“You’ll need to hold on tight, princess.” Vor’s words breathe through the delicate fabric of my veil, tickling my ear. “The first time passing through the Between Gates can be unpleasant. Don’t be frightened; I won’t let go of you, I promise.”
I nod and wrap my fingers through handfuls of morleth mane. I can do nothing else. I dare not even speak. Each time I open my mouth, I run the risk of revealing my true identity. I can pitch my voice low, hope the veil muffles my words. But I can’t guard against the natural cadence and rhythm of phrases flowing off my tongue. It would take no more than a single ill-chosen word to ruin everything.
So I hold my tongue behind my gritted teeth as Vor spurs his morleth into motion. The beast’s muscles bunch and surge underneath me as it lurches forward, and I cannot help leaning back into the strong, broad chest behind me. Vor’s grip around my waist tightens. A rush of heat burns through me. Seven gods above, I’d not realized how badly I missed that embrace!
Get a hold of yourself, Faraine. His embraces are not meant for you.
I straighten as though an iron rod has been driven up my spine. Using all the muscles in my legs and core, I hold myself rigid, despite the rolling gait of the morleth, determined not to relax again. A prick of emotion stabs through my senses—disappointment or discouragement. Possibly both. Vor doesn’t know how to interpret his bride’s icy demeanor. It cannot be helped. We’re both just going to have to endure this ride as best we can.
The air beneath the gate arc ripples strangely, like vapors on a hot day. There’s a gleam of light, a color I cannot define, dancing in ribbons, almost invisible but not quite. Magic. Living magic, drawn from the quinsatra and ignited by the spells implanted in the gate stones. This is powerful work, ancient and ageless. I feel a blast of cold against my exposed skin. My stomach plunges with a sudden awareness of yawning depths. Panic thrills in my veins, some primal instinct screaming that we shouldn’t approach such power, that we should turn back, duck for cover.
The morleth picks up its feet, flowing into a swift, fluid pace, its neck extended, its nostrils flaring with eagerness. Just at the last moment, just as the eerie colored light flares, I turn my head and bury my face in Vor’s shoulder.
“Hold on,” he says. As if I could do anything else.
The next moment—or perhaps the next hour—perhaps the next day, or year, or century—time has suddenly ceased to mean anything. All I know is pain. Or rather, not pain. More like the shrill ache in a tooth when you’ve bitten down on something too cold. Only this sensation shoots through my entire body, deep down to my bones. At first, it’s all encompassing. Then my bones seem to disintegrate, softly, gently, particles of matter and existence drifting away from one another, held together by delicate filaments of time and space. There’s a sickening rush as if I’m falling and left my stomach behind. I cannot bear to open my eyes, can do nothing but cling desperately to my own reality, willing myself to remember that I still am, that I have been, that I shall go on being.
There’s a sound like blibt.
Then I’m gasping. And what a wonder—I still have lungs with which to gasp! I still have a body that drinks in air, exhales it in a rush, then bends double with a spasm of sickness. Even that’s a wonder, the fact that I can feel sick. The fact that I have a stomach to tighten and cramp, a head to spin with nausea, a mouth to cough and spit. I have a reality. I have existence.
“There, it’s all right.” Vor’s voice is warm, comforting. He places a gentle hand on my back. I’m bowed over to one side, determined not to vomit on another intended bridegroom. The last time I did that, it did not end well. I hold the veil out of my way, heaving again and again. It would be a relief to bring something up, but nothing comes. I’ve barely eaten in days. All I can do is dry heave, convulsing. I would fall from the saddle entirely were it not for Vor’s arm around me.
“There, there,” he says as if I’m some pathetic creature in need of crooning. “Let it out if you need to.”
I spit one last time and wipe my lips with the back of my hand. Shaking my head, I settle the veil back over my face and lean back. I can’t help it. I cannot maintain my rigid posture. Shuddering a sigh, I slump in the saddle. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be,” he answers at once. “You did well. Young Yok over there hacked like a mothcat for hours after the first time he passed through.”
