Vow of the Shadow King (Bride of the Shadow King Book 2)

I wish I could stay here. Right here, in this singular point of time, suspended in the air. Held in his strong arms.

My hands rest on his shoulders as I gaze deeply into his eyes. Mere inches separate our parted and panting lips. Were it not for the crowd gaping at us, I would grab his face and drag him to me right now. Then, in that touch, in that burning point of connection, I would know for certain. I would know that he isn’t going to send me back. I would know that I will stay here and be his wife. His queen.

A pulse of excitement emanates from the crowd. I feel it, but faintly, like the distant murmur of wind. The rest of my awareness is taken up with Vor. His feelings. His love? Perhaps. Or something very close to it.

Slowly, slowly, he lowers me back to the ground. My slippers touch stone, but I do not remove my hands from his shoulders, nor do I break that eye-contact which we have held since the beginning of our dance. If I look away, I fear something between us will snap. Something I must find some way to secure, soon.

Vor’s eyes shine above me, eclipsing all other lights in that vast, light-filled cavern. They’re like two moons, drawing me with their gravity, brightening my very existence.

Suddenly, his expression darkens. He blinks, and his brow constricts. To my pain, he lifts his gaze and stares over my head. Only now, with our connection broken, do I sense the disturbance in the atmosphere. A deep throb of drums rumbles like thunder, reverberates under my feet.

“Morar-juk,” Vor curses. “What are they doing here?”

The crowd is restless, shifting. I twist in Vor’s arms to look where every head is turned. I feel before I see what has drawn their attention, however. Like a blow to my gods-gift—a battering weight of void.

This is wrong. Impossible and wrong. I shouldn’t be able to stand here, in the midst of this crowd of living beings, and experience such an absence. Absence of feeling. Absence of life. An emptiness, a nothingness. My head spins, and my stomach churns.

Suddenly, the crowd parts, and a strange procession comes into view. Trolde men and women both, twenty at least, perhaps more. At their forefront march two tall women, both of them naked save for loincloths and the long white hair covering their bosoms. Behind them come six drummers in rigid formation, also naked, their only covering the animal-hide drums hung from their necks and suspended before their groins. Their hands beat the drum skins in perfect synchronization, raising a thunderous din of doom, doom, doom.

Behind these, six massive, stone-hide troldes carry a litter on their backs. Unlike the curtained contraption in which I rode through Mythanar on my arrival, this is a broad, open platform. It is trimmed in black cloth, so that it gives the impression of a wafting shadow.

Targ sits in its center.

The priest sits perfectly still. His bare stone skin looks grayer than ever, without the faintest trace of life. Strands of white hair drift from his head, but he’s lost more of it since last I saw him. His skull is craggy like a boulder. It would be all too easy to believe this is not the man himself but instead an incredibly lifelike statue carved in his honor.

The moment I lay eyes on him, I know the source of that void.

Muttering and grumbling, the crowd pulls back, makes room for the procession. Some drop to their knees, abject and submissive. Others scoff, and one brave soul heaves a clod of mud straight at Targ’s face. It splats against his forehead, dribbles down his cheek. The priest offers no reaction. Marching in time to the beat of the drums, this strange parade continues straight on, straight toward Vor and me. Each footstep is somehow inexorable, as though ordained by the gods themselves in ages past.

The minstrels behind us gather their instruments and scatter, unwilling to be caught in the path of these terrible worshippers. But Vor does not move. He stands with his shoulders straight, his chest wide. With one arm, he draws me behind him. That I don’t like. I don’t want to cower at his back. I want to stand beside him. But when I resist, his arm tenses. I go still. Perhaps it’s better not to fight. Not yet, at least.

The two women, white as alabaster, their faces beautiful beyond description, stop a few paces in front of Vor. Neither of them look at him. Their gazes are vacant. Behind them, the drummers beat out a last, synchronized doom, and the litter-bearers lower their burden to the ground.

Silence holds the air captive. My knees tremble so hard, I have to stop myself from grabbing hold of Vor for support. I don’t know what is happening, but I can see the unease in the crowd all around us, all their whispering and pointing and shifting of feet. I cannot sense their feelings, however. That pulsing void emanating from Targ is much too oppressive.

