Bride of the Shadow King

Those eyes.

Every inch of my body is alive with fire, still urging me to take hold of my desire and burn us both into an oblivion of bliss. But I can’t. Because those eyes . . . they don’t belong to my bride. They don’t belong to the woman with whom I swam beneath the Yun Falls. They don’t belong to the woman whose soul sang with mine when we entered the waters and lost ourselves only to emerge reborn.

Those aren’t Ilsevel’s eyes.

I stand there, my question still ringing in my ears, staring down into that upturned face. Even as I watch, little bits of magic spark to life beneath her skin, melting away the outermost layers of perception, revealing the truth beneath.

A guttural cry wrenches from my throat. I shake her hand free and leap back a pace. My body quakes, all arousal abruptly doused in a flood of shock. Instinct drives me to reach for a weapon. There’s nothing in the room—Hael made certain of that. So I lunge for the table, grab one of the chalices, sloshing qeiese as I brandish it over my head.

She screams, cowering away from me. Her foot catches on her skirt, and she falls, sprawling so that the split reveals all of her long, pale legs. Scrambling, she pushes herself across the floor into the corner of the room. There she huddles, staring up at me with those wide, fear-filled eyes.

Those eyes . . .

Those eyes which belong to . . .

“Faraine?”

My arm trembles, the chalice wobbling in my grasp. Violence rushes in my veins, commanding me to attack, insisting even now that it’s an assassin who crouches on my floor, the last of powerful magic spells melting away from her features. I fight to master myself, force my arm to lower. “Faraine, is that you?”

With a last burst of sparking energy, the final spells fall away. The air stinks with broken enchantment, so foul and thick, I can’t believe I hadn’t realized it was there to begin with. Maybe this is a dream? Yes, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? I’ve been fighting so hard not to think of this face before me, not to remember those eyes of hers, one blue, one gold, framed by those dark lashes. Perhaps my mind is simply offering up an image of what my heart has secretly longed for. If I can wake, I’ll return to reality, to the bride even now waiting for me. To Ilsevel.

But though I blink and shake my head and blink again, the vision does not vanish. She’s there. Faraine. Her knees drawn up to her chest, one strap of her white gown slipped down her arm, her hair tumbled and tousled where my fingers had played with it. Faraine. The other sister.

Not my bride.

“I don’t understand.” I press my palm to my forehead as though I can somehow push sense into my own brain. “I don’t understand. Ilsevel . . .”

“I’m sorry, my king.” Her voice is so soft. So sweet. That solemn, serious voice with the unexpected depths which had struck me with such force from the very first time I heard it. How could I have ever mistaken that voice for anyone else’s?

My lips curl back from my teeth. “Where is Ilsevel?”

Faraine looks at me. She swallows hard. Her lashes rise and fall in a single blink.

“What is going on?” My voice is harsher than I intend it to be. She cringes, turning her face toward the wall as though I’ve struck her. Gods, how I hate myself for causing her such fear! But in that moment, I can offer no comfort. “Tell me!” I snarl.

She looks up at me, her eyes large and luminous in the crystal glow, swimming with unshed tears. Her lips move soundlessly, but when the words finally come, they’re clear enough. “Ilsevel is dead.”

I recoil. “Dead? But . . . but she was . . .”

She was just here in my arms. Her mouth responding to my kisses and drawing me in for more, her fear melting away to delighted trembling at my touch. I’d seen her, heard her, felt her, breathed her, tasted her. Ilsevel. My bride, my chosen bride.

But none of it was true. The realization comes over me with all the force of a thunderclap. Ilsevel was never here. The girl I held in my arms, riding before me on the morleth. The girl with whom I’d swum in the sacred waters. To whom I’d made my holy vows. She was never even here.

“Hira!” I speak in sharp command. The lorst lights obey, filling the chamber with their glow. Faraine winces and bows her head. For an instant, the spells she wore seem to wriggle and writhe around her, trying to reassert themselves. Now that I know they’re present, it’s all too easy to wave them aside, looking through the miasma of broken enchantment to the truth beneath.

