This house is not at all like what I expected. It’s carved directly into the cavern wall, with only the most subtle stonemasonry providing any semblance of a distinct outer façade. In fact, if it weren’t for our young guide, I would have walked right past it without seeing a house at all.
The trolde boy stops, however, and stands facing what turns out to be a front door. Now that I look more closely, I can see the delicate scrollwork decorating the lintel. This leads me to scan higher up the cavern wall, and I can just pick out elegantly shaped windows among the rough crags. It’s a unique combination of naturalism and craft. Rather beautiful, in its way.
The boy’s face is a study. His white brows knit, and the simmering unease in his soul intensifies.
Lyria and I exchange glances. Lyria shrugs. “Well?” she says, folding her arms. “Is there a bellpull? Or are we to sing like carolers for admittance?”
The boy licks his dry lips. “The door.”
“Yes? What about it?”
“It’s . . . open.”
“So I see.” Lyria raises an eyebrow. “Hospitable folk in these parts, yes?” She takes three light steps as though to enter, but the boy catches hold of her elbow. “What?” she demands.
“You can’t just walk into Lady Xag’s house uninvited.”
“Why not?”
“It’s . . .” He struggles a moment, as though searching for the appropriate word. “In our tongue, we would say ush.”
“Rude?”
“Maybe?”
Lyria snorts. “Well, in our tongue, we would say it’s much ruder to keep your future queen standing on the stoop twiddling her thumbs.”
The boy’s jaw works as he glances from Lyria to me and back to the door again. I don’t know what’s troubling him. It is eerily silent, but for all I know, that’s just the way these trolde towns are.
“Really,” I say, drawing his gaze back to me, “I don’t mind waiting here. I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience to Lady Xag if she’s not prepared to receive—”
“Nonsense!” Lyria snaps. “We’ve had a long ride, then a quick nip across worlds and realities, then another long ride, and a long walk. We’ve earned a respite and a bite. So what’s it to be, Yok?” She addresses the boy again, her eyes narrowing. “Are you leading the way, or shall I go first and loudly announce our arrival to the household?”
He gives her a look as though he would very much like to bind her up by her thumbs and leave her dangling. But his tone is respectful if mildly resentful when he says, “Very well. But I’ll go first and make certain all is safe. You wait here.”
“Wait here?” Lyria tilts her head. “Alone and exposed and defenseless? Do you think that’s what King Vor had in mind when he left us in your tender care?”
“Fine,” Yok growls. He draws his sword and turns to the door. “You can come with me. Stay close.”
“Not too close!” Lyria takes my hand and tucks it under her arm as she falls into step behind the boy. “I don’t want to get hit by that blade of yours if you start swinging.”
She holds on tight to me, keeping me close to her side as we follow the boy through that half-hidden opening and into the entrance hall. I cannot help but perceive the tension emanating from behind her bold front. She grips my hand like a lifeline, sending sharp stabs of pain through my palm. A headache is forming fast, but I clutch my crystal, leaning into its calming pulse.
The inside of the cave dwelling is even more unexpected than the exterior. The floors are smoothly paved and polished, while the ceilings arching overhead are jagged with stalactite formations. The walls are curved and vary between smooth and rough natural stone. Little lorst crystals hang suspended in delicate chandelier arrangements, illuminating the darkness.
Yok leads us down the passage, scouting out the first several chambers we come to. They’re all empty. He calls out only once, a tremulous, “Grakul-dura?” There’s a questioning lilt in his voice.
Lyria sniffs. “What’s the point in that mouse-ish whispering?” She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “Is anyone there?” Her voice echoes down the corridor, hollow and lost.
“Juk!” Yok growls, and I’m sure it’s an expletive. He whirls on Lyria, his mouth working as though he’s trying to say a number of things all at once and can’t quite settle on which. Finally, he manages, “I wish you hadn’t done that!”
“Maybe.” Lyria smiles sweetly. “But I think you’ve got your answer. There’s no one here. Your Lady Xag must be out paying calls or whatever your trolde ladies do for amusement. Be a love now, sweet Yok, and find the princess a place to sit. Her feet are quite throbbing, I tell you!”
Though her manner is abrasive, Lyria certainly knows how to get results. Yok mutters ominously but turns and leads us to one of the nearby chambers. It seems to be a sitting room, with several windows gazing out on a view of the village and the river close by. Light pours through those windows, so bright and golden, I could almost trick myself into believing it was the afternoon sun of my own world. It’s warm too, much warmer than I’d thought it would be underground. Which is a mercy, considering how exposed I am in this trolde-style gown.