As though to emphasize his king’s word, the boy rider appears through the gate behind us and utters a dismal groan. He bends over his morleth, grabbing its spiny neck and muttering in troldish. I may not understand the exact words, but the meaning is perfectly clear. Before he can recover himself, the king’s brother emerges, his morleth running into the back of the boy’s steed. The incoming morleth snarls and sinks pointed teeth into the haunches of the first, which bucks angrily, very nearly unseating its rider. Yok lets out a yelp and grabs on fast, then turns in his saddle and rattles off a stream of angry invective. The king’s brother merely shrugs and spurs his mount out of the way just in time for Hael to pass through.
Lyria is there, perched on a pack behind the trolde captain. Her face looks positively green, and the moment they’re through, she tips to one side, opens her mouth, and lets all the contents of her stomach spill forth. Hael barks something in troldish and catches Lyria by the back of her gown to keep her from tumbling to the ground.
“Is she all right?” I ask, momentarily forgetting to disguise my voice. Thank the gods, Vor doesn’t seem to notice.
“Oh, yes,” he answers easily. “Our physical forms were simply not intended to pass through so many realities so quickly. But once we’re through, the sickness passes soon enough. It’s only a problem for those who become stuck in the Hinter. That can cause lasting harm. If the individual is ever found again, that is.”
I don’t want to think about that. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. Calm surrounds me, welcome as a blanket on a winter morning. Funny—I’d not expected to feel this way again. Certainly not while wearing my sister’s face. Somehow, I’d unconsciously believed my lie would prevent me from experiencing the same pleasant comfort I’d felt before in Vor’s presence. But it’s still there. And when I lean into the sensation, it swiftly expels the sickness from my gut, leaving me trembling and a little weak, but whole.
My stomach twists, this time not with sickness. It’s sharp, painful, like a knife to the gut. I bolt up straight again, pulling away from his chest. The air is chilly against my back, but I don’t care. What right have I to such comfort? What right have I to take pleasure in sitting in my dead sister’s place, enjoying the warming presence of her betrothed?
Oh, Ilsevel. I’m so sorry.
A sudden stream of troldish draws my attention. Yok, recovered from his bout of sickness, is turning in his saddle, looking here and there. His brow wrinkles with puzzlement. He calls out to Vor, who also turns. He cups a hand around his mouth and calls in a deep rumble, “Kol? Crorsvar tah, Kol?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
Vor grunts. “It’s the gatekeeper, Kol. He’s usually on hand to mind the gate. He left it open for us, but . . .” He seems thoughtful. After a moment, he speaks another string of troldish to the young rider, who dismounts and approaches a massive stone dial set in the wall. He grunts and groans but gets it turning. The magic rippling in the open air of the gate flares, then quiets.
“Sul?” Vor says, turning to his brother.
“Ortolar?” Sul answers.
“I need you to ride on ahead. Alert Lady Xag to our coming. She offered to provide refreshments for the princess upon our return.”
“Morar-juk!” Sul pulls a face and rattles off a stream of angry sounding troldish.
“Don’t be a coward, brother,” Vor answers calmly. “I’ve seen you throw yourself at cave devils with more enthusiasm!”
Sul growls something else I don’t understand but pulls his mount’s head around and urges it into motion, disappearing into the trees.
Only . . . I blink. Only they aren’t trees at all.
“Are you quite recovered, princess?” Vor asks.
I nod. I scarcely hear him. He calls out to Hael and Yok, speaking in a mixture of troldish and Gavarian, but I pay him no heed. My attention is completely taken up by the forest in which I find myself. A whole forest of absolutely enormous, tree-sized mushrooms. What I had taken at first for trunks were in truth mushroom stalks—smooth and leathery and ringed with delicate frills. The caps opening overhead spread wide as rooftops, and the delicate gills pulse with a warm glow. The strangest, most otherworldly source of light, but undeniably beautiful.
