If my calculations are correct, it has now been five days since my near-death by execution. Or five lusterlings, as they are called here in the trolde world. How their lusterlings equate to my understanding of a day—whether the cyclical hours of dark and light are comparable—I cannot say.
What I can say is that it feels like forever.
I stand on the balcony outside the window of my new residence. Once we were dug out of the former queen’s chambers, Hael placed me in a single room of the same wing, but a floor higher. The furnishings are all distinctly troldish—strange angles carved from solid blocks of stone. It’s uncomfortable to my sensibilities, so I spend much of my time on this balcony overlooking the courtyard far below. Occasionally, I see movement—messengers in household livery, guards in bristling armor. The sweep of a long robe, the flutter of an elaborate headdress. All the people of this palace, going about their lives. Now and then, a wave of emotion rises high enough to strike the edges of my gods-gift. Always the same emotion: fear.
Sighing, I bend to rest my chin on my forearms. A breeze whispers across my face, wafts strands of hair against my cheeks. Not for the first time, I wonder where that breeze is coming from. My gaze lifts to the high cavern ceiling where the lorst crystals gleam. Are there air shafts overhead, leading from the world above?
Another movement in the courtyard below draws my gaze. My heart quickens with momentary hope only to be disappointed. Yet again. It’s just another house guard, marching by on his way to or from his post. Not Vor. Never Vor. No matter how many hours I’ve lingered here at this very rail, I’ve yet to catch a glimpse of the Shadow King.
At least he hasn’t followed through on his vow to send me home. Not yet.
A murmur of voices sounds in the room behind me. I turn, peer back through the wafting curtains which cover the open door at my back. Someone has entered my little chamber. Not Hael, of course. My bodyguard has been as determined as ever to keep her distance from me. I think she feels guilty. Though she’s not questioned me in detail as to what happened between Vor and me, she watches me from the tail of her eye whenever she’s in the room, averting her gaze the moment I look at her directly. It’s always a relief when she leaves, though it does mean a return of my isolation and boredom.
It isn’t Hael who enters now, however, but the squat and familiar figure of my chambermaid. She carries a silver platter in her block-shaped hands and doesn’t so much as glance my way. She’s been as cold and unfriendly to me these last two days as she was at our first meeting. But at least she’s alive. Right now, that’s all I ask in a potential companion.
Stepping hastily into the doorway, I push back the curtain and fix the trolde maid with a determined smile. “Hullo,” I say, my voice falsely cheery.
She looks up. Her eyes narrow beneath the severe ledge of her browbone. It’s not at all a friendly look.
I step into the room, moving slowly so as not to seem threatening. “Is that tea?” I ask, indicating the platter. I know perfectly well what it is. Every day at approximately this time, the same girl has entered with the same silver pot, cups, assortment of rolls and biscuits, all very familiar to my pallet. She’s set them down on that same stone table and scuttled from the room without a word or a nod for me.
She grunts now, turning to do just that. But the last few days have made me desperate. I spring forward several paces, hold out one hand, and bark, “Wait!”
My voice comes out sharper than I intend. But it does the trick. The trolde woman stops. Slowly, her heavy head swivels on her thick neck, and her pale little eyes peer back at me.
“What is your name?” I ask.
She blinks, uncomprehending. But of course, she doesn’t know my language. Still, she has stopped. That must count for something.
“My name is Faraine,” I say, touching my chest. No point in giving a title—princess, queen, prisoner. It’s all the same to her. But a name is as good a place as any to start. “Faraine,” I repeat, and offer what I hope is an encouraging smile.
She doesn’t move. If I hadn’t seen signs of life just a moment ago, I could almost swear she was nothing more than a lump of rock. Instinctively, I reach out again with my gods-gift, searching for a sense of her. I hit stone. Just stone. I lean in a little harder, hard enough to get the faintest squirming impression of . . . something . . .
“Guthakug.”
Her voice is so abrupt, I jump from my skin. Hastily, I recover myself and blurt, “Is . . . is that your name?”
“Guthakug.”
I clear my throat and make an attempt: “Guth-ah-kug?” It sounds limp on my tongue, without the proper resonance or rasp. I try again with more aggression. “Guthakug.”
