No one knows if Prince Ruvaen received word of Ilsevel’s journey across the kingdom and set out on purpose to kill her, or if my sister just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It hardly matters. The ambush was swift and brutal. Only one of my sister’s guards made it back alive. Ruvaen turned him loose to carry word of the massacre back to my father.
All were slaughtered, he said. Brutally. Without mercy.
Theodre recites everything back to me, relating every gory detail he can remember as we ride down the Ettrian Mountains, surrounded by a much greater escort guard than the last time we made this same journey. I cannot bear to listen to what my brother has to say. Here and there I surface from a fog of agony and try to force my mind to focus, to take in and accept what I’ve been told. But it’s too much, and I sink again.
My sisters.
Ilsevel.
Aurae.
They appear before my mind’s eye, two pale ghosts. I see them seated at a table together, sharing a meal. Laughing. Talking. I feel their surge of panic when the first battle cries sound. I watch them scramble to the window, pulling back the curtains, staring, their pulses thudding with mounting terror. Ilsevel grabs Aurae’s hand, and they run, desperately. My heart beats in frantic time with theirs as all around them the air explodes with dying screams and the thick sound of blades hacking into flesh.
I see them stop. Ahead is a shadow. Massive. Faceless.
Ilsevel flings herself in front of Aurae, a living shield.
The shadow bears down upon them, demonic horns flashing in the light of burning buildings. A notched blade rises, bursts into flame even as it swings.
I choke on a sob. But the vision won’t stop. And when it is through, it plays again. And again. And again. I don’t know if it’s a dream or a glimpse of reality or some bizarre combination of the two. I lose all track of time. The vision has become my own personal hell from which I cannot escape. Or perhaps I don’t want to escape. This horror has become my refuge, the dark home where I can dwell and not face a cruel, empty world.
The carriage lurches to a halt. I open my eyes, shivering, my skin slick with sweat. And I realize that the gods have not seen fit to take my life. Not yet. For reasons known only to themselves, they’ve left me in this cold existence.
“Come on, Faraine.” Theodre’s voice pushes through the cloud in my head, drawing my sluggish gaze to him. He’s already climbed down from the carriage and peers back in at me. The smile he offers is unexpectedly warm. “We’re here now. We’re home.” He holds out his hand.
I hesitate. Part of me wants to resist, to stay curled up in this dark interior with nothing but my ghosts for company. I close my eyes, calling Ilsevel’s face to mind. Her brave, fierce, determined face. Would she want me to crumble into myself like a ruin whose foundations have washed away? No. She would urge me to be strong.
“You’re the mature one, Fairie. Remember?” she would say. “So, chin up and be the princess. Go on!”
I draw a quivering breath. Then, though my body feels hollowed out inside, my limbs numb and useless, I take hold of Theodre’s gloved hand. He’s surprisingly gentle as he assists me from the carriage. I nearly fall when my foot misses the box step, but his grip on my elbow supports me, and I manage to pull myself upright.
I look around, taking in the high, cold walls of Beldroth. Home, Theodre had said. As if this stone prison could ever be home now that my sisters are gone.
Someone is speaking. Theodre answers, but I’m too numb to discern specific words. My brother turns me around to face the entrance stair. Both my parents stand in the doorway above. Father’s single eye is narrow and hard as he gazes down at me. Mother’s face is a mask. No one would ever know she’d just lost her two youngest children. When I reach out with my gods-gift, I cannot find her anywhere. She’s far too deeply retreated into herself.
At Theodre’s insistent pressure on my elbow, I manage to stagger up the steps and sink into a curtsy. For half a moment I fear I won’t be able to rise again, afraid my legs will simply give out beneath me. Somehow I find the strength and pull myself upright once more.
Father’s eye roves over me, from my face down my body. He turns to Mother. “She’s all bones and shadows. A veritable skeleton!”
Mother offers a placating smile. “Let Mage Klaern do his work. He won’t let you down.”
“He’d better not. And you, wife, best be sure she’s ready for what lies ahead.”
My head spins. Shadows close in around the edges. I blink, and when my eyelids rise again, my father is already gone, disappeared without another word. My mother’s blurry features swim back into focus. She looks me over, her eyes sharp and critical. Eventually her gaze returns to my face, and she breathes a faint longsuffering sigh. “So, Faraine. It is to be you after all. How strange are the ways of the gods sometimes.” With that she turns and sweeps inside, casting a short, “Follow!” over her shoulder.