I stare around me, jaw hanging open. I remember suddenly how Vor had answered when I’d asked if there was any light underground. “More light than you can imagine. More light, more color, more life. More everything.”
Maybe he wasn’t exaggerating.
Suddenly aware of Vor’s scrutiny, I glance up and catch his smile. “What do you think, princess?” he asks. Eagerness radiates from him, a nice change from the anxiety. He does very much want to please me. To please Ilsevel, that is.
I lower my head, wishing I’d not reacted so obviously. “It’s beautiful.”
“This is Horba Gat, one of the oldest and largest forests in the Under Realm.” He spurs his morleth into motion, and we proceed through the massive stems. The beast shivers and tosses its head, very solid and ugly under the pulsing glow. “Knar doesn’t like it here,” Vor says as though answering a question I’d not thought to ask. “Morleth don’t care for the horba lights during lusterling, though you can often find wild morleth wandering among them at dimness.”
I’m silent for a little while, taking in this information. “What is lusterling?” I ask at length. “And dimness?”
“Ah! I forget how much you have to learn.” Vor’s voice is kind, and that eagerness radiates a little brighter from his soul. “Lusterling is what we call our day. It is the period in which the lorst crystals come alive and glow, generating the light that shines overhead. Dimness is our night, for the crystals slowly fade, and the older ones go out entirely, casting our world into darkness. There, you see?” He points at an opening between two great mushroom caps. I peer up and glimpse a distant arch of cavern ceiling studded with crystals. Almost too bright to look upon directly, they gleam in a multitude of colors.
Now that I see the ceiling, however, it brings a sudden flood of awareness over me. Awareness of the huge, crushing weight of stone overhead. Tons upon tons of rock and earth. My lungs tighten. Panic burns in my veins, threatening to overwhelm me. Hastily I look down, staring at the strands of morleth hair twined in my fingers, trying to count them, trying to focus on anything other than that terrible, terrible heaviness.
“It will take some getting used to.” Vor’s voice is close to my ear, his chin nearly resting on my shoulder. I close my eyes, my body tensing. But at least he’s a distraction. For a moment I’m too aware of him to care much about anything else. “I know this world is strange to you, but I hope you will come to love the Under Realm in time.”
I nod. I should say something, I know. Offer some polite little nothing. But I can’t.
We ride on in silence. Little flitting creatures dart among the mushroom stems, catching my eye. Their wings move so fast, they’re a blur, generating a sweet humming. As we ride deeper into the trees, there are more of the creatures, and the humming increases.
The pendant on my necklace warms in reaction. At first I don’t notice. Then, slowly, I become aware of heat against my breast and a vibration that wasn’t there before. I place my hand over it, shocked by how much bare flesh I feel under my palm. I’d almost forgotten the revealing gown I wear, caught up in the wonder of this new world.
One of the little creatures flits close and lands on my hand. I catch my breath and slowly lift my fingers up before my face. Rather than flying away, the creature holds on with its six, tiny, clawed feet. Those feet are attached to six furry fat legs, which in turn correspond with six delicate wings, each like a single feather. Huge dark eyes stare at me from beneath what I first take to be long, rabbit-like ears, but which prove to be drooping antenna. It opens and closes a tiny beak, unfurling a delicate ribbon of black tongue. It’s so beautiful, so strange.
“It’s called an olk,” Vor says suddenly. “There are many of them here in Horba Gat and hundreds of varieties throughout the Under Realm. They’re not unlike your songbirds, I believe.”
“They look a bit more like moths,” I say, tilting my hand and watching the creature crawl around to nestle in my palm. Then abruptly, it spreads its six wings and flutters to my chest. I catch a breath.
“It likes your necklace.” There’s a smile in Vor’s voice, warm and kind. “Olk resonate to the song of urzul crystals.”
