will go into the Dark with our souls prepared. Blessed be the Dark! Blessed be his instrument!”

A rolling echo of trolde voices rumbles across the gardens, resounding all the way to the cavern ceiling overhead.“Morar tor Grakanak!Blessed be the Fist of the Dark!”

I turn from the prostrate queen to Maylin. There is no question in my gaze, no question in my heart. I merely look. Maylin, still holding my wrist, squeezes slightly. “Come,” she says. “It is time.”

Roh makes way for the witch to lead me into the center of the circle. The tallurzulstones pulse gently with blue light. I can only just feel them against myjor.They give an impression of sleep on the verge of waking.

Maylin takes both my hands in hers. “This is your final test,” she says. Her eyes are both gold, shining with the powerful intensity of magic she is even now exerting. “If you do this, if you succeed, you will be ready to face her. To face Arraog.” She presses my fingers tightly. “It is a difficult test. But I know you can do it. Remember, stone is the natural state of troldefolk. Not all of them realize it; you will meet some resistance. But you must push through. The resistance of ten thousand trolde souls is still nothing compared to what you will face with Arraog, but it is the best I can do.” She closes her eyes and leans forward, pressing her forehead against mine. “This world is running out of time,” she says. “I feel her, deep down. We’ve been connected since they spilled Zur’s blood and it wasn’t enough. I am with her, and she with me. Every hour of every day. And she is coming. Soon. Tomorrow or the next day. A blink of an eye to a being like her! There’s no stopping her, unless . . . unless . . .”

Her resonance ripples through me, strikes against myjorso hard, I cannot help feeling her desperation. I suck in a single sharp breath.

“I sense it in you,” Maylin breathes. “You are so strong in your gift! The gods did not shirk when they blessed you. They meant you for this role even as they meant me for mine. We will both perform our parts, Faraine. We will not disappoint the gods.” She steps back then, releasing her hold on one of my hands but maintaining her grip on the other. She turns to Roh, and says, “Bring forth the willing sacrifice.”

Roh whirls, the jewels adorning her gown and person glittering. She raises both hands above her head. Hundreds of trolde voices burst into song, uplifted in dark harmony that ripples down the hillside and spreads across the garden ruins. A deep-throated, multi-faceted chant which causes the whole world to respond. The Urzulhar Circle lights up, a clear bolt of blue light shooting straight to the high stone ceiling. The energy is tremendous.

Drums beat, a driving rhythm beneath the chant, pulsing so low, I feel their reverberation in my bones. A procession makes its way through the gardens. I’ve seen something like it before: the two tall, naked women, so silent and beautiful, with long white hair covering their bosoms; the six drummers, solemn and empty-eyed, beating their skin drums; and the six powerful litter-bearers, carrying an open platform on their shoulders. Targ sits in the middle of that platform, sunk deep intojor. His body is covered in stone, his soul a void deep enough to swallow up unwary souls.

And before him, seated cross-legged and naked save for her own covering of loose white hair—Hael.

My heart thuds. Myjorshudders, threatening to break. Why is Hael here? Why does she ride with Targ? She isn’t . . . she can’t be . . . But no, I cannot think this. To think it will be to feel it, and to feel is unacceptable. I close my eyes, breathe out slowly, and let thejorin my center spread once more. Crystals tear through the skin of my hands, my shoulders, along my jaw, slowly covering my flesh.

All the Children of Arraog bow as their priest passes, their chant rolling like an eternal river. When the procession reaches the top of the rise, the two women and the six drummers move to encircle the Urzulhar, forming an outer ring. Setting down their burden, the litter bearers stand aside, heads bowed, hands folded in supplication before their breasts. Targ rises from his seat in the center. He moves slowly, with great purpose, as though propelled by the very breath of his god. He extends a hand to Hael. Never opening her eyes, she accepts it, allows herself to be drawn to her feet. She steps down from the litter, her movements stiff and controlled. Even through myjor, I sense how valiantly she fights to maintain her stoicism. There is nothing of Maylin’s resonance about her. Her body, mind, and soul are entirely at her own command.

She approaches me, her hand resting lightly in Targ’s. Though she is a great trolde warrior and towers over me, she is dwarfed in comparison to the priest. Head bowed, she keeps her eyes downcast until she stands directly before me, close enough that I might easily reach out and touch her. Only then does she lift her gaze to mine.

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