I have no choice but to obey. My head pounds and my stomach churns with nausea as I find myself surrounded by Mother’s ladies-in-waiting. The sheer number of them is enough to push through my fog and stab me with daggers of anxiety. I tuck my chin, gripping folds of my skirt tight in both hands, and hasten through them after the queen. Mother leads me to her private dressing room. A tall mirror dominates the space, the glass so perfectly clear that it must be laced with any number of spells.
Mage Klaern stands before the mirror, his head bent over an open spellbook resting on his arm. He’s one of the younger Miphates in my father’s service, though his hair already sports a good deal of gray at the temples. He’s severe and stern, with a close-trimmed beard that shapes the lower half of his face into sharp angles. His eyes are small and deep set, but their color, a startlingly bright blue, catches one’s attention with almost hypnotic intensity.
Those eyes latch onto mine as I’m hustled into the room. His spirit strikes me with a force that makes me want to turn and run screaming.
“Here she is,” Mother says, standing aside and nodding at me without quite looking my way. Her mouth is a grim line. “I fear it’s worse than we imagined.”
Mage Klaern approaches, circling me slowly. I fight not to recoil. This man radiates a sickly aura that makes my stomach knot. He finally finishes his scrutiny and faces me straight on. His lip curls. “It will be a feat of a magic worthy of my talents.”
A shudder races down my spine. “What’s going on?” I turn to the queen, who looks down at her fingernails and buffs them idly on her sleeve. “Mother, please. Tell me what’s happening.”
Her eyes are heavy lidded and stubbornly bland. “You are to take your sister’s place as the Shadow King’s bride.”
The words strike my ears like stones against an iron gate, ringing out as they glance aside, unable to penetrate. For some moments I can hear nothing but that ringing, feel nothing but that dull vibration through my bones. Then, understanding comes over me in a rush.
“You can’t mean it.”
“I can indeed.” Mother moves across the room and takes a seat on an upholstered chair beside the mirror. “Your sisters are both dead. Ilsevel cannot fulfill her role as bride, and Aurae cannot step into her place. There remains only you, the last blood-princess of the House of Cyhorn, who are eligible to make the substitution.”
“She favors her sister around the jaw.” Mage Klaern speaks suddenly as though he hasn’t listened to anything else being said, being lost in his own thoughts. “I’ll start there and draw the similarities out as I go.”
My gaze bounces from him to my mother and back again. I seem to have lost the ability to breathe. Then with a great gasp, I leap back a step. “Mother, no!”
She tilts her head to one side. “Now, now, Faraine. You don’t want to cause trouble, do you?”
I whirl and lunge for the door. Mother’s ladies are too fast for me. Two of them catch me by the arms and drag me back, while a third pulls the door shut and stands in front of it. Wrenching free, I leap to the opposite side of the room, trembling like a deer pinned down by the hounds but determined to make my stand. “Tell me I’m wrong.” I face my mother, fists balled into knots. “Please, tell me Father doesn’t plan to deceive the Shadow King. To pass me off as Ilsevel.”
“No, actually.” Mother glances down at her folded hands. “The marriage agreement between Gavaria and Mythanar states that Ilsevel Cyhorn shall be wed to King Vor, thus sealing the alliance. There is no caveat for substitution.”
Her expression is serene, but for an instant I feel a flash of true feeling from her. Sharp and quick as a pin struck through the flesh: shame. It’s gone the next moment, leaving behind nothing but a dull throb.
I stare at her blankly. “Then . . . then is . . .?” I cannot find the words to finish. My gaze slides to Mage Klaern, again studying his spellbook. He turns a page, his brow furrowed. I shake my head slowly. “Ilsevel is dead. She cannot be married to Vor.”
“Not the original Ilsevel, no. But the Law of Appellative Benefaction permits us to pass the name of the dead child onto the head of the living. Thus, the living child, by right of law, essentially becomes the dead.”
She says it so smoothly. As though it’s the simplest, most natural thing.
“This is madness.” I shake my head. “Surely it would be better to inform King Vor outright of . . . of Ilsevel’s . . . of what has happened.”
“And risk letting the entire alliance come undone?” The queen raises her eyebrows. Without another word, she motions to Klaern, who takes a step toward me.
“No, wait!” The words crawl painfully up my thickened throat. I force them out, one after the other. “I am willing to take Ilsevel’s place. But not as an imposter. Let me go as myself. Vor will understand.”
