Bride of the Shadow King

“This place is positively barbaric! Do you know they actually expect me to hang my garments in the garderobe? Have you ever heard of anything so ghastly?”

I turn as the door to my private room bursts open and my brother saunters in. He tosses himself across the bed. The rope frame creaks ominously beneath his weight, and I half fear the four wooden posts will topple like felled trees. Sul flings an arm across his face in an attitude of languishing woe and groans. “No running water either. I tell you, brother, I don’t know how we’re going to survive!”

“Watch your tongue, Sul,” I growl, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. Fingers fumbling, I fasten the jeweled collar that rests across my shoulders and collarbone above a loose, shimmering tunic of hugagug silk. “They’re only human after all. We knew all along their society was not particularly advanced.”

“Not advanced?” Sul lifts his hand enough to catch my eye. “We’ve traveled back to an age so primitive, they wouldn’t have discovered fire yet if the gods hadn’t dropped it on their thick heads.”

“You’re comfortable enough. I saw you eating well from the meal provided. And you slept like a babe through the daylight hours. I could hear you snoring right through the wall.”

“Yes, well, torturous rides beneath empty sky following life-or-death battles does tend to take it out of a fellow.” Sul sits up, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees. “Tell me, brother, can you really intend to make one of these creatures your bride?”

I narrow my eyes at him. Sometimes I have to wonder if my brother’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge my own human bloodline is meant as an insult or kindness. Possibly both. Or neither. Sul is a slippery sort.

Leaving his question unanswered, I wrap a gold braided belt around my waist, securing it on the side after the fashion in Mythanar. There’s no mirror in the room, and I did not bring a servant with me, so I must hope I can pull myself together for the reception. Sul has already donned his own tunic, collar, and belt. He wears the three-braided belt that denotes him as a member of the royal house. My belt is four-braided and studded with living gems as befits a king.

“Making yourself pretty for anyone in particular?” Sul asks. When I still won’t answer, he leans a little more heavily on his knees. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“I hope not.”

“Oh, you can’t hide anything from me.” He smirks. “Your head’s not been set right since you scooped that little mortal miss into your lap. You’d best be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“Ha!” Sul’s laugh is a sharp bark without mirth. “That may have been true enough up until recent history. But let’s face it, brother, behind that stony façade of yours lies the heart of a poet. You like the notion of sweeping that girl off her feet, and the two of you riding off into your own personal Ever After, a pair of gods-fated lovers and all that.”

“I don’t know, Sul.” I cast him a look. “Seems like you’re the poet. Are you sure you didn’t miss your calling? Mythanar could use an official royal bard on retainer. Or perhaps you’d prefer the role of jester?”

“It would never do.” Sul sniffs. “I’m the pragmatist of the two of us. I’m happy to enjoy one pretty lass as much as the next.” He tilts his chin, fixing me with a narrow stare. “You’d be wise to follow my example.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t you?” Sul draws breath to continue, but to my great relief, the door opens and Hael steps into the room. She wears a shining silver gorget around her throat, collarbone, and shoulders, and fitted faulds wrap her hips, emphasizing her curves. Other than these pieces of armor, however, she’s wearing shimmering silk draped in long and luxurious folds, glinting with chips of diamond.

“It’s time, my king,” she says. “The reception has already commenced, and you are due to appear.”

Before I can say anything, Sul springs from the bed, his eyes suddenly alight. “Why, Captain Hael!” he declares, looking her up and down. “What’s this? It couldn’t possibly be the stalwart warrior we all know and love. Why, from certain angles, you’re positively ravishing!”

I wish I could take my brother’s head in my hand and dash it a few times against the dead stone wall. Glancing at Hael, I can see didn’t miss the thinly veiled insult . . . the reference to the stone covering the right side of her body and face. The deformity is difficult to look past to see her otherwise strong and striking features. Hael has been in love with Sul since we were all children together, but my brother has only ever chased after the great beauties at Court. He treats Hael with a brotherly sort of affection mingled with disdain, which I find appalling. I hope he is simply unaware of her feelings for him and not as callous as he seems.

Sul bows and gallantly offers Hael his arm. “May I have the honor of escorting the lady down to supper?”

She eyes his arm as if he’s just offered her a wurm larva. “I’m working tonight,” she says shortly, then turns to me. “Are you ready, my king?”

“I am.” I make a last adjustment to my belt and straighten my shoulders. “Lead on, Captain.”