“Tell me what happened,” I demand.

Her shoulders rise to her ears. Is that another spasm of pain I see flashing across her face? I should not speak to her so sternly. But what can I do? Apologize? I’m not yet even certain whether or not she’s my enemy.

So, I stand my ground, maintaining a cold silence. She reaches out, grabs the side of the bed, and pulls herself upright. Her skirts flare and open, revealing far more than they hide, and I cannot help the instinctive way my body reacts to that sight. I avert my gaze, staring at a crystal sconce across the room rather than at her. From the tail of my eye, I watch her step over to the bed and sit down heavily, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress.

“It was on her Maiden’s Journey.” Her voice is thin, tight. “The party stopped to make prayers at the Ashryn Shrine. No one thought Prince Ruvaen would venture so far north. He’s never been seen in that part of the country before.” She goes silent. I listen to her draw three long breaths. Then: “There were no survivors.”

I find a chair by the little table, pull it out, take a seat. A chill passes over my skin. My bare skin. I glance idly at my shirt, lying in a puddle on the floor where I’d tossed it after Ilsevel—after Faraine—after this stranger begged me to remove it. Just before her eager hands began to explore my body.

Ilsevel.

Dead.

I don’t know how to feel. I scarcely knew her. But I danced with her every night in Beldroth. I danced with her, spoke vows to her. And just now, I believed I made love to her. A dead woman.

“I don’t understand.” Each word falls dull and thick from my numb lips. “If Ilsevel is dead then . . . then what is . . . what is she . . .?” I stop. Looking up sharply, I catch Faraine’s gaze. “You were sent in your sister’s place.”

Her lashes fall, brushing her cheeks. She wraps her arms around her middle, shivering so hard she’s obliged to brace her feet to keep from slipping off the bed.

I bare my teeth, sucking in a thin stream of air. Then slowly, coldly: “Why wasn’t I told?”

“It was feared the alliance would fall apart without Ilsevel.” She addresses her words to the floor. “My father did not believe you would accept a . . . a substitute. Not willingly.”

“So he lied to me. You lied to me.”

A pause. Then, very softly: “Yes.”

My chest burns with a roiling mixture of rage, sorrow, disgust, dismay, and more emotions I cannot name. Rising abruptly from my chair, I stride to the open window. All of Mythanar lies below me. My city. So beautiful. So beloved. So perilously poised on the brink of ruin. I would give almost anything to protect it. But this?

I whirl suddenly, facing the girl. She sits on the bed still, her torso turned so that she can watch me over her shoulder. That strap is still fallen down her arm, exposing the smooth skin in which I was delighting only moments ago. My stomach knots.

“How could Larongar do this? We had a contract. A written contract, with Ilsevel’s name, not yours. There were no provisos in the case of death. Which means you cannot fulfill your sister’s role.”

“No. I cannot.” She drops her chin. “But we have a law. Legal means by which one blood kin can be renamed to take the place of another.”

I stare at her. The words make no sense at first, clamoring against my ears like so much noise. Finally, I say, “So they changed your name?”

“By sovereign decree of King Larongar and the power bestowed upon him by the gods, I am Ilsevel Cyhorn.” Her eyes flash in the lorst light. “Thus, I may indeed take my sister’s place. With or without my intended husband’s knowledge.”

“You’re telling me your human law allows for such deceit to be perpetrated against bridegrooms?”

“So long as the marriage is consummated, yes.”

Her words are soft as drifting olk dust. They seem to shimmer in the air. Only they’re the color of poison.

“Did you think I would not notice? Not care?” I wait, but she offers no answer. “Did you think I could make vows to one woman and make love to another without a second thought?”

Her body is still. Every muscle tensed.

“You should have told me.”

She opens her mouth, hesitates. “I’m sorry,” she breathes at last.

