Bride of the Shadow King

The heartfasting ceremony is held at sunset in a small courtyard set apart from the rest of the gardens. I’ve not been permitted to see it in advance. It is a sacred place, or so I’m told.

My people walk with me through the Beldroth gardens. Umog Zu leads the way, her head bowed, her heavy staff striking the gravel path with every step she makes, her voice muttering. She has forgone her headdress for a heavy robe, the hood edged in uncut gems and pulled so low her face is hidden. She won’t play a role in the ceremony to come, which is a human tradition, not trolde. But she is determined to make certain my path is clear, so she walks before me, uttering prayers to ward off evil spirits and trickery.

Hael and Sul walk in my wake, side by side. Hael reluctantly agreed to bring no weapons, though I know she feels naked without them. Sul refused to don the human garb offered him for the ceremony, saying if I chose to make myself look ridiculous I was welcome to, but I couldn’t drag him down to such a level. I know he would prefer not to be present at all. But I’m glad to have him at my back.

The rest of my party trails behind, all come to witness this first and vital step in bringing the alliance to fruition. Not that they will be permitted into the sacred garden. I’m told they will observe through a hidden screen, but that Ilsevel and I will be, to all appearances, alone.

My heart pounds as we make our way through the winter-still garden of Beldroth. Almost against my will, I glance toward the quiet bench by the pond where I sat only three nights ago. I must not think about that night, must not think about the young woman whose company I shared. The time for such thoughts is past.

I focus ahead. An ivy-covered wall stands at the far end of the garden. A door set deep into the wall is just visible beneath the greenery. Larongar stands there waiting for me, flanked by his people. Three priests wait before the door. One holds a silver ewer, the next holds a basin, the third, a towel.

This is all very different from marriage ceremonies among my own people. But then, this isn’t a marriage ceremony. It’s a ceremony of intention—a sacred declaration of my promise to take Ilsevel as my wife.

My mouth goes dry. I’ve had so little interaction with the young woman. A few dances, a few public meals. That’s it. Once I asked Larongar if he would permit a private audience with the girl but was denied. Larongar told me I could speak to her as much as I liked once she was mine in the eyes of Nornala and holy unity. Until then, no. She would remain untouched.

I was shocked at his response. Did the king really think I intended, in a moment of privacy, to violate the girl in some way? And if he thought me so uncontrolled in my passions, how could he agree to give his daughter over to me? But I chose not to press the issue. And Ilsevel herself scarcely looked at me without a beaming and altogether false smile on her face. A smile which I’m sure masked unspoken dismay.

Gods above, am I really supposed to take her in my arms and make her mine? I must hope her Maiden’s Journey will give us both the time we need to settle into the idea.

I was versed ahead of time in the protocol of this ceremony. I’m to be cleansed here at the door, then must enter the sacred space alone. I incline my head to Larongar as I draw near. He offers a curt nod but says nothing. This ritual is a silent one. Even Umog Zu has ceased her muttered prayers and lapsed into stoic stillness.

I roll back the long, loose sleeves of the ill-fitting shirt and hold my hands over the basin. The first priest pours a stream of water from his ewer, and I quickly perform the handwashing as I was told—a single brush to the top and bottom of each hand, a single shake to scatter the droplets. I’m told this symbolizes how, whatever my past may have been, I am now ready to make myself pure and clean of both body and soul, to be given only to my bride and no other.

No other.

Ilsevel.

Ilsevel.

Only Ilsevel.

I hold my hands out to the third priest, who wipes them with care. Not a word is spoken, not even a prayer. The silence is unsettling. Though I know Hael and Sul are watching me, I refuse to glance their way as I turn to face the door. For a moment I stand frozen. Once I open that door, there is no going back.

But the truth is, I passed the point of no return a long time ago.

I take hold of the latch. The door swings outward when I pull. I step through into the silence of the garden beyond. Someone shuts the door behind me, and I am alone.

The sun is setting heavily now, streaking the sky with orange and purple. I’ve been informed that the heartfasting is ordinarily held at sunup, but Larongar agreed to make a concession, much to my relief. My eyes are better suited to the dimness.

The garden itself is as barren as the larger garden beyond the wall. Here and there I see little green buds on gray twigs. Signs of the turning season, perhaps. In a few weeks, what will this space be like? Will it be the bounty of greenery and aromatic blossoms my mother once described to me? I hope so.

In the center of the garden stands an ornate basin filled with sparkling water from which a statue rises. The deadness of the stone is unappealing to me, but a sculptor has shaped it with loving care. It’s an image of a man and a woman, naked, locked in an embrace. She stands with her back to him, turning her head to accept his kiss. One of his hands holds her jaw, gently drawing her to him, while the other hand cups her breast. It’s a tender embrace, both loving and sensual.

Troldefolk do not carve stone after the fashion of humans. I’ve never seen anything quite like that statue. Warmth floods my body, pools in my gut.

A door opens across the garden, drawing my attention. Through a veil of trailing vines steps a veiled figure in white and gold. Ilsevel. The door shuts behind her. She stands in place, and I count my breaths, waiting for her to make the first move. I can feel her looking at me through the heavy beading of her veil.