The trolde woman shakes her head. The crevices of her lip rise and roll strangely, revealing a flash of diamond-hard teeth. “Guthakug, kurspari. Udth r’agrrak.”
She doesn’t sound friendly. Then again, nothing spoken in this rock-grinding tongue sounds friendly to my ear. I offer another uncertain smile. The grooves of her brow deepen, rolling down together so that her eyes nearly disappear. With a shake of her heavy head, she turns and stomps through the door. Her feet vibrate the ground in her wake.
“Thank you, Guthakug!” I call after her back.
No sooner does the maid vacate the doorway than another figure appears. Captain Hael, staring into the room, her face a mask of confusion. Shock radiates from her, strong enough to break through her barriers and send me stumbling back a pace. “What did you say?” my bodyguard demands, fixing her stern eye on me.
“I, um . . .” I give my head a quick shake and draw myself a bit straighter. Hael is a truly intimidating presence, but I must learn to give as good as I get. “I thought perhaps I should begin to learn some names. As I am to be your king’s, erm, guest. For the time being.”
“Learn names?”
“Yes.” I nod at the still-open door through which the maid just disappeared. “Perhaps you don’t know her. She’s Guthakug. I think.”
“I think not!” Hael’s voice chokes a little. It takes me a moment to realize she’s struggling to swallow back laughter. “I hope not. Do you know what it is you’re saying?”
Warmth floods my cheeks. “Well, no.”
“Guthakug translates to . . . Well, there is no direct translation. The closest might be horse leavings.”
“Horse leavings? You mean—Oh!” I clap a hand to my mouth, as though I can somehow catch and stuff back the foul word I’ve just been determinedly trying to pronounce.
Hael, much to my surprise utters a bleating giggle. She looks almost as shocked at the outburst as I am and swiftly pulls her face under control. She can’t take it back, however. Neither can she hide that tiny glimmer of humor rolling out from behind her barriers. It’s a crack in her armor. A small one, perhaps, but a crack.
“Well,” I say, “I’ve picked a pretty place to begin my studies of troldish. Tell me, was my accent good at least?”
Hael’s eyes snap with another laugh wanting to escape. She shakes her head, however, and says firmly, “It does not matter, Princess. You have no need to refine your accent nor any reason to fraternize with the household staff. I will see to your needs for the duration of your stay, however long it may be.”
Something about the way she speaks makes my stomach dip. Has word come from Gavaria yet? From my father? I want to ask, want to barrage Hael with my questions. But something in her expression warns me not to. After all, I already know my father will not give in to Vor’s demands. If I don’t want to be tossed over the pommel of a morleth saddle and sent ignominiously back to Beldroth, I’m going to need to find a place for myself here in Mythanar.
The first step in that process could be making a friend.
Captain Hael is already backing out through the door, ready to resume her post in the passage. “A moment, Captain,” I say, and she pauses. I step across the room and take a seat at the table where the maid set the tea tray. My hands shake, but I manage to lift the pot, swirl, pour myself a cup all without spilling. “Tell me where I went wrong,” I say, blinking innocently up at the stern captain. “Was my intonation not guttural enough? Guthakug,” I try again, this time drawing the sound up from the depths of my gut.
Hael blinks, shocked all over again to hear such a word fall from my lips. She masks her expression, however, and offers only, “What if the princess picked a different word with which to begin her studies?”
“Very well.” I take a sip then lower the cup, breathing in the steam as it wafts under my nose. “How about something practical. Like hungry.”
Hael shoots me a narrow look. She knows what I’m trying to do. And she has no interest in letting a bond form between us. She doesn’t like me, might even hate me.
Still, I feel I have a fingerhold at least. I must grasp on tight. “Come now, Captain Hael. You know it will make your life easier if I’m not wholly dependant on you for every little thing. What if I wander off and end up fallen down a hole somewhere? It’s as likely as anything in this world of yours. At least if I’m able to cry, Hungry, hungry! I should be able to draw attention to my predicament.”