I follow her out from my private chamber into the receiving room. Larongar has given me and my people a suite of rooms in the west wing of Beldroth, set a little apart from the rest of the household. I give him credit for attempting to make the space welcoming to my kind. I see the gifts I have sent to him over the last cycle proudly displayed: tapestries of woven hugagug thread hung on the walls, varthur wolf pelts slung across the backs of chairs. A dragon scale sits on a stand in the center of the room, a small fire built in its curved base. The warmed scale radiates a glow in the room that is both familiar and strange. Back in Mythanar, we would burn only moonfire in such a scale, and the light it cast would be pure and white. But this is close enough.

My people stand around the fire, dressed in finery for the reception. Umog Zu, our priestess, has donned a headdress of mothwings and skulls, and looks positively ferocious. The others wear rather more subdued fashions of tunics and belted gowns; the cloth and cut are extremely fine, but the overall look is simple. Only Hael wears armor and, I suspect, weapons strapped to her thighs and upper arms.

I find my gaze searching for Yok among the rest. Sorrow pricks my conscience when I remember why the boy is not with us. If only there were some way to get news of him.

“Well, my friends,” I say, surveying the others solemnly. “Once again, let me thank you for making this journey with me. We have faced trials already, and what remains for us to do over the coming days, possibly weeks, will test our resolve. Only try to remember, it’s all for Mythanar.” I place a hand over my heart. “I am proud to have such noble souls at my side for what is to come.”

“Gods, brother,” Sul says, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “It’s not like you’re stepping into the dragon’s throat! It’s a little wine and a dance or two. How bad can it be?”

“I thought it a good speech,” Hael growls. “Inspiring.”

Sul shoots her a sweet smile. “Boot-kisser. Though, so long as you’re wearing that dress, you can kiss me anywhere you like.”

“Enough!” I quickly step between the two of them, blocking Hael’s deadly glower. “It’s time to go.”

A page waits for us in the passage just outside our suite. The poor lad nearly starts out of his skin at the sight of us. He quickly bows after the awkward human fashion, his feathered cap falling from his head. He catches it and crams it back on his skull, all while babbling, “If you’ll follow me, great king! My lords!”

Sul snorts. I ignore him and fall into place behind the trembling boy. He leads us down a series of stairs and passages. Soon enough, I can hear the murmur of voices and the unfamiliar lilt of human musical instruments playing a rather screeching melody on strings and pipes. If that’s an indication of the entertainments to come, it will be a long night.

We emerge at one end of a long gallery lit with copper braziers full of very red, glaring flames. The light they cast gives the whole space a hellish glow to my eyes, accustomed as I am to moonfire. Humans mill about the space, adorned in many layers and ruffles, voluminous sleeves, and towering headdresses that dwarf even Umog Zu’s creation. The stink of mortality hits me rather harder than I expect, and for a moment I wish I’d applied more of the jiru nectar perfume I’d brought with me just to drown out the stench.

The page boy tugs on the sleeve of a man in white livery. The man peers at us through heavily lidded eyes, his expression unreadable, before turning to the room. “King Vor of Mythanar, Lord Protector of the Under Realm,” he announces in a booming voice.

There’s not much of a response. A few of those nearest this end of the gallery turn and look warily our way. Ladies whisper behind their hands, while men overtly sneer. Not quite the welcome I expected.

I catch myself searching for a certain pale face amid all these staring strangers. Surely she will be here tonight. As a princess of the realm, she would be expected to present herself at such a gathering. But I don’t spy her right away.

I do spy Larongar, however. He’s halfway across the room, whispering in the ear of a stunningly voluptuous woman with bounteous golden curls. The queen? If so, she’s not at all how I would have pictured Faraine’s mother.

The woman catches my eye and smiles archly. The king scowls and, turning to follow the trajectory of her gaze, spots me standing in the entrance. His face breaks into a grin. “Vor!” he cries. “My friend! Come, come and meet everyone.”

I adjust the set of my shoulders. Time to make the plunge into this sea of humans. Larongar grabs me in another disconcertingly familiar embrace the moment I’m within reach. Humans are certainly a lot more demonstrative than I anticipated. “I hope you’re rested, dear boy,” he says. “We have a whole night full of pleasures in store for you. And here, first among these, allow me to introduce the Lady Arakian.”

I turn to the king’s companion and accept the hand she offers me. Bowing over it, I murmur, “A pleasure, madam.”

“Oh, sweet king!” She touches her heart, drawing attention to her heaving breast and the low cut of her gown. “I hope the pleasure will be all mine!”