“Sorry? Morar-juk!” I cannot look at her. I cannot let my gaze linger even one second longer on that luminous skin, that tumbling hair, those full pink lips worried between her teeth. Turning away, I lean against the window frame, staring out at my city. My gaze is unfocused, my head a storm.

“The vows of the yunkathu are sacred. You have sullied the purity of the waters in which we swam together. You have made a mockery of my people’s most ancient rites. I spoke those words from the depths of my soul. From the core of what makes me both trolde and king. And all the while, I spoke them to a dead girl.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Seven gods on high! I still feel her warmth beneath my hands, her writhing body responding to my touch, thrilling at my kiss. I would have gone through with it. All of it. I would have let myself be duped by this two-faced seductress and her monster of a father. Even now there’s a part of me—a dangerous, twisted part of me—that urges me to turn around, lunge at that bed, take her in my arms. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? This is the very dream I’ve been fighting these last many weeks. The dream of finding Faraine in her sister’s place. Of opening my eyes and seeing her earnest, lovely face gazing up at me . . .

Gods, I feel sick.

I turn, march to the door, and stop there. “I knew your father would betray me if he saw an advantage.” I glance over my shoulder, not quite looking at her. “I thought better of you. Now . . .” I swallow painfully, forcing bile down my throat. “Now I can only thank the gods I am not bound to so false a creature.”

“Vor, wait—”

With a single stride I escape, slamming the door behind me. I stagger to the middle of the outer room, drawing breath between my clenched teeth. A roar builds up inside me, and every effort to swallow it back proves useless. It bursts from my throat, resounding against the stone. A little cluster of urzul stones shrieks in response, catching my voice and echoing it back to me in shrill chorus. I snatch them up and hurl them across the room. The crystals smash against the wall, shattering in a dissonance that shreds my senses like knives.

Voices erupt outside my door. My entourage. They’re still waiting. No doubt they heard my little display. No doubt all of Mythanar did! If I don’t make an appearance soon, Hael and Sul and all the rest will come bursting into the room. I’ll lose whatever control of the situation I still have.

I don’t know what I want to happen to Faraine. But I can’t just turn her over to Sul.

Pulling myself upright, I run my hands through my hair. Damn, why didn’t I pick up my shirt before storming out of the bedroom? Too late now. I must be king. I must take charge. I must get to the bottom of this and figure out where I stand, where the alliance stands. Then I must decide what will happen to the trembling woman hiding in our bridal chamber.

The door swings wide at my touch. A cluster of stares meet my gaze—Sul, Hael, Yok, and the rest. All ogling me and my state of undress, their jaws slack. “Vor?” Sul says, his irreverent attitude replaced with true concern for once in his life. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“Where’s the queen?” Hael demands.

My gaze shoots to her. My friend. My friend who confirmed that it was Ilsevel Cyhorn sitting within that tent just outside the Between Gate.

“Did you know?” I snarl.

She shakes her head, looks truly baffled. “Know what?”

I push past her and Sul, elbow through the crowd. Behind me, Hael shouts, “My king? What has happened?” She sounds desperate.

I’ll deal with her later.

Shoving past Wrag and Lur, I emerge into the empty space behind the gathering. There, standing beneath the light of a solitary crystal, is Lady Lyria. Her face is drawn, her eyes wide, her expression utterly blank.

I point a finger at her. “Arrest this woman. At once.”

Silence. Then in a rush, Hael leaps forward, gripping the human by one arm. Lyria’s mouth twists into an ugly sneer. “So,” she says, “you figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Sul demands. He looms beside me, gripping my shoulder. “Vor, what’s going on here? What has happened to Ilsevel?”

“Ilsevel is dead.”

A collective gasp ripples through the gathering. “My king?” Hael says.

I turn and march away down the passage. My head spins, and the whole world seems to tilt on its axis. But while my people are looking on, I won’t betray myself with fits and foolishness.

“Lock up my bride in her chambers,” I call over my shoulder. “Don’t let her out on pain of death. Post a watch under her window. Sul, with me! We have much to discuss.”