Vow of the Shadow King

1

Faraine

Fingertips brush the curve of my neck and shoulder.

I gasp a short breath, hold it. Let it out in a sigh only to catch it again when that touch, hot as fire, moves to my throat, trails along my collarbone. Warm breath tickles the sensitive skin just behind my ear. Then the edge of teeth, applying only the faintest pressure to my earlobe. Just enough that I feel their sharpness.

Let me teach you, a deep voice rumbles in the shadows. Let me learn you.

I fall back in a bed of darkness. It envelops me in a sweet, heady perfume. I can see nothing, for all is inky black, so I close my eyes, let my other senses come alive.

He is there.

His body pressed flush against mine.

His fingers twirl the delicate straps on my shoulders.

His hands smooth away the silky folds of my gown.

My throat vibrates with a low moan. I respond to his touch, surrender to his lead as he draws me into this sensuous dance. His lips are full and soft but spark against my skin as his kisses explore down my neck, my collarbone, between my breasts. I run my hands across his broad shoulders, up the back of his head, my fingers tangling in the long, silky strands of his hair.

Is this what you want?

Ilsevel?

My eyes fly open. Low red light illuminates the darkness just enough that I can see the face hovering above mine. Those strong features sharpened to knifelike edges; his eyes black voids brimming with fury, with hatred.

He bares his teeth. They're sharp like fangs.

Then I'm falling. Falling, tumbling, hot air rushing past me. The heat below intensifies, burns away the scant remains of my garments, burns into my flesh, my bones.

I scream-

-and land flat on my back.

Every muscle in my body is tensed, my lungs constricted. For a moment I believe I've struck stone, shattered into a million tiny pieces. Then my heart gives a painful throb. Life rushes through me, quaking my bones. I draw in a ragged breath. It takes a moment to realize my eyelids are blinking fast, because there's simply no difference between open and closed. All is absolutely black. Did I strike my head when I fell? Am I now blind?

But no. I didn't fall. Not really.

Neither has the flesh melted from my skeleton.

It was just a dream.

A sob chokes in my throat. Rolling onto my side, I grip the edge of the narrow cot on which I lie. My addled mind slowly begins to clear. I know where I am again: in a cave. Dank. Cold. Dark. Far beneath the surface of this world. Imprisoned for treachery against the Shadow King.

A shudder rolls down my spine. This darkness is terrible. It feels like a living thing, an oppressive entity preying on my sanity. My senses are already so highly strung due to my gods-gift. Now, deprived of sight, I have no barrier between me and the tiniest, creeping sensations.

If only I could retreat back into that dream! Because it was a dream . . . wasn't it? Part of me wants to believe it was a memory. Those touches. Those kisses. Those thrills of both body and soul. They were mine. For a few, precious moments, they were mine.

Only that's a lie.

Those kisses were all meant for Ilsevel.

My sister.

Beloved.

Dead.

Tears course down my cheeks. How long have I been weeping? I don't know. Neither can I guess how long I've been here in this dark place. It simultaneously feels like moments and years since the guards dragged me off that execution scaffold, through a bewildering array of stony corridors, and flung me into this cell. I remember sitting here on this same cot, watching the single shining lorst crystal dim and go out. I don't know how long ago that was.

My eyes ache from straining. I close them once more and call to mind the last lingering sight in my memory: Lyria. My half sister. She stood just on the other side of the cell bars as we spoke our goodbyes. Where is she now? Halfway home to Beldroth, carrying her report of recent events to Father?

More likely, she was murdered before she ever reached the Between Gate, her corpse sent as a warning to King Larongar. Punishment for his treachery. And mine.

Sucking a breath through gritted teeth, I sit upright. A wave of dizziness washes over me, and panic roils in my gut. I swing out my arms, searching for something, anything, to touch, to ground myself. One hand hits the stone wall hard. Pain shoots through my bones, and I cry out. Then I bite my tongue. Tilt my head.

When I touched the wall, something . . . happened.

