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

by Sylvia Mercedes

My fault. Burned crops. Displaced people. Starving children. My fault.

Everything he was feeling washed over me in a wave—frustration, determination, fear, anger, embarrassment, inadequacy. All of it.

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.

Then, suddenly— calm. I hardly know how to describe it. Where an instant before, the whole world stormed with horror, my every sense exploding with pain, now there’s stillness. Peace. I’m so shocked by it at first, I can’t even try to make sense of my surroundings. I can do nothing but close my eyes and lean into that calm, that quiet.

“Indeed?” The stranger looks down at Theodre, his brows rising ever so slightly. “And I am Vor, King of Mythanar, Lord Protector of the Under Realm.”

“What’s this, Yok?” I say, gently prying his hand away from the wound. “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.”

There’s something strange about that girl. Something . . . I cannot quite put my finger on it.

But that’s not why I struggle to tear my gaze away 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.

For the first time I notice: her eyes are two different colors: one blue, one gold.

But there’s a smallness to him that is difficult to define. As though his spirit has atrophied, rendering him faintly contemptible.

I wonder if she’s considered beautiful among her kind. I wonder if I might learn to think her beautiful, given time.

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

“Sounds rather like life at court.” My mouth quirks. “Certainly not. Morleth are far better mannered than any courtiers I know.”

I have a strange feeling I could spend a great deal of time and effort contriving to hear that laugh again.

The children of King Larongar were all blessed by the gods with extraordinary gifts on the day of their christening. Ilsevel was bestowed the gift of song. There is no voice in all the kingdom that can rival hers, and she plays all instruments brilliantly.”

But if I’m honest, that’s not the only reason for my unease. Something else stabs at my heart, a bitter thorn I hardly dare name: Jealousy.

Something about her makes me feel unexpectedly centered. I’m uncertain how to express it, even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

I’ve always known I would have to marry for the sake of the kingdom. My own father did—twice. And his first wife, my mother, was human. A fact that has only made my life more difficult.

If I go through with this alliance—if I take a human wife—my children will bear more human blood than trolde. I wonder if my people will ever accept such offspring as legitimate heirs to my kingdom.

It’s a gruesome sight, so many dead stones hauled from their natural settings and piled one on top of the other in such a fashion. This is not the way troldefolk create our dwellings. We would never treat the stone so cruelly.

She is an intimidating figure, even among troldekind. A valiant, unselfish soul whom I would trust with my life. I know how hard it is for her to continue on this mission while her brother’s fate remains uncertain. But she would never falter in the face of her duty.

Were I not in such desperate need of making this alliance, I would smash his nose in and see what that does to his gods-gifted beauty.

“Is there something I’m missing here?” The Miphato inclines his head. “It is my understanding, Majesty, that morleth are inter-dimensional beings.” “What now?” “They’re magic. Don’t worry about it.”

The Shadow King stands close to my father, so tall and solemn and beautiful. I’m suddenly reluctant to leave his vicinity.

He’s beautiful. Stunningly beautiful, with a physique like a demigod, eyes like distant stars, and a voice so warm it would melt even a heart of stone. Does that sound more to your liking?”

I can’t help thinking that, given time, I could come to . . . to care for such a man. Very deeply.

And maybe, I tell myself in the privacy of my own mind, maybe it’ll all turn out. Maybe Ilsevel doesn’t need to be frightened. Maybe . . . Maybe Vor will choose me instead.

“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.”

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.”

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.

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 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.

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.

I try not to let myself look too closely at the Shadow King. But in truth, I find it difficult to tear my gaze away. Once again, I’m struck by his strange beauty.

He smiles. But while his expression is warm, the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch and heat flood my cheeks.

“Do human men not cultivate friendships with women, then?” “Rarely, I’m sure. Perhaps not ever.” Vor looks surprised. “That’s . . . Well, you’ll pardon my saying it, but that’s absurd.”

“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.” I raise my goblet, swirling the wine idly, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air between us. Vor’s mouth quirks in a half smile. “Are your human men strong enough to endure the hardship of birthing?”

“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.” I stare at him. I cannot help it. Never in my life have I heard a man speak as he does.

“You do not live at the convent because of your devotion to Nornala. You are the truth that must not be known.”

He maintains his silence for a long, contemplative moment. Then: “Only weak men feel the need to hide such strength behind closed doors.”

The cold air bites my cheeks, almost sharp enough to make me forget the warmth of Vor’s hand where it rested on my waist, or the thrill in my heart when he lifted me off my feet.

No, this is true longing. An ache in the soul. A realization that my heart is not whole and won’t be until somehow, somewhere, I find that missing piece.

Only, it’s strange . . . though it’s her voice I hear, echoing and sweet . . . when I close my eyes, it’s another face I see in the darkness behind my lids. Gazing up at me with strange, earnest eyes. One blue. One gold.

“Have you seen what passes for men around here? Our dear Vor is positively magnificent by comparison! Surely his blushing bride will be more than happy to be the recipient of his largess.”

Is this then to be the sum total of my existence? Hiding? Trying not to cause trouble? Trying not to get in the way, to be an inconvenience to those who feel obliged to care for me. What kind of life is that? Gods above, I feel as though my skin is crawling with my spirit’s need to break free! To fly, to soar. To escape.

“Is there any light underground?” “More light than you can imagine. More light, more color, more life. More everything.”

But he’s here. Beside me. I feel the radiating warmth of his soul, clearer to my gods-gifted senses even than the beauty of his face or the timbre of his voice.

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.

Gods on high, when I agreed to stand in as blood substitute, I hadn’t realized just how painful, how confusing, how glorious it would be! I never should have agreed to it.