Yok prowls the room, checking behind furnishings and prodding at the tall curtains framing the windows. It’s an elegantly appointed space after a trolde fashion. The chairs are all oversized for humans and shaped in deep curves as though to cradle the sitter. A big round boulder of red stone with a flat top serves as a table, in the middle of which stands a cluster of crystals the same pale-blue hue as my necklace. Urzul crystals, Vor called them. They seem to have been gathered and displayed with the same care we might gather flowers back home. On another table close by is a large, clear crystal that flickers with movement inside. When I step closer, I find it’s hollowed out and filled with water. Pale eyeless fish swim idly around their tiny world, wafting fanlike tails in their wake.
I go to the nearest window. We’re on the second story, overlooking the trolde village below, eerily silent in the lorst light. The river flows not far from here, and I see barges tethered to long docks. Still no people. No bustle. No sound.
“So, how fast can you sniff out a bite to eat, friend Yok?” Lyria says, sauntering to one of the big, curved chairs and sinking into the cushion. “I’m positively famished!”
“I don’t know.” The trolde boy stands in the doorway, looking uneasy. “I’ve never been here before.”
“Well, why don’t you go find something?”
“I can’t go burrowing through Lady Xag’s larder!”
“Why not? Do you think Lady Xag would be happier to know her future queen came calling and was summarily starved?”
Yok turns his apprehensive gaze upon me. I offer a smile from behind my veil. “Really, it’s all right. I’m not hungry.” The words have no sooner left my mouth when my stomach lets out a loud grumble. Gods, how long has it been since I last ate? I’ve scarcely been able to stomach a mouthful since Theodre’s arrival at the convent.
Lyria laughs outright. “That, my friend Yok, was a most polite lie.” She waves a hand. “Go on! Don’t let King Vor return to find his bride fainted on the floor. If he does, I’ll tell him exactly where to place the blame.”
“Fine,” Yok says shortly. “But please, both of you, stay in here. I don’t want you to get lost.”
“I assure you, I have no intention of budging.” Lyria snuggles deeper into the cradling chair, pulling her feet up under her.
Yok sends me a last urgent glance, then disappears down the passage. I turn from the bowl of blind fish to face Lyria. “Really, you shouldn’t bully the poor boy—”
“Shh!” She holds up a hand, her head tilted, listening to the sound of Yok’s retreating footsteps. Then she pops up out of the chair, steps lightly to the doorway and peers out. “All right, he’s gone.” She turns on me and raises her eyebrows. “How are you bearing up, Faraine?”
“Oh.” I wouldn’t have expected the sound of my own name to strike so hard. But it does. I feel suddenly weak. That threatening headache gives a sudden throb at the base of my skull. I make my way to the nearest chair and perch on the edge. After a moment, I lift the veil from before my face and raise my gaze to meet Lyria’s. “I’m all right.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “I have to say, I think you’re doing rather magnificently. I never would have expected it of you. Since returning to Beldroth, I thought you rather a mousy little thing. But you’re far more deceptive than I expected! No one seems to suspect a thing.”
My lips tilt wryly. “Is that a compliment?”
“If you like.” She approaches me, takes my face in her hands, and turns my head from side to side. “Hmmm. My spells seem to be holding. You could almost go without a veil entirely.” She studies my features contemplatively. Then her gaze shifts and meets mine. She frowns. “Don’t look so forlorn. You always knew this would be your future, didn’t you? None of us grew up expecting to marry for love.”
I lower my lashes. A loveless marriage? If only that were the worst of my problems.
“I marry for the kingdom,” I answer softly. “I marry for the crown. For I am but an extension of the kingdom and the crown.”
“That’s right.” Lyria taps me smartly on the top of my head. Then she pats my cheek. “Cheer up. King Vor seems like a genuinely good person. There’s a strong chance we’re going to survive.”
“Survive what exactly?”
“The wedding, of course.” Lyria shrugs one shoulder and returns to her comfortable chair, dropping back into it with a sigh. “Were he any less good than he is, I would fear for our lives. Now, don’t go all wide-eyed and shocked on me!” she adds a little harshly. “You know perfectly well what a dangerous game we’re playing. Believe it or not, I’m trying to be comforting. I tell you, I think we’ll live. A man like that is unlikely to have us executed for this duplicity. He might even forgive you. Eventually.”
I bow my head, letting my veil drop back into place. It disturbs me to hear Vor’s virtues discussed with such a combination of frivolity and calculation. He doesn’t deserve this. None of it.
“Why, Faraine!” Lyria sits up suddenly. “Does that long-suffering sigh of yours mean what I think it means?” She ducks her head, as though trying to peer beneath my veil. “No, I’m right. You have a soft spot for this Shadow King, don’t you?” Her laugh rings in my ear as I turn and look out the window. “Ha! Well, that’s perfect! You’ll get your happily ever after. I must say, I feel much better about my part in all this now. I might even be able to chalk it up as one of my few truly good deeds in this life.”