Fingers trembling, I reach out, press my palm against the thick cold slab of stone. These walls aren't carved but have naturally formed over millennia. I close my eyes and with my other hand grip the crystal pendant hanging from its chain around my neck. At first, it is very still. I squeeze harder until I feel the faint pulse in its center, warming against my skin.

Deep in the wall, moving through the heavy stone, comes an answering thrum.

The sudden groan of metal door hinges startles me. I yank my hand away from the wall, heart leaping. Was that a real sound? Or did I imagine it? No, there's light. Real light. A faint gleam, but enough to make me gasp and cover my face with both hands.

A sound of soft footsteps. The brush of heavy fabric on stone. They're so loud in the stillness, they seem to echo in my head. I peer between my fingers. The glow comes from beyond my cell. It catches on the cell door bars, casts long shadow bands across the floor. Those bands move as the light draws nearer, like slashes of darkness ready to slice me in two.

Are the guards returning to drag me back to the scaffold? And this time, will the angered king hold true to his purpose? No last-minute stay of execution. I'll kneel before the block and stare down into a box lined with blue silk. The last sight my eyes will see before my head rolls.

I scramble off the bed, yank my skirts into place around me. Standing upright, I grip my pendant with one hand, my other hand clenched in a fist at my side, determined to show no fear. The light draws near slowly enough that my eyes have time to adjust. What had seemed bright as a blazing star a moment ago resolves into a single lorst crystal set in a silver holder held by a trembling hand. A figure stands on the far side of the bars. I think it's a man; he's so heavily cloaked, I cannot be certain. He wears a hood pulled low over his face. There's something eerily familiar about him, some resonance from his soul which strikes my gods-gifted perceptions. It isn't Vor. Of that, at least, I'm certain.

He lifts his crystal high enough that the pale, purplish light illuminates my face. I wince but refuse to shield my eyes. Ragged breaths issue from beneath that hood. Then, with swift, jerking movements, he pulls a key from the deep folds of his cloak, jangles it in the lock, then yanks the door open. The bars screech along the deep floor grooves, sending shudders up my spine. The man steps back and motions sharply with one arm.

I swallow hard. "Where are you taking me?"

The man merely stands there, arm extended.

"Am I to see Vor? The king?"

Still nothing.

I try to get a sense of his feelings. I've found it difficult to read the troldefolk. While not impervious to my gift, they seem to keep their emotions behind layers of stone. At first, it was a relief-the unrelenting pressure of other people's feelings too often overwhelms my senses. Now, however, it's frightening. All I detect is a thin vibration in the air between me and this stranger. When I squeeze my crystal a little harder, I can almost, almost . . .

"Nurghed ghot!"

I gasp. That voice, so harsh and cold, chills my blood. But what can I do? I won't wait for him to physically haul me out. Better to move of my own volition, to take what control I can.

Gripping my pendant hard, I duck from the cell and into the passage. Deep shadows obscure my feet, and I stumble a little. The floor is relatively smooth, however, so I find my balance, and we proceed down a corridor, past numerous empty cells, through a door, and into a narrow stairwell. I lift my skirts and climb. Each step feels like a mountain my faltering courage must conquer. At the top of the stair, I emerge into a broad passage with a high, arched ceiling. Lorst crystals set in silver sconces offer some illumination, but not much.

The hooded figure-My escort? My captor? My enemy or friend?-steps out of the stairwell behind me and motions for me to turn right. "Where are we going?" I demand again.

He answers only with more of that heavy, ratcheted breathing.

I want to run. I want to hike up my skirts and simply take off, following the lorst lights to wherever they might lead. But what then? I cannot escape. I couldn't hope to navigate the Shadow Realm and its subterranean ways. I'd never even make it outside the palace walls. And when they inevitably caught me, they would drag me by my hair, kicking and screaming, back to the scaffold.

If I must die, I will do so with dignity.