Mother utters a patient sigh. “It’s too late for that, child. The alliance has been signed, and it was your sister’s name upon which all has been founded. The fae may not read or write, but they are bound by the power of the written word. It’s like a spell to them. If we were to break it, even with an offered substitute, the ramifications would be disastrous. No, no. The Law of Appellative Benefaction must be enacted. We must honor the alliance to the letter. Which means you must take your sister’s place, not as a new bride but as the bride. You will take her name and, with the help of Mage Klaern here, you will take her face as well.”
Hopelessness closes in around me, binding my limbs, my spirit, my will. “I won’t do it. I’ll tell Vor who I am. I don’t care what spells you put on me. I’ll make him see the truth.”
Mother’s eyes flash. “You do that, and you risk everything.” She rises and approaches me, her stride slow and measured but her expression ferocious. “Small-minded, shrinking creature. You have no idea what’s at stake here! You have no idea how desperate your father is to save Gavaria. Those thrice-cursed fae penetrated far deeper than we ever thought possible when they slaughtered your sisters. And they will continue to slaughter unhindered. They will raze this realm, this entire world, unless they are stopped. Here. Now. But Larongar hasn’t the means to stop them alone. Not without the Shadow King. Not without his reinforcements.”
She grips my face in a viselike hold, forcing me to look into her eyes. “Do you think you’re the only one to suffer this loss? Do you think you’re the only one in pain? Do you think you’re the only one asked to give everything, everything for the sake of strangers who will never even know who you really are? Think again, girl.”
The wave of her unchecked wrath crashes over me. I’ve never felt my mother’s emotions so clearly. She’s always composed, in control. But in that instant, everything inside her hits me like a war hammer. Were she not holding on to me so hard, I would reel away and fall in a pile of quivering bones at her feet.
Then she blinks. And it’s gone. All that powerful force of spirit is once more contained. She lets go and slowly wipes her hands. “You will remember what you are: a servant of the crown. You will trust your betters to know what must be done, and when you are called to serve, you will serve. Willingly. Joyfully. Knowing that everything you do, you do for the sake of Gavaria and all those who will suffer the same fate as your sisters if you fail.”
She places a finger under my chin, tilts my gaze up to meet hers. “I know it’s hard. Ours are lives devoted to duty. Your life is sworn to the service of your father. He has decreed that the Law of Appellative Benefaction be enacted. So you will take your sister’s name. You will take your sister’s face. You will become your sister and wed her intended. You will see the marriage consummated as swiftly as possible before your husband discovers the truth. Then . . .” She draws a long breath and lets it out slowly. “Then, whatever his reaction may be, you will bow your head and accept it. If you are lucky, he will understand. If you are not, then at least you will know that you have done all in the service of your country.”
I shrink away from her touch. I know I have no choice. None. To refuse will mean disaster and exile. Possibly even death. If my father were to declare me a traitor to the crown, what could I possibly say in my own defense? Closing my eyes, I see again that little burned-out village in the mountains. I see again the dreadful unicorn riders with their flaming swords and bloodthirsty, beautiful faces. I see the phantom images of my sisters holding each other, so frightened, so helpless.
Gavaria cannot last much longer against Prince Ruvaen and his relentless conquest.
I’ve said nothing, made no decision. But when I open my eyes again, I find myself seated in a little chair in front of the mirror. Mage Klaern stands beside me, studying my reflection in the glass as if I were a faintly interesting tapestry or a piece of tooled leather. He pinches my cheek, runs a lock of my hair through his fingers, and grunts. “This will take time.”
“Take all the time you need, dear mage,” Mother replies. “But hurry.”
He snorts. Then, opening his spellbook, he reads aloud in a strange old language. His words seem to spill from his mouth and cling to my skin, dark and wet and cloying. He circles me slowly, and every now and then pauses to dip his finger in a pot of ink and draw strange marks directly onto my face.
I stare into the glass. Slowly, so slowly that I cannot see it happening, my features melt away, replaced by another face. Not one I know, not yet, at least. But one that is certainly familiar and becoming more so with each passing moment.
Tears brim and spill over onto my cheeks. What am I doing? Betraying Ilsevel. Betraying Vor. This cannot be real. It must be a nightmare brought on by the shock of Theodre’s revelation. I must wake up, I must!
But I cannot wake. Because this nightmare is living, true.
Whether I will it or not, I am bound to become the Shadow King’s bride.