“There’s nothing good about this.” The words snap from my tongue like whip lashes. “There’s nothing good about deceiving an honest man.”
“Nonsense. If a little deception ultimately opens the door to your happiness, why should you complain?”
“Because my sister is dead.”
Lyria’s smile fades. “Right,” she says, sinking back into her seat. “There is that, I suppose.”
We lapse into silence. The only sound in the room is the faint bubble from the fish in their crystal bowl. Finally, Lyria huffs, “Where is that little troll boy anyway?” and gets up, crossing to the door.
Just as she reaches the open doorway, a sudden, bloodcurdling scream erupts, followed by a crash. A thud reverberates down the walls and floors.
I spring to my feet, heart pounding. “What was that?”
Lyria jumps a step back from the doorway, her face white. She draws a steadying breath, steps forward again, and looks out into the passage. A strangled cry bursting from her throat, she springs back into the room, grabs the door, and slams it. Just as it closes, something solid hits it from the other side, driving the door back open by several inches. With a shriek, Lyria hurls the full force of her body against it and manages to get it shut. But in that intervening moment, I glimpse something. Something I can scarcely describe. All leering jaw and dagger teeth, colorless flesh sagging from protruding bones. A savage snarling, like a last choke on gurgling blood, fills my ears.
The creature throws itself at the door again, and Lyria’s feet skid back by inches. The door opens wider, and that awful, lipless, leering muzzle pushes through the opening. I’m in motion already, hurtling across the room. I fling my own shoulder against the door, and with our combined weight, we manage to get it closed again. “Where’s the latch?” Lyria gasps, her hand moving along the smooth panels.
But there is no latch. No knob, no handle, no nothing. The door cannot be fastened in any way. The monster bashes against it again, jarring my bones. My feet scramble for purchase on the ground. I step on the hem of my dress, pulling myself to my knees. A talon claw curls around the edge of the door, mere inches from my nose. I scream and, summoning strength I did not know I possessed, throw all my weight into the door, crushing that awful hand.
The monster on the other side emits a sound for which I have no words. But it pulls back. For an instant.
“Hold the door, Fairie!” Lyria cries. She’s got her back pressed against it, one leg braced on the nearest boulder-shaped table. She hikes up her skirts with one hand.
“What are you doing?”
She whips out a knife hidden in a sheath strapped to her thigh. Her smile is quick and dangerous.
The creature slams against the door again. This time, it pushes it a full half-foot wide. I slide back along the polished floor, desperately trying to dig in my heels. But Lyria whirls, dodges around my thrashing legs, and stabs her knife straight down into the top of the creature’s head.
The blade shatters.
“Damn!” Lyria shrieks just as the door bursts wide. The creature leaps through the opening, its head low, its awful elbows angled above its bizarrely curved spine. Green foam spatters between long, pointed fangs. It swings its sightless head back and forth, opens its mouth and lashes the air with a long, black tongue. Gathering its powerful hind legs, it springs straight at Lyria.
With a cry, she ducks to one side, hits the ground, and rolls. It slashes after her, talons tearing through her skirt even as she escapes beneath a long, stone settee. She scoots as far back as she can, but the creature crouches, stretching its arm into the space. It hooks her skirt in its claw, starts to drag her out.
I can’t just stand here.
I leap to my feet and catch hold of the nearest object within my grasp—the crystal bowl with its blind inhabitants. “Sorry!” I whisper, and leap forward, sloshing water down my front as I smash the crystal with everything I have into the monster’s spine. Its feet shoot out to each side. It hits the ground, flat on its belly. Pale fish flop and gasp around it, dancing their death throes.
Legs scrabbling, the creature pulls itself upright. Its awful head twists around, its wagging tongue tasting the air. Green foam spills between its teeth in long streams. I feel it searching, searching.
Then it fixes on me. And a wave of emotion hits me like a blow to the head.
I stagger back against the wall. I’m flattened, smashed. For a moment, I’m convinced my brains will ooze right out of my shattered skull.
The beast crouches. My roiling vision manages to focus just enough to see it. To watch how its head lowers, how those awful elbows rise and bow. To see it open its mouth so wide, its tongue spills out onto the floor. It’s going to spring. It’s going to hit me in the chest, and those teeth will tear my throat out, and I will die. Suddenly. Horribly. Pointlessly.
No!
In a last, desperate bid for survival, I roll along the wall, reaching for the only thing my hand can grasp. This happens to be the display of pale-blue crystals. I pluck up the centermost crystal and whirl in place, holding it out in front of me like a dagger.
A surge ripples through the atmosphere. A shockwave hum, like music, singing straight to the bones.