I turn right as indicated and march. The stranger falls into place behind me. I shiver at the creeping sensation of his hot breath on the back of my neck. But he hasn't touched me. Not yet at least. We take a turn and step into a new corridor, this one a little smaller and less well lit than the one we've just left. I stumble over my feet, put out a hand to catch myself against the wall.

A vibration flickers beneath my palm. Then another answering vibration, rippling out from the figure at my back. A soul echo that strikes my gods-gift with undeniable potency.

Evil.

Murder.

I stop. My heart throbs against my breastbone.

"Drag!" growls the stranger, his voice once more hauntingly familiar.

He's taking me somewhere to kill me. I don't know why. He could have easily overpowered me in the cell, slit my throat, crushed my skull in his big trolde hands. Perhaps he doesn't want to leave evidence of my death. Perhaps he plans to deliver me to someone else who will do the actual deed.

Either way, he intends for me to die.

I have a split second to decide what to do. I glance at him, his hooded face, his hunched and nervous body. He wants to keep my death a secret. Which means I'm not wholly without power here.

I open my mouth and let out an earth-shattering scream. It echoes up and down the stone passage, and the crystals embedded deep within the walls seem to catch the sound and carry it further. Surely someone must be near, someone will come, someone will-

The man grabs my shoulders and slams me up against the wall. It knocks the breath out of me, and then his hand clamps down over my mouth. "Morar-juk!" he snarls as his hood falls back.

A cold wave of horror rushes over me as his features come into view. I recognize him. It's the man who stood by the block on the scaffold. The man who read out my crimes, who pronounced my sentence. I'd felt the cold, cruel pleasure he'd taken in the prospect of my death. His malice struck my gods-gift with force enough to knock me off my feet.

There's no such pleasure in him now. At first, I feel nothing but murder, hard and terrible. But that is only the thin veneer over the truth. Down underneath lurks a deeper, stronger, surging feeling: despair.

The man's eyeballs shake in his skull. He presses me hard against the wall, his forearm across my throat. His free hand reaches into his cloak, whisks out a dagger which he angles just under my ear. But he's made a mistake. He's pressed my whole body up against the wall. I flatten my palms to the stone, feel the vibration of all those hidden crystals deep inside. Channeling that vibration, I stare into those spinning eyes of his, and-take hold.

The man gasps. Freezes. His head tilts slowly to one side.

I feel all of it. Everything he's feeling. Murder. Hatred. Bloodlust and fear. I feel it and hold it suspended between us, even as his knife pricks my throat; even as the edge of the blade cuts into my flesh.

Slowly, I pry one hand free of the wall, press it against his cheek.

Calm.

The vibrations in the stone rush through me, ripple through my bones, my muscles, out my pores.

The man jolts. His eyes widen.

Then he drops like a stone.

With a gasp, I sag, just managing to lock my knees and keep from falling. The wall still hums faintly at my back, and my body reverberates with echoes of pulsing energy. Slowly, the reverberations pass. I blink. My vision clears.

A crumpled body lies at my feet.

I stare at it, momentarily uncertain how it got there. Blood rushes into my head, throbs in my veins. Eventually, understanding dawns: I did this. I knocked this man unconscious. Maybe . . . maybe more. Maybe worse.

He looks peaceful. Unnaturally so, considering how twisted his expression had been only moments before. I shake my head, my breath thin and tight between my lips. What have I done? I've used this calming trick before. It's the only aspect of my gods-gift over which I have any control. But never to such a degree.

Warmth trickles down my neck. When I touch it, my fingers come away sticky. I must do something. I can't just stand here, bleeding. The knife lies where it clattered, close to my foot. I wonder if I should pick it up. Not that I'd know what to do with it. I could never bring myself to plunge it into another living being.

My back still pressed against the wall, I sidle several paces to one side, away from the fallen man. Then, with a shivering inhale of breath, I snatch up his fallen lorst crystal. Gripping it in both hands, I continue down the passage. My lips try and fail to form a cry for help. But I shouldn't alert anyone to my presence, should I? After all, this man may not have been working alone. Someone else might come running to finish what he started.