Bride of the Shadow King (Bride of the Shadow King, #1)

by Sylvia Mercedes

Hidden away. Not married and producing babies. Not ensuring the military support of our nearest neighbors. Useless. Disappointment. It’s all there. Hanging in the air between us. Unspoken but real.

Riders streak past on creatures shaped like horses with monstrous, flaming horns protruding from their skulls. They’re beautiful, terrible, glorious creatures ridden by beings equally beautiful, terrible, and glorious. Long hair streaming, shining faces alight with bloodthirsty joy, they wield swords that flame as bright as their mounts’ horns. They wear no armor—in fact, they seem to wear next to nothing at all, their muscled, godlike bodies fully displayed as they circle their prey and cut them down.

A hand on my back forces me to bend over the neck of the beast on which we ride. A thick muscular neck with a shock of black mane, which I take at first to belong to a horse. But no, those are scales I see between patches of fur. This is definitely no horse.

“What have I told you about flinging yourself bodily onto the blades of our enemies?” “You’re against it, sire,” Yok speaks through gritted teeth. “Dead against it.” “That’s right. Next time, maybe you’ll listen to your sovereign.”

from her. There’s something else. Something more. It’s as though, when I look at her, I can almost, almost hear a single note of sweet, sweet song. And as that note hums around her, it creates a radiant aura.

He catches my eye, grins, and waggles his eyebrows. “You know, I’ve never been a fancier of human women. But I’ll admit, that particular specimen is striking. I notice you wasted no time in scooping her up for a little ride. How did she feel in the saddle, eh?” I give him a look. “Get your mind out of the vruhag. I did what I had to do to keep the poor girl from harm. Nothing more.” “Oh, certainly!” Sul’s grin widens. “No one doubts your honorable nature, most noble of kings and best of brothers. But while I’m sure your sterling virtue would prevent you from noticing, that’s rather a large rip in the demure maiden’s gown. When she was astride your steed, there was more than a little shapely leg on fine display. You, naturally, would have averted your gaze from such a sight, but the rest of us got an eyeful when you rode down the mountainside.”

Theodre slowly turns, peering out beyond the ringing firelight to the ominous forms of our morleth steeds standing in the deeper shadows. They toss their heads, stomp their hooves, and lash their sinuous barbed tails irritably. One of them snorts, emitting a red spark. Smoke trails from its nostrils. The human prince’s eyes goggle. “Surely you jest!”

There’s courage in her eye, unexpected and defiant. She may not be a warrior; that doesn’t mean she’s weak.

“Have no fear, princess,” I say, hoping to put her at ease. “I’ve had Knar since he was a foal, born from a burst of sulfur and smoke in the land beneath the Fiery River.” “Really?” She shoots me a quick glance. “He looks quite vicious.” “Oh, he absolutely is. He would devour me in a couple of mouthfuls if he thought he could get away with it. But that’s the great virtue of morleth—you never doubt where you stand with them. They don’t pretend to be your friend, but if you treat them with respect, you can find ways to coexist to mutual benefit.” She considers this. “Sounds rather like life at court.” My mouth quirks. “Certainly not. Morleth are far better mannered than any courtiers I know.”

“It is a sign of maturity to accept one’s fate with grace and then to make the most of it.” “Well, everyone knows you’re the mature one, Fairie. I’m the spitfire; Aurae is the darling. And our other sister, the one no one talks about . . . she’s the devil.” Ilsevel smiles sadly. “We all have our parts to play, don’t we?”

“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?”

“The equals of men, you ask?” He considers the idea, his eyes bright in the candlelight. “A peculiar question. Are we not all trolde—both men and women alike? We cannot very well exist one without the other, so how could one be deemed superior to the other?” “I’ve heard it argued that because men are physically stronger, they must naturally take on the dominant role as protectors and providers.”