Hael’s jaw tightens. I can almost hear her wishing I would go lose myself down a dark hole somewhere. My mouth quirks in a half-smile. Somewhere beneath that tough, warrior exterior, there must be a kind side to her nature. Otherwise, I can’t see why Vor would depend on her so implicitly.
“Makrok,” she says suddenly.
I blink. It sounded almost like a bark. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s the word. Hungry. In troldish. Makrok.”
I preemptively clear my throat then take a stab at the word.
“No.” Hael shakes her head and touches her own throat. “A softer sound. In the back.” She opens her mouth wide and makes a soft, rasping noise. I widen my jaw and try to mimic her, and there we sit with our heads thrown back, making inarticulate, throaty growls at each other. If someone walked in on us now, we would appear positively mad.
A little giggle burbles up inside me. It’s so unexpected, I hiccup, trying to swallow it back. Hael prickles. Is she irritated? No, for one side of her mouth twists. “We look like a mother coaxing her babe,” she says.
“Really?” I rub my poor throat ruefully. “I thought we looked rather like a pair of dogs getting ready to howl at the moon.” Hael tips an eyebrow, not understanding the analogy. They don’t have a moon in the Shadow Realm, after all. Or dogs, apparently. “Never mind.” I wave a hand. “Am I close?”
“Yes, Princess. If you can just pull the sound out from below your chest a bit more.”
I draw a long breath and take another stab at it. “Makrok!”
“Ah! That was good!”
I shake my head, rubbing my throat again. “I don’t think I could ever shout that from the depths of a dark pit. I’d go hoarse long before anyone heard me. Do you have any simpler words I might try? How about a greeting?”
Hael agrees, and the word—hiri—proves much easier for my human vocal cords to manage. We progress through a series of simple vocabulary: me, you, need, eat, drink, and a particularly choice word that pertains to answering the call of nature. By the end of all this, my voice is raw. As I’ve already drained the pot of tea, I beg another. Hael goes to the wall and pulls a rope hidden behind a tapestry. It must be connected to a bell somewhere, for not half a minute later, the door opens, and my maid appears.
Horsescat. The word pops into my head before I can stop it. I bite back a giggle, and instead whip out one of my other new words for a try: “Hiri.” I pause, watching the effect on my subject. She doesn’t even blink. I continue: “Would you be so kind as to bring a fresh pot of tea?”
The maid’s gaze swivels from me to Hael. “Kurspar-oom,” the captain barks. “Mazoga.”
The maid inclines her head and begins to retreat, but Hael speaks again sharply, stopping her in her tracks. Another stream of incomprehensible troldish follows. From the maid, I feel a faint flash of fury. It’s gone before I can be certain of it, however. When Hael is done, the maid hastens from the room, shutting the door behind her. “What was that about?” I ask.
“I simply reminded her that you are the king’s guest. As such, you must be afforded appropriate deference.” Hael’s eyes gleam. “I told her if I find out she’s been using coarse language while on duty again, I will have her replaced and sent to work in the scorlors.”
I nod solemnly. But my heart warms a little. Hael defended me. Me! Dare I call this progress? Do I now have an ally in Mythanar?
The maid returns shortly thereafter with a fresh pot of tea which she exchanges for the empty one. Hael maintains a stoic silence, but I attempt a tentative, “Salthu,” in thanks. The maid flashes me a short glance. At a low growl from Hael, she bobs a curtsy before turning for the door. Hael halts her with a word. She looks back, warily. Hael speaks another stream of harsh-sounding troldish. The maid seems to consider. Then she says in response, “Yrt.”
Hael waves a dismissive hand. When the door shuts behind the maid, she turns to me. “Her name is Yrt.”
I consider this as I lift the warm pot and swirl the brew inside to loosen the leaves. Curling steam escapes the spout and carries an inviting aroma to my nostrils. “I’m starting to detect a pattern to your troldish names,” I muse as I pour a dark stream into my cup. “They’re all quite short, aren’t they?” Hael grunts, a questioning sound. I elaborate: “Vor. Hael. Sul. Yrt. Nothing longer than a single syllable. Am I right?”
“For a trolde, a longer name would be considered”—Hael pauses, choosing her words—“I believe you would call it pretentious. They would be seen as trying to mimic the elfkin with their long, elaborate names. No one wants that.”