Suddenly, the priest’s eyes open.

He doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t move save for that quick flick of eyelids. Yet every one of the observers gasps out loud. Someone screams. Vor’s spine stiffens in front of me, while I choke back a terrified cry of my own.

Targ stares straight at Vor. Their eyes meet. The air between them charges. The void rolls out from inside the priest, a dark force emanating from his soul. I feel it, almost see it, with that strange, unseeing clarity I’d experienced in the dark chapel. It swells as it nears, until it’s a huge shadow, ready to overwhelm us, to swallow us up in its inescapable nothing.

Vor stands firm. When I look at him, my gods-gift sees the shining strength of his spirit rise to meet that darkness. Light and shadow clash in that space between the king and the priest. No one else sees it. No one else feels it. But suddenly, that churning storm of battling wills is more real than anything else.

I watch in mingled horror and awe as sometimes the darkness of Targ’s void seems to dominate, only to be fought back by the light that is Vor’s indomitable soul. But the dark is stronger. It has the weight of inevitability behind it, a hard, cold certainty of ultimate triumph. Yet Vor does not back down. He braces himself, his vision clear and firm. He will not go quietly into that dark. He will hold on until the last spark of life—the last spark of hope—is extinguished. But . . . but . . .

But he cannot do this alone.

Part of me wants to stay in hiding. That storm of souls is greater than anything I’ve experienced since my arrival in this realm. To step out of Vor’s shelter and face it feels foolish. But when I look up at Vor’s face, I see the strain in his eyes, the first lines of defeat beginning to etch themselves into his cheeks. I know what I must do.

I reach out. Take his hand.

It’s a simple gesture. The simplest.

But in that touch of our palms, I offer the only thing I can, the only power I’ve ever been able to wield from this gift of mine: calm. It flows between our skin, up his arm, straight to his heart. I hear his sudden intake of breath, watch his eyes flare.

Then, to my surprise, his mouth curves in a smile.

The effect is instantaneous. The roiling void which had so nearly subsumed his light gives way. The energy of Vor’s soul intensifies until it is so bright to my gods-gifted senses, I almost turn to hide my face in his shoulder.

As abruptly as it began, the battle is over. Targ remains seated on his litter, having never once moved save for the raising of his eyelids. Vor stands at my side, grips my hand, his stance strong, his face set. The storm of spirits dissipates like clouds. Though they are unaware of what truly just happened, the crowd lets out a collective sigh of relief.

Moved by some unseen force of will, the two pale women speak at once: “Morar tor Grakanak! Morar tor Jor!” The litter-bearers bend and heave their burden back onto their shoulders. Targ’s eyes glitter one last time, before he shuts them. The criers and drummers turn on heel, and the litter is ponderously brought around. Then the whole procession marches slowly back in the direction it came from, the crowd parting and closing behind it. Soon, even the deep voices of the drums are drowned in the regular noise of the city.

Only when they’re truly gone does Vor finally turn to me. “Are you all right?”

I can see in his eyes that he knows his silent staring-contest with the priest had a far more profound effect on me than on others present. I nod and offer a weak smile. The truth is, I feel strangely numb. That encounter has shaken me more than I like to admit. “What was that about?” I ask softly.

“One never knows with Targ.” Vor shakes his head and rubs a hand down his face. Then his brow puckers. “I should take you back. You look tired. It’s been a long lusterling already, and if you’re to travel soon . . .”

My eyes widen. I cannot believe what I’m hearing. Travel? Soon? Is he truly still planning to send me back to Gavaria? My head spins. All the blissful certainty I’d experienced while dancing in his arms shatters.

I shake my head, drop my gaze to focus on his collarbone. “I don’t want to go home.” The words slip out. Soft but clear.

Vor stills. He seems to hold his breath, waiting for me to continue. But what more can I say? There is nothing else. Just that one, simple fact. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be parted from him. Not now. Not ever.

“I’ve already kept you out longer than I should,” he says after what feels like an age. “Hael will be starting to worry.”

With those words, all the barriers between our hearts slam back into place. I’m too weak, too numb, too powerless to fight them. I want to scream with frustration. Instead, I simply nod.