The look that accompanies this statement is enough to make my blood boil. I hastily release the lady’s hand, even as Larongar growls, “Here, none of that now, gem of my heart,” and pinches her. Lady Arakian giggles and slaps his hand, tossing her curls. Looking from one of them to the other, it dawns on me suddenly who and what this woman is. Definitely not the queen.

Larongar turns abruptly and calls through the crowd, “Theodre! Get over here, boy, and greet your rescuer, why don’t you?”

The crown prince lounges at a table, a cluster of young ladies and gentlemen gathered around him. He’s resplendent in gold velvet nearly the same shade as his gleaming hair, draped in jewels and a fur-trimmed cape. He makes for a stunning picture and looks as though he knows it.

He casts me a bored look. “Hullo there, troll king. My sisters will be down shortly, I’m sure. Care to wager that belt of yours in a round of jackanapes?”

I open my mouth to coldly decline, but Larongar interrupts. “Not everyone wants to lose their shirt and shoes at the gaming tables like some young wastrels I could mention!” He turns to me, shaking his head heavily. “That boy will be the death of me. Blessed with beauty by the gods! But the gods never give gifts without taking something in exchange. They took that boy’s brains and left him the prettiest oaf in the realm. What I wouldn’t give for a proper son at my side in these dark times! But here,” he adds with a significant look, “mayhap the gods have heard my prayers after all. Tell me, Vor, do you care for dancing?”

“Indeed, I do. Though I fear I know few human dances.”

“That’s no problem. We’ll find you a pretty teacher in no time! And perhaps you can teach us a thing or two about troll dancing, eh?”

I wince inwardly at the slur so casually spoken. Sul, standing at my elbow, leans in close and whispers in troldish, “If someone uses that word one more time, so help me, I’m going to start bashing skulls and ripping limbs and beating my breast with both fists.”

“Let it go, Sul,” I hiss in response. “They don’t realize what they’re saying.”

“Are you sure about that?” My brother raises an eyebrow significantly.

Before I can respond, the herald’s voice fills the space again: “Queen Mereth and the princesses, Ilsevel and Aurae Cyhorn.”

My gut twists. Gods on high! I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be nervous. It’s not as though it really matters what I think of the princess, whether I find her attractive or witty or even remotely interesting. It’s her father and his Miphates I’ve come here to win, not her hand or heart. Yet I cannot help the sudden lurch in my chest as I turn sharply toward the arched entrance, my neck craning as I seek my first glimpse of Ilsevel.

Three figures stand just inside the doorway. The first and foremost is older than the others, a refined and delicate dame. I know at once she must be Faraine’s mother. Her silver-streaked hair is wound in thick coils over each ear, and a dainty crown and veil perches on her head. Her eyes are very solemn, a little sad.

It’s the second woman who draws my attention, however. Clad in red and white, she is a startling beauty with abundant dark curls. She’s the tallest of the three and holds her shoulders back and her spine very straight, as though she’s preparing to dive into battle. Though I cannot begin to picture such a fine-boned creature wielding a sword, that first glance tells me she would try if she had to. There’s a subtle air of ferocity about her.

The next girl, standing just behind her, is a pretty little thing in blue, rather young and shrinking, with enormous, frightened eyes. Definitely not the spirited creature her sister is. I cannot imagine making a bargain for her hand; she’s scarcely more than a child.

They enter the hall sedately, eyes downcast, hands demurely folded. A cluster of ladies follows, some young, some old. But the face I seek is not among them. Where is Faraine? Is she too fatigued from last night’s journey to attend the festivities this evening?

I spy her at last, keeping to the shadows behind her sisters and their ladies. I almost miss her, for she is clad in a quiet gray gown with a white veil over her hair, her head bowed. As though feeling my gaze upon her, she looks up. Catches my eye for an instant.

My heart makes a strange, juddering beat.

Someone grips my arm. “Come, Vor!” Larongar bellows rather too close to my ear. “It’s high time you met my womenfolk.” With that, he drags me forward, and the crowd parts before him. “Here she is,” he declares grandly with a sweep of one hand, “the keeper of my heart and mother of my heir, Queen Mereth. Merrie, my love, meet King Vor of Mythanar.”

The queen’s small rosebud mouth opens into a brief smile. “Greetings, Your Highness,” she says smoothly. “Welcome to Beldroth.”

I murmur something I hope is appropriate but scarcely get the words out before Larongar takes the hand of the tall, dark-haired girl in the crimson gown and pulls her forward. She flashes me a smile like a dagger. “This is Ilsevel, my thirdborn,” Larongar says fondly as the girl sinks into a deep curtsy. “A father’s not supposed to have favorites, I know. Let’s just say, I defy you to find a prettier face anywhere in the worlds! But if one was to give her a run for her money, it’s my youngest, Aurae.”

