Page 84 of Heart of the Shadow King

“You’re banishing me?”

“No. No, Hael, my friend, I am saving you. I don’t want your end to be here, crushed in darkness.”

“I won’t leave you, my King.”

“You must. Sul is gathering survivors from the lower city. He will lead them out if he can. You must help him. The two of you must find a new home for our people.”

She doesn’t try to argue further. For this I am grateful. She allows me to help her back into her bed, squeezing my hands like a timid child. Several of her wounds have reopened, but she does not seem to notice them. “I will find someone to change your bandages,” I say.

Even as the words cross my lips, I realize my error. Who is left to act as nurse or caretaker? The palace is full of enstoned bodies. Without another word, I go to Ar’s workroom, fetch fresh cloths and water. I know little enough of the healer’s arts, but I make do, removing the most blood-soaked of Hael’s bandages, washing the wounds, and binding them once more. Someone had the forethought to apply Ar’s sticky healing salve to the worst cuts, and Hael’s tough trolde hide is already knitting itself back together. But those bastards carved her up badly. She will bear the scars the rest of her life.

“I wish I could give you time to rest,” I mutter as I finish securing the largest bandage around her torso. “But there is no time. You must ride atlusterling.Can you do it, Hael?”

“I can. I will.” She looks up at me, her gaze searching and intent. “But what of you, Vor? What will you do?”

I cut the end of the cloth roll and tuck it firmly into place. “I will be King of Mythanar,” I say and step back, holding her gaze. “Until the bitter end.”

35

FARAINE

I twist my wrist, trying for the hundredth time to find an angle from which I might slip from these manacles. Though they are not tight, they hold me firmly. There’s no getting free. Not that it makes any difference. Even if I escaped these chains and burst through this door, where would I go?

I breathe out a sigh ending with a curse. Didn’t Vor promise to send someone to tend to my needs? I’ve been strung up here for I don’t know how long. Hungry. Thirsty. Dirty. More than anything else I crave a chance to bathe, to cleanse myself of this dust coating which clings to my limbs. No one comes, though. Who is left? Everyone who once served in the palace is now wrapped in stone. Vor will have discovered that by now.

Or perhaps he never made that promise at all. Perhaps I imagined our whole encounter. I’m slowly going mad, trapped in this cell, deprived of light, of movement. Deprived of hope. It makes sense that my suffering mind would conjure an image of my husband come to confront me with my own guilt.

My head hangs to my breast. Shame wraps my heart, heavier than anyjor. How have I come to this? It wasn’t so long ago I spent my days hidden away in a prayer chamber in a lonely mountain convent. Sheltered from the world. Struggling to suppress the so-called gift which plagued me. At least then I bore no delusions of grandeur. No one could have convinced me I had some great role to play in the fate of worlds. A mighty dragon-slayer, the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy . . . a laughable idea! My old self would never have indulged in such foolishness. She accepted her destiny of solitude, devoting what little heart she had left to love her sisters.

Now they are gone. Both sisters. And I am here. Isolated yet again. Facing down my imminent doom.

It is not the prospect of death which horrifies me. I have died before; I know how easy it is in the end. Though a slow death by degrees, walled up in this chamber will indeed be horrible, I can accept it if that is what the gods have willed. Besides, the rising dragon will bring all the weight of this world crashing down on my head soon enough, putting an end to my misery. But what of beyond? Surely I, murderer that I am, can never ascend to the gracious light of my goddess. There is no place for me in her great song.

No, I am bound for the Dark. I have sacrificed many offerings to the god of this world, and he will claim me as his own.

The door opens.

A sudden glare oflorstlight slices painfully across my eyes. I gasp, turning away, half convinced death has come for me. A thud of heavy footsteps; athunk, followed by a slosh of water. Flinching, I crack one eyelid and peer out at the shadowy figure who has entered my cell. My addled mind tries to tell me it’s the servant Vor promised. But no. The man who turns to me now, his face bathed in whitelorstglow is no servant.

I stare. This is a dream. An apparition conjured by my own desperation.

“You must be thirsty,” Vor says.

I am. Painfully, powerfully thirsty. And that’s how I know I must be awake. Surely my dreaming self would not so greedily accept the flask he lifts to my lips. I gulp too fast. Clear, cold water spills down my chin and the front of my gown. Vor withdraws the flask, giving me a chance to swallow and recover myself before he offers it again. Once I have drunk my fill, he steps back, his gaze never quite meeting mine. He looks up at the manacles gripping my wrists. “I do not have the key to unlock these,” he says musingly, more to himself than to me. “Sul must have it on him. But maybe . . .”

Setting aside the flask, he slips a knife from his belt and begins to fiddle with the manacles, doing something I cannot see. Is he trying to pick the lock? To cut through the soft lead? I don’t know. I can’t think clearly, not when he’s standing so close to me. His powerful chest is so near my face, I could swear I hear his heartbeat. The scent of him overwhelms me—that mixture of earth and granite, of icy streams and molten heat which I had almost forgotten. Now it floods my nostrils and calls memories springing to life. Memories of our bodies tangled together, as closely intwined as any two people can be. Memories of those powerful arms enfolding me, of those hands, those lips, laying claim to every inch of me.

My breath catches. I close my eyes, struggling not to let my body lean forward and press against him, hungry for just a taste of that closeness we once shared. Vor stiffens. Though we are not touching, I feel the tension lock up his limbs, his chest. If these lead walls and lead chains didn’t block my gods-gift, what feelings would I receive rippling from his soul right now? Awareness of my hunger? Disgust? Revulsion? Fear?

Surely it is only wishful thinking that tries to tell mehungervibrates in the air between us.

He steps back, his breath audible in the stillness. His eyes glitter, gazing down at me. “I cannot undo your bonds,” he says. “They are warded. I shall have to fetch the key.”

I nod, dropping my eyelids, too ashamed to meet his eyes. Of course, he must go. Again. Go to find his brother. Go and leave me once more in the dark, wondering if I dreamed this moment. He turns away. I draw a breath as though preparing to plunge headlong into a dark current. His leaving feels like that loss of air, the emptiness of his absence like the chill grip of an endless river.

But he doesn’t go. He steps to one side, beyond range of thelorststone. Then he returns, a bucket in one hand. He sets it down. Cold water foaming with soap sloshes over the brim and pools around my bare feet. Vor kneels, plunges a silken cloth into the suds. The next moment, he stands, facing me, the wet cloth in his hand. His eyes meet mine, hold me transfixed for three long breaths.

He reaches out. Presses the cloth to my temple.

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