Vor summons his morleth from its dark dimension. Soon, I find myself holding onto the saddle pommel once more, Vor’s arms wrapped around me. Rather than ride by the main road, Vor urges his beast into flight. It glides out from the top of Market Rise, its strange feet walking easily on air. This is the first time I’ve ridden like this, but the wonder of it all is lost on me. My heart lodges painfully in my throat, choking back a sob. Tears slip down my cheeks as we soar across this city I’ve only just begun to know. Over the little domed houses of the priestesses where the refugee children scamper and play. Over the highways and byways of the intricate trolde lives going on below.

Vor waves to the gate guards as we glide over the wall. I expect him to bring Knar down in the courtyard. Instead, he guides the beast up to a window many stories up. Seen from this angle, I don’t recognize it as my bedchamber window until Knar lands, setting his massive cloven feet with surprising delicacy on the balcony rail.

I blink, surprised. Why has Vor brought me this way back to my room? To avoid being seen? Is it possible he doesn’t want anyone to know he is with me here? Is it possible he might intend to . . . to . . .

My stomach flutters. A sudden strong rush of last chance quickens in my blood. I pull in my bottom lip and bite.

Vor slips from the saddle, landing a little hard. He catches his balance then turns and holds up his hands to me. With Knar perched on the edge of the rail, the distance between us is greater than before. I look down into Vor’s eyes.

Then I reach out, wrap my arms around his neck. He pulls me from the saddle. My head whirls, and I tighten my hold. Just a little. Just enough that he doesn’t immediately put me down. He stands there, holding me. Very like how we ended our dance, with my arms around his shoulders, his hands at my waist, my feet dangling. Only this time there’s no one watching. This time, there’s no reason for him not to kiss me if he wishes to.

But he doesn’t.

Before I can utter a word, he sets me down and withdraws his hands. I back up, cheeks hot, straightening my skirts and pushing stray hair from my face. My throat is tight, but I force out the first words that spring to my tongue. “I . . .  I quite enjoyed my tour of your city, Vor.”

“Yes.” He looks off over my shoulder, avoiding my eyes. “I will . . . never forget our time together. Brief though it was.”

My stomach drops. This is his goodbye. This moment, right here on my balcony. He intends this to be our last. Perhaps we will glimpse one another again, but never in private. He might even avoid me entirely before he sends me back to my own world.

His gaze flicks to mine. His lips part, and I hear him draw a little breath. I’m not ready for whatever he’s about to say. I can’t bear it.

So, I blurt out the only thing I can think of: “Would you like to come inside? For . . . for a drink?”

He blinks. His brow puckers, one eyebrow quirked.

“You must be parched,” I ramble on hastily. “I know I am. I believe there is some refreshment inside. The maid, she often brings something in the mornings. I . . . I can see. If you like?” I’m not certain it’s possible to sound more foolish. I have nothing to serve him. And I think he knows it. Which means he can easily guess at my ulterior motives.

Before he has a chance to protest, I whirl in a flutter of pink skirts and hasten to the window. My hands shake as I push it open, and butterflies careen wildly in my chest as I part the curtains and step through into the room. Part of me fears Vor will take the opportunity to mount his morleth and depart without a word while my back is turned. But he is a gentleman; surely he wouldn’t do anything so rude.

I hasten to the center of the room, cast about for something, anything I might offer him. There’s nothing but a silver ewer of water and two small cups on the table near the door. I hasten over to it, every sense in my body aware when Vor steps through the open window. His presence seems to fill the space behind me. My hands simply won’t stop trembling. It takes all my concentration to lift the ewer and pour a trickle of water into each cup. Then, closing my eyes, I breathe a silent prayer before I turn to face him.

He stands in the middle of the room. How strangely awkward and uneasy he looks, especially for such a powerful, graceful man. He meets my eye only for an instant before looking away. “Here,” I say, a little too brightly, and step forward with the cup. “It’s not very cold I’m afraid.”

“I don’t mind.” He accepts my offering and stares down into it. As though it’s a scrying pool and he seeks to discern the future. “What should we drink to?” he asks at last.

This moment reminds me rather too vividly of our wedding night. Does he remember too? I shiver, turn the cup around in my hands. “How about to new experiences?”