“Urzul crystals?”
“Yes. That is what you’re wearing. Did you not know?”
I lift the pendant, to which the olk is still clinging. The crystal hums, a deep, melodious harmony to the olk’s simple song. “I did not realize it came from Mythanar.”
“Wait.” Vor’s voice holds a sharpness that wasn’t there a moment before. His body goes rigid behind me. “Where did you get that, princess?”
“What? My necklace?”
“I recognize it. That was Faraine’s.”
My stomach drops. Ice chills through my veins. What a fool I am! I never stopped to consider he might remember such a simple token. “Oh!” I force out the word, a thin little gasp of sound. Quickly I shake my head. Now is not the time to fall apart. “Oh, yes. This. She gave it to me. Faraine, I mean. As a wedding gift.”
“When?”
“Um. Just before I left on my Maiden’s Journey. It was a parting gift.”
Vor is silent. The olk, as though sensing unpleasant discord, flies away into the mushrooms, trailing glittering dust in its wake. The morleth plods on several heavy steps.
Then: “I saw her wearing it. The day after you left.”
My mouth goes dry. “Yes. How foolish of me, I forgot. It was after.”
“You saw Faraine after your journey? I thought you traveled directly to the Between Gate from the last shrine.”
“We stopped at Nornala Convent on our way over the Ettrian Mountains. I saw her there.” The lie falls so easily from my lips. And as it falls, I feel something slip away from me. Something I can never reclaim. Some virtue, some goodness. Some worth.
He’s going to find out.
Of course, he is. Sooner or later.
Sooner. Not later.
And when he does, what then? He’ll recount all these lies, one after another. And when he looks at me, what will he see? Certainly not the girl whose hand he’d kissed in the garden. Not her. Because she’s gone now. She vanished the minute I allowed them to give me my dead sister’s name.
This is too much. I can’t bear it.
“Vor,” I say suddenly, clearly. Dropping all pretense of mimicking Ilsevel’s voice.
He starts behind me, his muscles tensing. “Yes?”
I open my mouth. Ready to say more, ready to tell him everything, everything. My confession is right there on the tip of my tongue.
Before I can get a word out, a voice rings through the forest: “Ortolar! Hirak-lash!”
“Sul?” Vor sits up straighter in the saddle, looking over my head. “Sul, is that you?”
“Juk, ortolar, mazoga!”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, sensing the mounting unease in the man at my back. He doesn’t answer but spurs his morleth faster. It leaps forward, weaving through the mushroom stalks, swift and fluid. I glimpse a break in the forest up ahead, and Sul, still mounted, poised on a rocky outcropping overlooking a sheer drop. He sees Vor coming and points. “Hirark!” he says again.
Vor urges his mount up alongside Sul’s. My stomach pitches. We’ve come to an overlook, and a strange landscape appears below me, a landscape totally unlike my world back home, all contained within a great cavern. A winding river sparkles under the light of distant lorst crystals, cutting through massive rocks and crags. The crystal light is not as bright as full daylight but bright enough for me to see the village lining the riverbank—a village of conical stalagmites, formed by the hand of nature. Only on a second and third glance do I begin to notice the doors and windows carved into those stalagmites and what seems to be a complex network of streets running among them.
It’s all ghostly quiet.
Sul says something in troldish. Vor responds sharply. The roiling tension in his spirit mounts, morphing into real fear. “What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
Vor looks down at me as though suddenly reminded of my existence. “I beg your pardon, princess. There is . . . We are not . . . There may be trouble below.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Sul speaks harshly, making an impatient gesture. He won’t even look at me. Vor answers in troldish, his voice less harsh but urgent. A sound of hoofbeats draws my attention. I look around Vor’s broad shoulder to see Hael and Yok arrive. Hael exclaims once, and Yok begins to babble, but she hushes him with a sharp gesture. They approach the overlook and go still.