My throat thickens, making it difficult to breathe. This is much harder than I’d anticipated. But I must try to find some way to put her at ease. I lift my hand, offer a smile. Gods, but it’s grossly unfair that she should be given a veil to wear and I not! I have no idea how she reacts.

When I take a step toward the basin, however, she steps as well. That’s a good sign. I take another step, and she responds, staying in time with me. I make certain I keep my strides short, for we are supposed to make an equal number of paces to the center, meeting at the water. Our progress is painfully slow, but my heart races as though I sprint at full tilt. Slowly, slowly the space between us shrinks.

At last we stand together, the water on my right, Ilsevel a half step in front of me. I gaze down at her, trying to discern her face through that veil. The beading and embroidery are far too elaborate. Can she see me any better?

“Ilsevel Cyhorn, Princess of Gavaria,” I say solemnly.

She hesitates but a moment. Then, her voice muffled through the thickness of the veil, she answers, “Vor, King of Mythanar, Lord Protector of the Under Realm.”

I draw a long breath. The words I am about to speak are strange to me; I learned them less than an hour ago. But when I speak, I want her to hear truth in my voice. So I must not falter. I must not stumble.

“By the Blade of Tanatar shall I spill my blood for your protection,” I say, my voice low but earnest. “By the Darkness of Lamruil shall I reveal and discover those secrets which are to be ours alone. By the Spear of Tanyl shall I provide for your needs. By the Amulet of Elawynn shall I seek your mercy and your grace. By the Knot of Nornala shall I bind myself to you, unbreakable and true. By the Eye of Aneirin shall I hold myself to these vows, from this day until the sundering of death. Will you accept them, Ilsevel?”

I wait. For a terrible breathless moment.

Then, very softly, she answers, “I will.”

My hands tremble as I reach for the front of her gown. One by one, I unfasten the buttons securing her cloak across her bosom. It comes apart, revealing the low-cut dress beneath. The neckline plunges nearly to her navel, and the white fabric clings to the curves of her breasts. She’s quivering like a leaf.

I take care not to let my gaze linger on her body but focus on the impression of her face through the veil. Leaning to one side, I dip my hand in the water. Then I rest two fingers at the hollow of her throat.

“By the seven gods,” I say, and draw a line down her breastbone. “By the seven names.” I trace a circle. My fingertips burn at the touch of her bare flesh. Her pulse is racing wildly. “I pledge my heart to thee.” Droplets trail down her skin as I draw the second circle and finish with a line between the two. The heartfasting sigil.

Slowly I withdraw my hand. And wait. Anxious, though I cannot say why.

She takes a long, shuddering breath. Is she frightened? Or am I mistaken in thinking there’s something else in her tone? Something much warmer than fear.

Something that calls to my blood.

She reaches out to me, her hands working the laces of the strange, tight-fitted shirt I wear. She pulls the laces apart, baring my chest. Her hands tremble as hard as mine did. For some moments she does not speak. Is she looking at me? Taking in the sight of my exposed torso? Does she like what she sees? My blue-gray skin is so different from hers. Among my own kind I am considered handsome, and I have never lacked for female admiration. How must I look to her human gaze?

I wish I could speak to her, wish I could offer her some sort of comfort or reassurance. But I feel the unseen eyes watching us from hidden spyholes. I must maintain the dignity and solemnity of this ceremony.

“By the Blade of Tanatar shall I spill my blood for your protection,” she says at last, in that same low tone that doesn’t quite sound like Ilsevel. Perhaps her nerves are making it difficult for her to speak. “By the Darkness of Lamruil shall I reveal and discover those secrets which are to be ours alone.”

She continues through the names of each god. And when she asks if I will accept her vows, I answer solemnly, “I will.”

My bride-to-be turns slightly to dip her hand in the water. “By the seven gods,” she says, placing her two fingers at the hollow of my throat. A spark like fire ignites in my body at her touch and runs in a line of heat as she trails her fingers down my chest. “By the seven names.” She paints the sigil: the two circles and the line. “I pledge my heart to thee.”

She lifts her head. I feel the force of her eyes meeting mine through the fabric of that veil. An almost overwhelming urge comes over me to lift that veil, to look upon her face. To see and to know this girl to whom I have just made such solemn vows. Because something is here, between us . . . something not quite what I felt when I danced with her only just last night. Something in this moment, this solemn moment of oath-making that makes me think of . . . of . . .

No.

I give my head a single sharp shake. My bride, startled, draws back a step, catching her breath. But it doesn’t matter. The deed is done. The pledge is made.

We stand a moment longer, looking at each other. Ought I to say something? Offer some word of . . . thanks, perhaps? But how foolish that would be. How can I thank her for being a pawn in the games of kings? Particularly when I myself am one of those kings.

Instead, I simply bow from the waist. She answers with a curtsy. Without a word, she turns and flits from the garden, vanishing through the far door. I won’t see her again until she has completed her Maiden’s Journey and joins me at the Between Gate for the trek into the Under Realm.

By that time surely I will have managed to purge the strange bi-colored eyes of her sister out of my head.

I touch the damp place on my chest where the invisible sigil rests. I can still feel the trembling warmth of her fingertips. A growl rumbling in my throat, I turn and retreat from the yard.