Page 3 of Heart of the Shadow King

This is different. This is emptiness. Hollow and immense.

Panic hums in my veins. I want to fling myself out of this bed, to stagger across the room, shouting for Vor to come back and wrap me in his arms. To cover me in his kisses until I feel our connection awaken once more. Only the weakness in my limbs, the pain still quivering in my bones, keeps me rooted in place. I grip dust-covered blankets with both fists, gritting my teeth. When at last some measure of panic subsides, I catch up my pendant again, lifting it to the level of my eyes.

There is that darkness. Deep in its heart. A stain that wasn’t there before. What can it mean? Are my powers fading? Surely my gift cannot have left me entirely if Vor’s kiss could reawaken it so. Pinching my lip between my teeth, I turn the stone around in my fingers. There was a time I would have given anything—anything—to be rid of this gift, this source of constant agony. But without it, who am I?

“You’re gods-gifted. Bestowed with divine blessings intended for divine purpose.”

I frown. Whose voice is that, rattling around in my head? My own delusion, no doubt. That pathetic part of me that always wanted to believe the gods I’ve served with such devotion couldn’t have made such a terrible mistake when they gifted me.

Pain ebbs at last, like the inevitable turn of the tide. It will return, of course. But for the moment, I can breathe more easily. Rising, I wait for the room to stop tilting, then try a step. My legs seem capable of bearing my weight. The rejuvenating pool repaired my broken ankle, as well as all the other cuts and bruises scoring my body. I whisper a swift prayer of thanks and, a little dizzy, cross to the window and totter out onto the balcony. Gripping the stone rail with both hands, I gaze out over the city. The last time I looked upon this view, the terror of the city folk had risen in a black wave and washed over me, drowning and pulverizing all at once. Now? Nothing. I see the city towers and rooftops, the winding roads. I see the distant cavern walls and the many bridges arching over the chasm which surrounds Mythanar. I see it all. But I do not feel it.

Divine purpose . . .

The chamber door scrapes open, pushing debris across the floor. I whirl in place and grip the window frame. My heart jolts with the hope that Vor has returned, and his name is on my parted lips. But it is Hael who steps into the chamber. Her pale skin looks strangely gray, the soft flesh almost the same shade as thedorgaragstone scarring her jaw and part of one cheek. She’s covered in bruises, cuts, and dark blue bloodstains. The last I’d seen her, she was defending me fiercely from cave devils, guarding my way as I climbed to the circle of stones to make my desperate stand.

“Hael!” I exclaim.

Her gaze flashes to meet mine. Deep shadows ring her eyes. She’s always been fierce and hard, difficult even for my gods-gift to penetrate. But this is something more. Something worse.

“Hael,” I say again, and take a step toward her, leaving the support of the window frame. I wrap my arms around my middle. “Are you all right? Were you hurt in the battle?”

She stares at me. Opens her mouth. Closes it again. Then, very softly, she whispers: “Is it really you?”

Oh. Of course. The last time my loyal bodyguard saw me, I was dead. I swallow and nod. “The gods did not see fit to take me. Not yet. I’m here. I’m alive.”

She shakes her head. “I did not believe it,” she breathes. “I . . . When Vor told me . . . But I thought he must have lost his mind to madness.”

“No, Hael. I—”

Whatever else I might have said is cut off. The great warrior woman collapses suddenly to her knees, burying her face in her hands. I gape at her, shocked. On reflex, I grip my crystal, preparing for some onslaught of terrible emotion. But none comes. I see the signs of a heart torn in two but feel none of it. It is still a terrible sight. Hael is so strong, so proud, so impenetrable. What could possibly bring her so low?

“Hael?” I venture and take a step toward her. Immediately the room pitches again. I stagger and grip the back of a chair as fresh sparks of pain light up my limbs. Blackness narrows my vision, but I squeeze my eyes shut and fight against it, determined not to succumb.

When the pain subsides, my ears are filled with the broken sound of sobs. I draw a deep, steadying breath. Crossing the room, I kneel beside the trolde woman and tentatively place a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t seem to be aware of me. Between her terrible sobs, she growls out troldish words I do not understand. Until one. One single word that stands out to my ear:“Yok!”

A stone sinks in my gut.

Yok. Her brother. The young guardsman.

Something happened to the boy. Something terrible. During the attack. He would have been out there, of course, fighting them, and . . . and . . .

My sacrifice may have saved thousands. But I wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t strong enough to save him.

I sink down heavily beside Hael. Tears sting my own eyes, tears of pain, tears of frustration, helplessness. Futility. I have nothing to offer, no comfort, no reassurance. Nothing but my presence. So, I put my arm around the trolde woman and hold her as she mutters the same phrase over and over again like a prayer:“Morar tor Grakanak. Morar tor Grakanak.”

2

VOR

If I had my way, I would be down in the lower city with my warriors, hunting through the streets to make certain every singlewogghahas truly fled Mythanar. That, or I ought to be tending the wounded or helping to gather the dead and prepare their bodies. Any of these tasks, no matter how grim or dreadful, would be preferable to sitting in my throne room, receiving reports, and making myself visible to the shaken members of my court as they come and go.

And yet, here I sit. My hands clasp the carved dragon heads that make up the arms of the ancient seat from which generations of Shadow Kings have ruled this realm. My face is as hard and immovable as a statue, revealing neither horror nor relief. I am what my people require—stone. Unmoved and unmoving.

Thick blue blood oozes from a gash across Chancellor Houg’s forehead as she kneels at my feet. A trailing droplet makes its way down her temple to her jaw. “My people are still working to produce a final tally of all who died,” she informs me in her customary drone. She might as well be reciting the agenda for an upcoming festival or relating plans for a new mining venture. “There is reason to hope the casualties were not as considerable as initially feared. It seems thewogghawere drawn toward the palace. The garden specifically. Most did not pause for slaughter.”

A chill travels down my spine. I’m still uncertain what exactly Faraine did or how she did it. I don’t know if she knows. But something about the Urzulhar Circle attracted the poisonedwoggha. There must be a connection of some kind, if only I could see it.

Only when Houg has finished her report do I ask, “And what of the infirmary? Madame Ar must be supported in her efforts.”

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