Lyria peers around Hael’s shoulder, gripping the cantle of the morleth saddle for balance. “What’s that?” she asks, and points.
I look where she indicates. A great gash runs through part of the trolde town, appearing as though some spectacularly huge claw has torn right through the rock. At first glance I assumed it was a natural part of the landscape, but now I notice how the houses closest to it teeter perilously on the edge. Even as I watch, one of them crumbles and falls into darkness.
Vor and his people begin talking rapidly in troldish. I exchange glances with Lyria. Her eyes are very wide.
“Forgive me, princess,” Vor says, his sudden switch to my language jarring. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I must see to business below.” Without another word of explanation, he swings down from the saddle, then reaches up and wraps his hands around my waist. I only just have time to grip his upper arms before he’s pulling me to the ground. He’s too abrupt, and I stagger. He catches me, rights me, then turns away. I feel the sudden chill of his absence like an icy slap.
“Ouch! Have a care, there!” Lyria growls. I turn in time to see Hael take hold of her arm and, much less gently, almost shove her off her own morleth. Lyria stumbles and lands on her backside, glaring furiously up at the trolde woman, who ignores her. Vor has already remounted and is speaking to Yok. The boy lets out a protesting bleat. Vor repeats himself, his tone final. Yok bows his head.
I move to Lyria’s side as she picks herself up off the ground. We stand close to one another. Her anxiety spikes like daggers. Ordinarily I would withdraw to keep from being hurt. But she needs my support. And, in truth, I need her in that moment as well.
Vor turns at last to the two of us. “Princess,” he says, his voice crisp, “I am placing you in the care of Yok here. He is charged with your safety. He is a brave warrior and will keep you from any harm.”
Lyria snorts. “I’m not sure what that child is going to protect us from.”
Yok shoots her a dirty glare. Apparently he understands human language.
Vor’s morleth stomps and snorts, tossing its head. Vor holds it in check, the muscles in his upper arms bulging with effort. “I would trust Yok with my life. You will be safe. He will escort you to the house of Lady Xag. She is a friend. She will see to your comfort until I come for you.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
He doesn’t quite look at me. “There’s something I must do.” He hesitates. His jaw works as though he wants to say something more. But he merely shakes his head and addresses himself to Yok again, speaking in troldish. Then, with a last swift glance my way, he spurs his morleth into the forest. Sul and Hael ride hard upon his heels, and I watch them vanish into the mushroom trees.
Suddenly, the massive weight of the cavern overhead seems worse than before.
“Well, this is a fine cauldron of gruel,” Lyria mutters, crossing her arms. “Barely through the gate and already abandoned! Not exactly the wedding celebration I anticipated.”
I take her hand. It’s an impulsive gesture, one I almost immediately regret as pain spikes through my palm. I close my eyes and clutch my pendant with my other hand, feeling for its inner pulse. It’s stronger than usual. Am I imagining it, or is there an answering pulse in the ground beneath my feet? A gentle rumble, a rhythm like an ancient song.
The trolde boy still stands at the outlook, staring down at the village. His face is grim. Finally, he draws a deep breath and turns to us. He considers a moment, then dismounts. “Please,” he says, in stilted but understandable Gavarian, “if you would ride my mount, I would be honored to escort you to a place of rest.”
Lyria snorts. “You’ll never get me back up on one of those creatures. Not if my life depends on it. I’ll walk, thank you.”
The boy’s forehead puckers. “It’s three miles at least to Lady Xag’s home.”
“Good. I need to stretch my legs anyway.” Lyria picks up her skirts and starts walking through the mushrooms, scattering a little flock of olk as she goes. “Come along, Ilsevel!” she tosses back over her shoulder.
Yok turns to me. “Princess?”
“It’s all right,” I say, smiling, though he cannot see it through the veil. “I’ve been riding in a cramped carriage for days. I would appreciate a chance to move.”
He looks as though he wants to protest. To my relief, he simply nods. “This way then.”