“Are your human men strong enough to endure the hardship of birthing?” My hand slips. Wine sloshes over the edge of my goblet. Hastily, I set it down on the table. Vor chuckles. “I see I’ve embarrassed you again. Forgive me. I take it childbirth is another topic not discussed among your people.” “Well, no, actually.” I clear my throat and place both hands in my lap. “All of that business is kept firmly behind closed doors.”

“How your human men may pretend they are stronger than their women. If they acknowledged what women endure simply to bring life into the world, they would necessarily have to adjust their thinking.”

“Only weak men feel the need to hide such strength behind closed doors.” I flash him a sidelong glance. “If you want this alliance to succeed, you’d best not let the king hear you refer to him as weak.” Vor inclines his head politely. “As you say, a little honesty may indeed be deadly.”

“It is my belief that no thing of beauty should ever be caged, princess. I would only hope that even a wild bird might be convinced to remain of its own free will. And a man who truly cared for such a bird would be honored to do everything in his power to convince it.”

I don’t think about the way his hands felt on my waist when he lifted me in the air and spun me in a breathless circle as though I weighed nothing at all. I don’t remember the deep timbre of his voice when he said, “Would you come?”

Ilsevel’s dead. She was killed in the attack. Aurae too, or so we presume. Either way, the fate of the kingdom is in jeopardy, and you’re needed home at once.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, my eyes closed fast, my legs braced. Wave after wave hits me—the heat of fury, the ice of fear, the bitterness of betrayal. And sorrow. Deep, throbbing, dark as a pit. Vor’s sorrow. It strikes my soul like a spiked mace, battering and stabbing simultaneously.

Another door opens. Shuts. A sense of solitude fills the atmosphere, dulling the pain like salve. Which can only mean one thing: Vor is gone. But this is worse. Much worse. I’d rather wrestle with the pain of his rage and sorrow than be so suddenly emptied of him. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to draw memory of our connection back to the forefront of my awareness. How my body had hummed in response to his touch, not unlike the song of my pendant stone. But this song was so much deeper, so much richer, with promises of more. What would it be like to plunge in headfirst? To see just how deep those promises might flow? To let ourselves be carried on powerful currents until we’re caught in the swells of rapture and radiance? But it’s gone now. Every hope, every chance. I feel hollow. As though something has been carved out from inside my chest, leaving my insides scraped raw.

It feels like Vor. Not the Vor I’ve come to know, whose very presence I crave like air. No, this is the Vor I just encountered. Shattered, raging. Poisoned with internal turmoil.

His name is there. On my tongue. I try to speak it, but my throat is too tight, my terror choking all breath out of me. I can do nothing but gaze into his eyes. And suddenly there is no one else present. Not a single other soul in this great, echoing, cavernous hall. Just him and me. I cannot speak. So I throw everything I have into my spirit and send it flying across that space between us. I loved you. I believe I love you still. Even now. Even now.

I grip the arms of my chair, fighting the urge to launch myself from the gallery, to throw aside those two tall guards hauling her between them and . . . and what? Take her in my arms, sheltering her against my breast, whispering into her hair that she’s safe now, that I’ll let no harm come to her? Or wrap my fingers around her throat, throttling the life out of her, dashing her head against the stone floor until her skull cracks and her brains spill out over my hands? My heart screams, torn between these two equal urges. I fear I will be ripped in half right here, before the eyes of my watching court. She must die. She must die. I love her, and she must die.

“They all said the gods gave you a curse, not a gift, on the day of your christening. But I’m starting to think they were wrong. Maybe the gods knew what they were doing after all.”

much stronger than any of the rest of us. You always were, you know. Now is your time to prove it.” She steps back then, looking into my eyes. “You were born to be a queen, Faraine. Show these people the truth. Make them see what you really are.”

“And what of the princess, my king? What is to become of her?” That is a question to which I have no answer. But I must find an answer. Soon. Because in that moment, standing on the brink of the chasm, I know only one thing for certain. Faraine will be my life. Or my doom.