The surge strikes the creature just as it begins its spring. All force seems to go out from its body. It falls to the ground, its elbows up, its body low. Its neck cranes as though it’s searching for me, twisting to grotesque extremes. But I scarcely see any of that.
Instead, I feel.
I feel the pulsing emotion emanating from the beast. Despair. Savage. Violent. Soul-quaking. Wave after crashing wave, washing over the creature, washing over me, pummeling my defenses. But somehow that hum—that single note vibrating from the crystal—catches the wave. Holds it. Suspended like delicate thread in that space between me and the beast.
The monster tilts its head to one side. Its jaw opens and closes. A strange burbling rasps from its tortured throat.
My arms begin to shake. The beast’s emotions work their way up that thread, pouring into me. The pain increases. I grit my teeth, a little scream clawing from my throat. The crystal in my grasp begins to shake.
Suddenly there’s a burst of blinding white light in my head. I gasp, drop the crystal, and fall to my knees. Blinking, I struggle to make sense of the dark and spinning world around me. The creature lies in broken ruin on the ground. The end of a long crystal protrudes from the soft place at the base of its skull.
All that pain. All that rage. All that horror. Extinguished forever.
My dazzled brain can’t quite make sense of what’s happening. A pair of feet stepping over the carcass. A hand extended to me. Lyria’s voice: “Faraine! Faraine, can you hear me?”
With an effort of will, I manage to get my hand up and place it in hers. She grasps me tight, pulls me to my feet. Her blue eyes swim before my vision, staring earnestly into mine. “What did you do?” she demands. “What was that?”
I shake my head. “I-I don’t—”
A burst of savage snarling echoes in the passage outside.
“Gods spare us!” Lyria cries, leaping for the nearest window and dragging me after her. “Nothing for it, I’m afraid. Out the window!”
“What?”
Lyria pushes me to the sill. I stare down at the rocks far below. “Hurry!” she says, swinging out through the opening onto the craggy outer wall. Her skirts flare around her, but her feet are quick and sure. “Climb!”
I gather my skirts in both hands. The awful snarls down the passage are drawing nearer. At any moment, another hideous nightmare will burst through that door. I breathe a prayer, climb out the window, grip the sill, and lower myself down. One foot finds a hold. I lower myself further.
An explosion of garbled roaring explodes in the room above. I choke on a scream and nearly lose my grip. I must concentrate. Climb. Not fall and break both legs. One hand, then the other, one foot, then the next.
A monstrous head appears over the sill. Its slitted nose sniffs, its long tongue tastes the air. I freeze in place, staring up at the beast, not daring even to breathe. It angles its head. Its jaw sags open. Saliva falls in a long, green stream. I choke on a scream and raise an arm to cover my face. My movement is too sharp. I lose my footing. With a shout, I slip, dangling over the drop, hanging on by just a few fingers.
“Hold on!” I hear Lyria shout, but I’ve lost all track of where she is. My legs kick in empty air as I struggle to find a grip with my other hand.
The monster crawls out over the windowsill. It starts to climb straight down the wall, hissing, slavering. Its body contorts in strange undulations as its claws dig into the stone. A scream of pure terror rips from my lungs. Somewhere, distantly, I hear a voice shout, “Let go! Let go, Ilsevel!” But I cannot understand, cannot make the words make sense in my brain.
The monster draws near. It raises an arm, claws flashing in the lorst light. It lashes out.
With a last desperate cry, I let go . . . drop . . .
The fall is so quick, it feels instantaneous. One moment I’m struggling against gravity, rocks tearing into my fingers, my grip weakening. The next—
“Got you!”
I blink, look up. Vor! He holds me cradled in his arms, tight against his chest. For a moment—a blessed, beautiful, glorious moment—I’m overcome by the calm of his presence. It’s as though there cannot be any monsters, not in this place, not in this world made up of just the two of us.
Then I realize—I’m not wearing my veil.
Hastily I drop my gaze, gripping the front of his tunic and staring at the hollow of his throat. His voice is a deep rumble in my ear. “Ilsevel, are you all right?”
“Yes!” I gasp. Before I can get another word out, I’m unceremoniously dumped into another pair of arms. I’m too disoriented at first to comprehend what’s happening. Vor’s voice seems a dull echo in my ear. “Take the barge. Get her to Mythanar. I’ll follow as soon as I can.”
“My king—”
“That’s an order, captain!”
I twist in this new strong grasp. “Vor!” I cry. My whirling vision catches just a glimpse of him as he leaps up the wall, scaling it in quick bursts of strength. I see Lyria hanging from a window ledge, the horrible monster crawling along the wall straight toward her. “No!” I cry.
Then I’m slung over a shoulder and carted off like a sack of flour, all breath for further protests driven from my body.