His mouth tips in a small smile that sends warmth spreading right down to my toes. “I’ll drink to that.” He touches the lip of his cup against mine before downing the contents. I take a more tentative sip, moistening my lips. Then we stand there. Mute. Vor stares into his empty cup, but I know he’s as aware of me as I am of him. Aware of me, of this private space. Of the narrow bed up against the wall.

“I should go.” Vor turns, sets the cup down on the nearest available surface. He’s already taken two strides for the window before I have a chance to react.

With a little gulping cry, I lunge after him, take hold of his arm. “No, please! Stay.” Do I sound desperate? I can’t help it. I am desperate. Desperate that this will be the last time I see him, that once he walks back out onto that balcony, I will never again share his atmosphere. “I . . . Hael isn’t back yet,” I add lamely. “I would appreciate the company.”

His gaze fixes on my fingers, gripping his bare forearm. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to mine, then glances to the window, like it’s his escape. Hastily, I let go and step back, move to one of the chairs pulled up near the hearth. I take a seat, like the proper gracious hostess my mother raised me to be, and sweep a hand to indicate the other chair. After a short, awkward stillness, Vor complies. He perches stiffly on the edge of his chair.

Great gods spare me, what am I supposed to do now? I know what I want but . . . but I can’t very well launch myself across this space between us and kiss him. Can I? No, surely not.

“I enjoyed my outing today,” I say lamely after the silence has lasted far too long.

“Yes. You said that.” Vor’s lip twitches as he studies the back of his own hand.

“Oh. Of course.”

We’re silent again. I’m almost certain I hear Hael’s returning footsteps on the stairwell, marching down the passage to this room. I don’t have much time. I can’t afford to hesitate. And yet I sit frozen, afraid to act.

Finally, Vor clears his throat. “I hope you will think well of me, Faraine.” Still, he does not look at me. His gaze is fixed on the dragon carved into the mantelpiece. “Your time here in Mythanar was full of peril and darkness. I know I contributed a great deal to both. But I hope your memories of me will dwell on whatever good I managed to show you rather than the bad. When you’re gone.”

“When I’m gone?” I echo softly. All the air seems to leave my lungs.

“Yes.” He says it again more firmly, “Yes.”

Suddenly, I’m not afraid anymore. Or rather, something other than fear rises to the surface of my heart, swallowing up all other feelings. I gaze across at Vor as realization rises, firms. Becomes conviction. For too long, I’ve let other people decide my fate. For too long, I’ve let them push and prod, manipulate and mold me into something I don’t even recognize, until I myself am lost.

No more. I know what I must do.

Without a word, I rise. Vor’s head comes up sharply, but I don’t look back. My fists clenched, my jaw set, I step away from the chairs, cross the bedchamber, my skirts rustling in my wake. I reach out to the door latch, make certain it’s fastened. And drop the bolt. Then carefully, delicately, I remove the tiara from my head. It sparkles as I set it on the table beside the water ewer.

Only now do I turn. Look at Vor.

“I don’t want us to be disturbed,” I say. “Not this time.”

His barriers fall. One after another, they simply melt away, and a storm of feeling rises inside him. He wants me. He wants me more than he can bear. It’s burning him up from the inside, an exquisite torture.

Slowly, I cross the room to him. Any moment, he might spring up and flee. But he doesn’t. Soon I stand before his chair, almost between his knees. For once, I look down at him. Down at that broad brow, knotted and tense. Down at those full lips, the warmth of which I know so well. He drops his gaze once more, stares down at my feet. But that won’t do. Not at all.

I lift one hand. Hold it beside his cheek, let it hover there, less than an inch from his skin. He breathes out, closes his eyes.

Then he leans into my touch. That mere contact sends my gods-gift singing, dancing. I catch my breath, unable to help the smile that bursts across my face. He looks up, abject longing in his eyes. Whatever doubts I may have harbored vanish.

I bring my other hand up, cup his face gently as I lower my lips to his. My kiss is light at first, a gentle pressure. Testing the waters, eager to discover how my senses will react to his. It’s all warmth, all sweetness, all delight. I press more firmly, nudging his lips open, urging him to receive me, to take everything I have to offer.