At this, he draws the girl in blue forward. She offers a curtsy as well, very graceful and correct, though she does not have the courage to cast more than the briefest of glances my way. I try to offer a kindly smile but suspect it only frightens her more.

I turn then to Faraine, still standing at the back of the throng. Shouldn’t she be with her sisters as they are presented? I open my mouth to speak some greeting, but before the words can form, Larongar drags my attention back to the girl in crimson. “Perhaps, Ilsevel,” he says, “you would be so good as to sit with King Vor tonight. He could use a companion to inform him of our customs and perhaps to steer him away from the hog’s foot jelly.”

The courtiers around us titter softly. I can’t tell if I’m being made the butt of some joke or not. I glance at Sul and Hael, both standing close at hand. Sul’s face has gone completely granite, unreadable, but Hael raises an eyebrow and nods encouragingly. She wants me to keep going, to play the charming wooer.

Bracing my shoulders, I address the dark-eyed princess. “I would be honored indeed to enjoy the company of so fair a dinner companion.”

She blinks at me, her lips parting ever so slightly. “Oh! I didn’t . . . that is . . .” A blush stains her cheeks, and she glances at her father.

“Go on,” I say, hoping my voice sounds gentle. “Don’t be afraid. Did I say something amiss?”

“No indeed, great king.” The girl meets my gaze again bravely. “It’s just . . . I did not expect you to speak our tongue so fluently.”

I chuckle. “Yes, well, I know most humans think of troldefolk as great lumbering rock monsters who communicate only via growls and grunts.”

Ilsevel’s flush deepens. It’s unusual to my eye. My kind do not change color so easily. But it’s pretty. “I fear I have embarrassed you, princess,” I say quickly, hoping to put her at ease. “Do forgive me. You may find my knowledge somewhat lacking when it comes to human modes and manners. However, I hope I may prove myself a willing student to a patient teacher.”

It’s not a bad line so far as flirtation goes. I watch it work the desired effect on the girl. She smiles at me, this time more sincerely than before. Perhaps I can manage to navigate the complexities of this evening after all.

“Now then, Ilsevel,” Larongar says, eager to hurry things along, “do take our guest to find his seat, will you? He traveled far to pay us this visit and is surely famished!”

“Of course.” The princess holds out her hand to me. “If you will, good king?”

I know I should show myself to be pliant and pleasing. But something stops me from taking her hand.

Instead, I turn to her older sister. “And you, Princess Faraine?” I say, addressing her over the heads of several watching ladies. “How do you fare after our journey? I know from experience how tiring a long ride on morleth-back can be.”

She looks up, startled. Her eyes flicker with some emotion I cannot name. Surprise, yes, but something else as well. Could it be pleasure? Or am I only reading what I hope to see? “I am quite recovered, thank you, Your Highness,” she says. I feel only a little pang that she does not use my name. We are in public, after all; the ease of formality we enjoyed on our night ride would be inappropriate in this setting. A little smile pulls at her lips. “The morleth ride certainly made me aware of parts of my anatomy I’d not previously known existed!”

“I’ll bet it did,” Sul mutters in troldish at my back. With an effort, I keep a straight face.

“Now, Faraine,” Larongar says, pushing a step between me and her. “Don’t you bother the troll king. Are you planning to stay for the feast?”

Faraine opens her mouth, but Ilsevel chimes in first. “I asked Faraine to stay.” Her eyes catch and hold her father’s gaze. “If she goes, I go too.”

The air between them sparks in a silent battle of wills. I draw back a half step. What exactly is going on here between the king and his favorite daughter? By the look on Larongar’s face, I wouldn’t be altogether surprised if he lashed out and struck her.

At last, however, Larongar smiles. “Of course. Faraine is welcome to stay as long as she likes.” With that, he calls out for someone to set a place for his eldest daughter at the high table. Then he turns to me and slaps my shoulder. “Never mind her! She’s a strange one, that Faraine. We mostly don’t have her at court, but if Ilsevel wants her, what am I to do? It’s a rare day I can refuse my pretty poppet anything she desires! Surely you understand that already, eh, my boy?”

I make a polite sort of sound and offer my arm to Ilsevel as I am clearly expected to. The next moment, I’m led across the gallery into the gathering. Before I’ve gone five paces, I look back over my shoulder. And for a brief flash, I catch a glimpse of odd mismatched eyes. Then the crowd closes in and blocks them from my sight.