I sip my tea thoughtfully. “I’ve heard that among the fae each is given two names—a secret name and a name used by the public. Is this true?”
“Only among elfkin,” Hael says. “We trolde are not so susceptible to the kind of ensorcellment that would make our own names dangerous to us.”
“And do your names bear meaning? Yours, for instance—what does Hael mean?”
My new bodyguard eyes me narrowly. She doesn’t appreciate my attempts at bonding. If she could, she would end this conversation here and now, but some trolde concept of decorum keeps her in place. “My name,” she says at length, “refers to the single drop of water poised at the tip of a stalactite.”
I raise my brows in surprise. “That is unexpectedly poetic.”
Hael grunts again, but I’m almost certain her pale cheek flushes a soft lavender. Perhaps there’s a gentle side to her nature after all. And the trolde language itself, which has seemed like nothing but a series of growls and grinding consonants, may possess more beauty than I first suspected.
What would it be like to remain here in the Shadow Realm? To throw myself into the learning and knowing of these people and their ways? It’s a more exciting prospect than I like to admit. Even as I’ve fumbled through these first few, halting words, I feel a whole new world opening before me. A world much broader and more enticing than anything I could ever have known back home.
A world that was meant for Ilsevel.
A dart of guilt pricks my heart. I set down my teacup, drawing a short breath. But I’m not going to let this feeling drag me down. Not now, not when I’m just starting to find my feet. Ilsevel is dead. I am not.
The silence has lingered too long. I glance up to find Hael’s brooding gaze upon me. Suddenly self-conscious, I touch a hand to my chin, my cheek. “Have I spilled something?”
“No.” She gives her head a short shake. “It’s your turn, Princess.”
“My turn?”
“Your name. Faraine. What does it mean?”
“Oh!” I laugh a little. “Faraine means far horizon in Old Gavarian. I’ve always thought it rather unsuited to me. I was never one for travel and ultimately destined for life in a convent.”
Hael tips one eyebrow slightly. “Perhaps there was portent to your name after all.”
My mouth quirks, my laugh not quite faded. I raise the cup in salute. “I’ll drink to that.” Then, softly, not entirely certain I want to be heard: “What does Vor mean?”
The air in the room goes very still. I count my breaths up to ten before daring to peer up at Hael. Once more, her too-keen gaze is fixed on me with lancelike sharpness. Have I made a mistake? But when I reach out with my gods-gift, it’s not resentment which emanates from behind her barriers, merely caution.
“Valiant,” Hael says at last. “It is an ancient troldish name, a name of kings. And yes, if you’re wondering,” she adds, angling her head to one side. “It is well suited to him.”
Heat warms my cheeks. Hastily, I look away, take another gulp of tea. It’s a bit too hot. I grimace as I force the mouthful down. “All right,” I say, determined to break this tension in the air, “let’s have another word.” I glance around the room, seeking inspiration. A fireplace dominates one wall, set with a huge stone mantel elaborately carved in the image of a dragon. It catches my eye. “How do you say dragon in troldish?”
Something strikes me. Not a powerful blow, but sudden and sharp enough that I jump in my seat. I turn to find Hael’s face drawn into a deep, dark scowl. The lines around her mouth are tight, the muscles of her jaw tense and hard. “I cannot speak that word,” she says. “Not to you. Not out loud. It is sacred.”
“Sacred?” I blink at her, my mouth sagging. “I’m sorry, I was given to understand troldfolk worshipped Lamruil, the God of Darkness.”
“Some sacred things are not meant to be worshipped.”
Her words seem to echo in the space between us. I’m still trying to figure out a response when she bows and moves to the door. “The princess must excuse me,” she says. I can feel her pushing her emotions back down with a firm, practiced hand. “I shall resume my post. If you have any need, do not hesitate to ask.”
I open my mouth, more questions on the tip of my tongue. But she’s out the door already, pulling the door firmly shut behind her. And I’m alone once more. A prisoner in my husband’s household.
“Far horizon,” I whisper, my eyes shifting to the window and the world beyond. But there are no horizons here. Not in this world under stone.