Vor surges to his feet. “No!” he cries. “No, no, no, we cannot do this.” Turning from me, he storms once more for the windows.

“Vor, stop!” I’ve never in my life used a tone so commanding. It works. He halts mid-step and stands as though rooted. “Tell me why not,” I demand. Lifting the edge of my skirts, I hasten to him. My gaze fixes on his tense spine, between his shoulder blades. “Give me one good reason why you won’t turn around and kiss me right now.”

“Because I’m sending you home!” The words break from his throat, low, agonized. “Today. Or tomorrow or the next day. It doesn’t matter because you are going. Sooner, not later.”

“But not now.” I take another step closer. “This is our time. This is our moment. If we don’t take it, it may never come again.”

His hands are fisted at his sides. His whole soul shakes. Ordinarily, such a storm of feeling would be enough to drive me back. Not this time. I reach out but cannot quite bring myself to touch him. My hand hovers over his shoulder.

“I don’t care about the risks, Vor. I’m ready. I’m ready to risk it all because any risk is worth it to be with you. If this moment is all we ever have, I’m willing to accept whatever pain may come.” I blink hard, try to force back the tears sparking in my eyes. “I won’t live my life aching for what I never had the courage to take.”

“You feel that way now.” He shakes his head, breathing heavily. “What about later? You will feel I have used you. Taken from you that which was not mine.”

“No.” The word whispers from my trembling lips. “I will know only that I gave what I wished to give, and in that knowledge, I will be glad. Glad that for once I had a choice. And I made it. For my sake, for yours, and no one else’s.”

“Morar-juk!” He lifts his head, rakes his hands through his hair. “Gods give me strength!”

Am I losing him? After all this, will he still resist me? “Vor, please—”

He pivots on heel, grasps me by my upper arms, and pulls me to him. His lips find mine in a kiss that makes my mind, soul, and body explode in a light-storm of sensation. It ripples through me, melts my insides, until I am weak-kneed and leaning into him for support. Were it not for his grip on me, I would fall at his feet.

Then my hands are around his neck, and his are in my hair. He angles my face so that he can kiss me more deeply, and I open my mouth to him. Our tongues meet, tangle. That intimate touch makes all the colors of my heart dance.

He cups my cheeks, pulls me back just a little, stares down at me in absolute wonder. “What have you done to me?” He kisses me again, gently. A sweet touch, like a promise, a prayer. “I would hazard it all. My realm, my crown, my kingdom. Even my honor. All for you. Only for you.”

His hands slide from my cheeks down to my neck, my shoulders, my arms. When he pulls me against him this time, I cannot ignore the hardness of his body revealing the full intensity of his need for me. It’s enough to make my breath catch. I roll my head back, and his kisses move from my mouth to my jaw, my neck, down to my collarbone. He molds me against him, and I bend backwards, dizzy with desire. My blood turns to liquid lava, pulsing hot through every limb.

A little growl in my throat, I grab hold of his tunic, wrench it free of his belt so that I can slip my hand underneath to press against the small of his back. He gasps. As though that mere touch is enough to undo him. I explore further, sliding my palms around to his abdomen, up his chest. Then I yank the garment. Obeying my unspoken command, he rips it over his head and tosses it to one side.

Now he stands before me, chest heaving. I step back to sweep my lingering gaze over his body. But looking isn’t enough. I cannot resist reaching out, touching the hard muscles of his chest. His skin is such a strange, otherworldly color to my human gaze. I should probably find him unsettling. But I don’t. He’s so beautiful it almost hurts.

He closes his eyes, groans softly. Then he takes hold of me suddenly, turns me around, pulls me against his chest. Once more I feel his hardness, and it both thrills and intimidates me. For now, I lean my head back against his shoulder and glory in the sensation of his fingers tracing my throat, slipping under the sleeve of my gown. He pulls the sleeve down and presses scorching kisses against the curve of my neck.

A shivering moan escapes my lips. I reach up, rest my hand lightly on top of his for a moment. Then I take hold. With gentle determination, I guide him down under my bodice until he cups my breast.

Turning sharply, I look him straight in the eye.